The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “For some reason, I don’t think I should question your ability to tighten anything’s nuts.” That gets her to smile. I love when she smiles. It’s like a solar eclipse; infrequent and blinding in the most brilliant way.

  “You’re probably starving,” she says. “I can order a pizza or something.”

  She’s inviting me to stay.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask her.

  Journey shrugs. “I’m never really hungry. I just eat for the sake of survival.” Another interesting fact I’ve been wondering about.

  “You’re never hungry? How does that work? I don’t think there’s ever a minute in the day when I’m not hungry.”

  “Stress does a number on my stomach,” she says. This is more honesty than she’s been willing to share with me in the last couple of weeks. If stress gives her stomach issues, I can’t imagine what she’s going through after losing her dad.

  “That’s crappy. Although, starving can also do a number on your stomach, so you have to keep that in mind.”

  Journey’s response is silent but clear as she presses her lips together and lifts her brows as if I’m telling her something she already knows. There’s a fine line of saying too much and too little with her.

  “Will you have some pizza if we order?”

  “I’ll have a slice,” she says.

  “Let me grab my phone.” I walk around to the other side of my truck and retrieve my phone from the passenger seat, realizing I never looked at the missed texts. They’re from Journey, saying another night might work out better and she can’t make it to Breaker Grill now. Nothing about a flat tire.

  “I just saw your texts from when I was driving here. You didn’t look too surprised to see me when I got out of the truck though.”

  Journey runs her hands down the back side of her jeans, then stretches her arms above her head. “I don’t know. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected with you. I’m not a big planner, so I prefer playing by the minute more than anything else.”

  I used to be like that before Hannah came along, but with a kid, everything must be pre-planned, so I can’t be spontaneous anymore.

  Journey doesn’t make any mention of going upstairs to her apartment and I’m wondering what’s going through her head, especially after today’s events at the warehouse. Since I’m learning that she doesn’t like to be pushed into anything, I release the gate on the bed of my truck. “Want to stare at the fog for a while?” It’s so mild out, it’s nice to get some fresh air after the long winter.

  “Sure,” she says. I hop up onto the bed and open the metal crate I keep a few emergency supplies in. I toss out a thick blanket, so she doesn’t have to sit on the cold metal.

  Journey doesn’t hesitate to climb up and snap the blanket out so it’s flat across the width of the bed. We take a seat and lean against the metal crate for support. “I don’t remember the weather ever being this mild in March,” she says.

  “Same. It’s weird, but nice.”

  I scroll through the apps on my phone to find Pizza Palace. The pizza isn’t half bad and they deliver. “What’s your actual address here?”

  “290 Oak Knoll Road, Apartment twenty-four, but we’re not in the apartment so you might as well say the parking lot.”

  “Do you like anything special on your pizza?”

  “Cheese,” she says.

  “That’s not special.”

  “Gummy bears?”

  “That’s better, but I’m afraid they might be fresh out of those.”

  “Then just cheese.” She’s smirking. She’s lightening up. Whatever it is I’m doing is working, but I don’t know I’m doing.

  “Is that like a photographer thing? It’s a cheesy cheese joke, get it?”

  Journey tilts her head to the side and gawks at me like I have two heads. She obviously needs more humor in her life. “Okay, I’ll keep the jokes to myself.”

  “No, it’s okay. If it makes you laugh, go right ahead,” she says. Journey couldn’t sound more unfazed if she tried.

  “Pizza will be here in forty minutes,” I say, placing my phone down on the blanket.

  “Perfect. Now, you can tell me your deep dark secrets,” she says as the wind blows her dark strands across her forehead. Thankfully, there’s a streetlight behind us so we’re not sitting in complete darkness. It would be a waste of a night if I couldn’t steal a few glances of her raw beauty.

  “Is that all I’m good for? A story?” I say, dreading the topic.

  “I have to know if you were in juvie. Give me that at least,” she says.

