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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I hear the plug slip out of the back console, followed by the crumple of papers as she closes the cord into her bag. “Got it.”

  “If you need anything, just call or text me, okay?”

  I twist around in my seat, finding her staring at me with an unintentional pout. “Okay,” she says.

  Kristy steps out of her car to greet Hannah, but Hannah leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek before opening her door. “Love you, daddy.”

  Daddy. I only get to hear that when I drop her off here once every few weeks.

  I roll my window down to exchange my civil hello and goodbye to Kristy. “Oh good, you have your backpack,” Kristy says to Hannah. That shouldn’t be the first thing that a mother says to her daughter that she hasn’t seen in three weeks. And no hug or any warm words to tell Hannah that she’s missed her? Kristy’s lack of phone calls doesn’t exactly scream the meaning of love to Hannah.

  “Brody,” Kristy addresses me. I love the way she speaks to me, as if I’m the one who decided the fate of our marriage.

  “Love you, kiddo,” I say again, just to show Kristy how a parent should act.

  “You too, Daddy.”

  Hannah climbs into the back of Kristy’s Landrover, leaving the two of us in a stare down. Her tongue in cheek and jingling of keys dangling from her hand says more than I need to hear out of her mouth. “Anything I need to know?” she asks.

  “Nothing you shouldn’t already know from talking to her this week,” I reply, knowing Kristy hasn’t spoken to Hannah this week.

  Kristy rolls her eyes and shifts her weight from one heel to the other. I love how she’s dressed as if she spent a day in an office when she works as a trainer at a gym—a trainer who never trained once in her life before six months ago. Her hair is even in some weird twist thing, like she’s trying to make her facial structure more rigid. No need to try harder there. “Thanks,” she says.

  “You’re welcome, Kristy.” If it was acceptable to vocally gag on my own words, I would, but I’ve learned to refrain. “I’ll be back here in thirty-six hours on the dot.”

  “Great,” she says, pivoting on her heels and leaving me to my peace. I wave through the darkened back window and blow Hannah a kiss. Poor kid.

  By the time I pull out onto the highway, the sun is dipping below the horizon. Ideally, I wouldn’t make this drive at night, but I refuse to pull Hannah out of school early on Fridays. I’m beat to hell after a week at the warehouse though, and exhaustion always finds me halfway home through the never-ending maze of tree-lined roads.

  I grab my phone and tell Siri to call Journey, then drop my phone back down to the passenger seat. My phone is usually connected to Bluetooth, but the ring comes from the device for some reason. I hate when the truck does this. I won’t be able to reconnect unless I restart the engine. I blindly reach for the speaker button, but when I see Journey’s face light up on the display, I realize I hit FaceTime by mistake.

  “Brody?” she questions.

  “Hey,” I respond.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “The roof of the truck. I thought I hit the speaker button.”

  “Ah,” she says quietly. “How’s the drive going?”

  “I need coffee. I’m falling asleep.”

  “So, you called me to keep you awake?” She doesn’t seem flattered by the movement.

  “Maybe.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me a funny story,” I say.

  “I think I’m fresh out of those today.”

  “Then I’ll just talk, and you can listen. How’s that?”

  “Sounds good to me, but don’t get mad if I fall asleep, okay?” I can’t look over at the phone to see the expression on her face, but I’m fairly sure a small smile is seeping through her words.

  “I didn’t realize I was so boring, but okay. So, anyway, Hannah told me she doesn’t want to see her mother anymore and she can’t stand her mother’s boyfriend. Now, I basically feel like I’m forcing my daughter to do something she hates one weekend a month and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  “That’s a tough situation,” Journey says. “Do you think Kristy is the reason Hannah’s so angry all the time?”

  I shrug, knowing she can’t see me. “I don’t know. I think part of it is hormones, but I think she’s dealing with a lot more pain than she’s willing to admit, and it scares me. For most of her life, I’ve been able to figure out what’s going through her head, you know? But at this age, she’s become a master at keeping those thoughts to herself, and it’s unsettling.”

  “Maybe she needs something exciting in her life; something new or just something to look forward to. Going to school and coming home to do homework is a normal thing, but if she’s dreading her weekend visits to her mom’s house, maybe she needs something more in her life.”

  I’m beyond shocked to hear Journey talking so much and speaking so wisely about something I’ve really needed some female advice on. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Hmm,” Journey says with a sigh.

  “Do I hear The Kardashians on in the background?” I ask. Only five seconds after the question comes out, I hear the sound from the TV become mute.