  I slowly sweep my tongue across my bottom lip before shaking my head in response. “No, I was never in juvie.”

  “Were you sent to boarding school?” I didn’t realize that was another one of the rumors going around.

  “No, not boarding school.”

  “Then where were you for those couple of years that you just seemed to vanish??”

  “Tending to responsibilities that a teenager shouldn’t have to deal with,” I respond simply.

  “Responsibilities,” she repeats, questioning the word. She knows Mom and Dad well enough that they wouldn’t cause unnecessary responsibilities to lay upon their teenage son.

  “I had a troubled friend, a best friend. He put me through the ringer.”

  Journey seems more confused now than she did after I said I was never in a juvenile detention center.

  “What kind of trouble? Drugs, drinking?”

  I scoff because I wish that Pete’s problems had been that simple, not that drinking and drugs are simple, but simpler than the problems he was going through. “Unfortunately, no he wasn’t that lucky. His parents were emotionally abusive; one was an alcoholic and the other one was cheating. They were starting the proceedings of a divorce and my friend, Pete, didn’t handle it well.”

  Journey’s expression changes from a question to an emotionless stare as if she knows where my story is going. There’s no way she could know, but she’s assuming something. “Did he try to—was he um su—” she asks.

  “Yeah. It was going on for a little while and I got a page from him one night. Did you have a pager? Those damn things were a pain in the ass.”

  “Yeah, I had one for like a year, but I had no use for it. Wasn’t really into drugs or sending guys code numbers for I love you,” she says.

  Fair enough. I had one because everyone had to have one. I didn’t have any actual use for it either other than being at the receiving end of Pete’s emergency cries for help. “Anyway, I got this 9-1-1 page from him one night. The shit hit the fan at his house, and he was literally standing on the end of a ledge when I found him.”

  “A ledge?”

  “Razor’s Edge. The tower. The one place he had always refused to go alone because of his fear of heights. It’s a spot that makes you feel like you’re on top of the world, but it was always out of reach for him. He couldn’t enjoy it because he was too afraid.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been there. Where is it?”

  “About two miles from my house in the backwoods, along the inlet of the bay. There’s a rope swing and a place for bonfires. The kids in my school spent a lot of time there.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “So, what happened when you found him up there?” Journey wraps her hair behind her ears and scoots her body to the side to face me, giving me her full attention. The reflection from the streetlight in her eyes is making it hard for me to think straight enough to answer the question.

  “I tried to stop him as he took that last step,” I tell her.

  “Did you? Did you stop him? It was just water below, right?” There’s a look of panic in her eyes as if the scene is playing out in front of us as we speak.

  “The water wasn’t directly below. We had a rope swing attached to a tree branch above the tower. If you wanted to use the rope to jump into the water you had to jump from the roof of the tower, not the wooden ledge within the tower.”

  “So, what
happened?” Journey asks. Her words are soft and full of concern. I can hear the inner workings of the heart she keeps hidden behind a brick wall.

  10

  “Pete, what the hell are you doing?” I say, grabbing his arm just as his second foot lifts from the boards beneath us.

  My heart thunders through my chest as my grip loosens around his wrist. He’s falling but I have him. He’s my size and I don’t know if I can pull him back up. “Let go, Brody!” Pete grunts.

  “Shut up, Pete. You’re an asshole. Why would you do this? You can’t do this,” I shout with more strength than I have left in my body.

  I lie down flat against the wooden boards so I can secure my other hand around his one wrist. He’s dangling forty feet above a cluster of rocks and if I lose my grip, he’ll die. “Let me go,” he cries out. “You’re making this worse than it has to be.”

  I try to ignore his words, pushing the meaning behind his thoughtless statements toward the back of my head so I can focus on what I need to do to pull him back up.

  Sweat is dripping down the sides of my face as I struggle to look from side to side in search of something I can secure my feet against to give me more leverage, but there’s nothing. The slats in the boards on the side walls are too wide to give me any leverage.