  “What is with you and that show?” “I didn’t think it was too soon to express my enjoyment for reality tv. I’m pretty sure I made that confession during one of our first phone calls, but she might have thought I was joking.

  “I don’t know. It makes me feel like I’m living in Hollywood too,” I explain. I’m not sure if what I said makes any sense, but who has an actual reason for enjoying a reality show. It’s Just a brief escape of your own reality. “You should get her a puppy,” Journey says. “Puppies make people happy.”

  “A puppy? Who the hell is going to take care of it while I’m at work and she’s at school all day?”

  “Bring her with you to the warehouse and make a little pen area.”

  “You’ve already decided it will be a girl dog?” I ask, laughing at the idea. “Maybe you need a dog.”

  “Can’t have one in this apartment or I would.”

  She was quick to answer that question. Too quick. “So, you want to live vicariously through me getting a puppy who will be up whining every night for the first two months? Will you be coming over to take the puppy out to do her business in the middle of the night?”

  “No. I’d only be living vicariously through you between the hours of eight and eight.”

  “I see,” I respond. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can handle any more responsibility at the moment—so I’m going to pass on a cute little girl puppy.”

  “You are pretty irresponsible, so that makes sense,” she teases.

  I huff loud enough for her to hear my exaggerated frustration. “You know … your letter this morning, it got to me. I hope you know I wasn’t looking at you like you need saving. In fact, I really admire your independence. A lot of women don’t try to be self-sufficient like you.”

  “How did this just become about me again? We were talking about a puppy.”

  “Journey, I say.

  “Brody,” she replies.

  “I need you to know that I’ve been pursuing you because I think you’re hot as hell, I’m attracted to you, and your personality is a turn-on to me. I don’t know why you think I’ve been following you around like a stalker, but it isn’t because I feel sorry for what you’re going through. I mean, I do, but that is not the reason I’ve been aggressively trying to convince you to spend time with me.”

  “Good,” she says. “But there’s a lot about me you don’t know, and I’m concerned that once you know more about me, you might feel otherwise.”

  I can’t say I don’t have a nervous pit in my stomach, wondering what it is I don’t know about her yet, but I suppose it could be just about anything considering she has a mar
ried last name and went through a mysterious divorce too. We’ve both lived lifetimes since we were around each other last. “We can’t hold ourselves responsible for whatever path led us to where we are right now,” I say. “The past is the past; the present is now, and the future is up for grabs.” I’ve said this to myself repeatedly, trying to force myself to believe my own words.

  “I guess,” she says. “What if we’re still on the same path we’ve always been on, though?”

  “There’s time to veer off the road,” I answer.

  “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Brody.”

  “What? I was kidding. Kind of.”

  “I know—it’s just—you know what, maybe we can redo last night and try again.”

  I pause, needing to make her sweat and feel a little discomfort for a minute. I still haven’t fully forgiven her for running off last night. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t know. Are you going to run off and blame me for caring about you again?”

  “Ouch,” she says. “I thought my letter was very well written with a lengthy explanation and an invitation for forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness needs to be earned. When it’s just handed, it can come back to bite you in the ass again.” Maybe Journey doesn’t deserve this explanation, but I’ve done a lot to protect myself over the last few years just as she has, or so it seems. I might be a weak man, ready to kiss a girl at the quick batting of her lashes, but when it comes to investing my heart into something, I need to know there’s something there and it’s mutual.

  “You are totally correct and I’m sorry for assuming you should just forgive me for being rude last night. What if I tell you the pizza made me sick? Would you forgive me then?”

  “The pizza made you sick?”

  “Mmm—”

  “In your letter, you sort of made it sound like you ran because you thought I was making you into my new pity project. Or did I misunderstand?”

  “Okay, maybe a bit of both,” she confesses.

  “Hmm. The pizza didn’t make me sick. Maybe it was something you ate earlier in the day,” I suggest.

  “No. My stomach and I don’t get along too well. It’s part of the pieces you don’t know about me yet. It’s not a conversation for the phone.”

  My mind is spinning, wondering what she could mean. I can only assume she has stomach issues, but it seems like a simple answer to give rather than it being a piece of what might scare me away from her. “Does all pizza make you sick?”

  “No,” she says. “There isn’t a particular food that makes me sick. It’s more complicated—it’s an issue I’ve been dealing with.” I can tell she wants to change the subject, which is fine since I have a completely different question.