  “What are you two doing up there?” I hear through a shout in the dark.

  Dad.

  “Dad!” I scream.

  “Brody, let me go, God dammit,” Pete continues to cry out.

  Dad must not have gotten a clear picture of what’s happening at first, but he’s running up the stairs of the tower now. I didn’t think he could run as fast as he’s running, but I’ve heard adrenaline can do some crazy things.

  “Pete, things aren’t this bad. They aren’t permanent like the choice you’re making. We can fix anything.”

  “You can’t fix my life, Brody, shit!” His anger doesn’t relent, but neither does my grip. The sharp edges of the wooden ledge are slicing into my arms, but the pain isn’t comparable to what I would feel if I couldn’t hold on any longer.

  It takes a couple of minutes before Dad reaches me with a look of a horror running through his tired eyes. “What’s—what’s going—” He doesn’t know what to make of it either.

  “He jumped,” I mumble. “He’s not okay.”

  With both of us out of breath, Dad lies down beside me and wraps both of his hands around Pete’s wrist. “On the count of three, pull him up,” Dad says.

  At three, I grit my teeth and pull with every weak fiber in my muscles. We drag Pete up to the wooden boards, but Dad doesn’t release his hold on his wrist. “What were you thinking?” Dad asks him.

  Pete has less to say to Dad than he does to me. “You don’t understand,” he says, as if it should be a good enough answer to end his life.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Dad says. “Pete, you just don’t. No matter what is going on in your life, at sixteen, you have no clue how much everything can change in a matter of days, weeks, or years. Ending your life is not the answer.”

  Dad is good at remaining calm in tense situations. I let my anger take over more often than not. Brett is like Dad in that way, and Mom panics like me, but with fear rather than anger.

  “Call 9-1-1,” Dad tells me. I want to ask him if we have to because I can only imagine it will put Pete in a worse situation than he’s already in, but I’m not able to make a decision like this.

  “No, please, don’t call the police. Don’t,” Pete begs. “They’ll lock me up or something.”

  “They will not lock you up,” Dad says with sincerity. “The police are here to help you, to protect you, even if it’s from yourself.”

  “I don’t want to be protected from myself,” Pete argues. His statement doesn’t hold the same level of confidence he had while hanging from my grip.

  “We do,” Dad says.

  “This is my life,” he replies.

  “This is your life and you only get one, so let’s find another solution,” Dad continues as he glances up at me raising his brows so I will make the phone call. “There’s a payphone in an old metal shed to the right of the dock. I’m sure it still works,” Dad says. I had no clue there was a metal shed or a payphone there. I guess he has spent time here. “Do you have any change on you?” I stand up and shove my hand into my pockets, feeling a few quarters rolling around. “9-1-1 shouldn’t cost anything to call, but just in case …”

  “Yeah, I have quarters,” I answer.

  “Go call. Give them the exact location,” Dad instructs.

  I run down the steps, feeling as though the levels of the tower are endless—like a downward spiral into the darkness Pete was searching for.

  I find the metal shed and try to open the door, but it’s jammed. I kick it a few times before busting it open, finding an old payphone in the corner. I hope it works.

  I lift the receiver and place it up to my ear and hear a dial tone. Thank goodness. My heart races and my breaths feel labored as I dial 9-1-1. The connection is quick, and my description of the incident is clear and concise as is the exact location of where we are. It isn’t until I hang up the phone that I fall to the floor, shaking, crying, and hyperventilating. The “what-if” questions repeat over and over in an endless loop, but I know the answers without having to think through them. Pete is lucky I showed up when I did and Pete is even luckier that Dad is the best parent in the world, especially compared to his own.

  I take a few minutes to pull myself together, knowing I need to get back up to the tower with Pete. My legs feel like dead weights as I trudge up every step. By the time I reach the top step, sirens echo in the distance. With Pete’s current frame of mind, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to convince him to go down the steps before the police or paramedics come upstairs. Dad still has a hold on his wrist but they’re having a calm conversation. Pete’s eyes are bloodshot, wide, and not blinking. Maybe he’s realizing what a terrible decision he made coming up here tonight, or what could have happened if Dad and I hadn’t arrived when we did. I hope so.

  “Listen to me,” Dad tells him. “Our family is here for you and we will be here for you as long as you need us, day or night. Pete is shaking as if he’s freezing but his face is beet red.

  “He might be in shock,” Dad says, twisting his head to look at me. I don’t know how he’s still so calm. It’s almost like he’s done this before. Maybe he did in his mind.

  The paramedics make it up to the top of the tower first. The emergency I called them here for is different than when there is a physical injury—speed in checking the patient’s vitals and administering life saving drugs isn’t warranted. Instead, slow and steady is the only safe way to accomplish anything right now.

  The first paramedic, a man in his twenties, squats down in front of Pete. “What’s going on, bud?”

  Pete stares through him as if he isn’t in front of him. The paramedic waves his hand in front of Pete’s unwavering eyes.

  “Shock?” Dad asks.

  “Possibly. It’s as if he’s catatonic. We need to get him down the steps.”

  More footsteps are ascending and three more people in uniform arrive. Another paramedic and two police officers. “Pete, my name is Brian, and this is my partner Meredith. These two are Dave and Simon,” he says, pointing to the police. “Do you think we can all walk down the steps together?”

  Pete doesn’t respond. Both paramedics take Pete’s arms, one on each of his sides. They lift him to his feet and move toward the steps. Pete seems to move his feet in the motion of descending the stairs, but it doesn’t appear that he’s bearing the weight of his body on his legs. The paramedics seem to do most of the work for him.

  “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions,” one officer asks, holding his notepad out.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Of course,” Dad says.

  “Can you give me a recap of what happened here?”

  The other officer steps toward me and
lifts my arm. “You may need some stitches on that,” he says. “What happened?”

  “Pete paged me with 9-1-1 and his location code for this place. I didn’t know what was going on, but when I got here, I found him up at the top. He’s afraid of heights and has never come up here alone. He said there was a bunch of stuff going on with his family and he couldn’t take anymore. Then he tried to jump. I caught his wrist, but both feet were already airborne,” I explain.

  “I followed my son here since it was so late when he told me about his friends’ 9-1-1 page. I didn’t suspect anything serious until he didn’t come right back to the car, I felt concerned, so I climbed the steps and found them out here, Pete hanging from Brody’s grip off the side of the tower. The two of us managed to pull him back up,” Dad continues.

  “That wound is from the edge of the wooden planks?” The officer asks.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer.

  The officer finishes jotting down his notes and slips the notepad into his back pocket, then folds his hands together in front of his waist. “Son, you saved your friend’s life tonight.”

  I can’t help but drop my gaze to the ground between us. I saved Pete’s life, but did I make it worse too? “What will happen to him now?”

  “That’s up to the medical professionals, but what’s important is he can get help. It’s not too late, thanks to the two of you.”

  “I should have picked up on the signs sooner,” I say.

  “You can’t think like that, son,” the officer says. “Let me jot down your contact information and then you two can get going. It’s late.”

  How will I find Pete now? “Do you know where Pete is being taken?”

  “For now, he’ll go to the hospital for some evaluations.”

  For now. Then what? I assume Pete will never speak to me again.

  It’s a quiet walk back to the cars. I feel like I just woke up from a horrible nightmare. “You were right to follow your gut,” Dad says.

  “I should have told you what was going on sooner, I guess. I never thought it would go this far.”

  “None of that matters, Brody. We can’t change the past; we can only learn from it and take those lessons forward in life with us. If you are ever in a situation like this again, which I pray you aren’t, you’ll probably recognize the signs and you’ll help.” His words make little sense at the moment because the thought of going through this again makes my stomach hurt. How many people walk around each day assuming there is only one solution to their problems?? What other signs are there? “I don’t know,” I respond.