  “Is it as complicated as telling me why your Jeep is in my driveway at home?” I ask, pulling up next to her. She’s here. At my house. Uninvited. It’s something I would do, and I kind of love that she does what she wants. I guess I’d call her a free spirit.

  13

  It wasn’t as much of a surprise to find Journey’s Jeep in my driveway as it was to see her lounging on my couch inside my house. My doors were locked, so she’s either good at picking locks or breaking a window. I’m not even sure I want to know.

  “Did you know that the number one place a burglar looks for a spare key is under a doormat?”

  “I didn’t have a key under the doormat,” I reply.

  “Your right, which brings me to my next question. Do you know the number two most commonplace a burglar searches for a spare key?”

  I scratch my chin as I pull my coat off. “I don’t know, Journey, but apparently you do, which brings up a few questions of my own.”

  “I’m not a burglar,” she drones.

  “That wasn’t one of my questions, but thank you for clarifying.” I join her on the couch and twist to face her, wondering why she would go so far out of her way as to wait for me at my house when she couldn’t seem to get away from me fast enough last night. “Where is the second most popular place a burglar would find a spare key?”

  “A weightless rock, Brody. When someone trips over a rock, it doesn’t usually move. So if you want to use a fake rock to conceal a key, at least leave a front porch light on so the burglar doesn’t trip over it.”

  I snicker because that rock has been a running joke in my family for about three years. Everyone knows the spare key is in there, but it looks more like a decorative rock than a key-concealing object. There’s a small secret slot the key slides into, so unless someone were familiar with the exact type of fake rock, they wouldn’t know where to search for the key. “You’ve had one of these, haven’t you?”

  “My mom has one outside the front of her house. It’s ridiculous, just as you are.”

  “Okay, Miss-I-Leave-My-Doors-Unlocked-All-Night.” I might have found a little tidbit of information during one of our pointless, yet humorous phone calls.

  “See, the way I look at it,” she begins, making herself more comfortable in the corner of the l-shaped couch's wedge. “If someone finds a door unlocked, they know someone must be home, and it isn’t the prime target for a burglary.” Journey looks proud of her thought process, but she seems smarter than to say something so dumb.

  “Yet, attracts dirt-bags, abductors, or it's just a perfect set-up for a home invasion. Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “Exactly. Some people live for that type of excitement in their lives, right?”

  I narrow my eyes at her, wondering what she means, also wondering if I want to know. “You’re kind of reckless, aren’t you?”

  “I refuse to live in fear,” she says.

  So, yes is the answer to my last question. “A little fear is healthy, at least that’s what I tell myself; a man trying desperately to raise a tween daughter to become an intelligent woman.”

  Journey seems taken aback by my comment like she wasn’t expecting me to bring Hannah into this conversation, but since having a daughter, I have found a new appreciation for the safety precautions women should take in this crazy world. “I didn’t mean Hannah shouldn’t be careful,” she says.

  “I know. You’re speaking specifically on your behalf, which is also concerning.”

  Journey’s cheeks redden, and I know she’s becoming agitated with my arguments, but I’m not the type to nod my head in agreement when I don’t agree. “Like I said earlier … I’m not someone you need to concern yourself with.”

  I lean forward and press my elbows into my knees. “So, if I can be frank with you for a moment here—” I’m too old for these flirty games and going days and weeks without speaking the truth about the obvious. So, I’m laying my cards out on the table for Journey. If she doesn’t like it, I’d rather know now than continue these senseless arguments with a beautiful woman who has no intention of continuing whatever is going on between us. “Journey, I’m sure you know I like you—not in a humanitarian project type of way, but I think you're attractive, you’re mysterious, fiery, and someone I enjoy being around. I’d like to spend as much time as I can with you, but I’m getting mixed signals from you, aside from the fact that you broke into my house and made yourself comfortable on my couch while I was two hours away.”

  Journey’s smiling, a sweet smile, not a snarky one—the infamous one. “What are you saying, Brody?”

  “I’m saying, I should be allowed to feel concerned about someone I have feelings for, but if you don’t want me to have those feelings, then I don’t see how this will work out, you know what I mean?”

  Journey pulls in a deep breath and drops her head to the side, her long dark waves spilling over her shoulder. “I’m not a damsel in distress—I’m not the type. I don’t call people when I need help. I figure out how to solve my problems, and I learn from the mistakes I make. It’s who I am, and that is what I was trying to say.”

  “And I can appreciate all of that, but if I care about you—or anyone for that matter, and I see you throwing caution to the wind, you can’t expect me just to sit there and wat
ch.”

  Journey kicks her boots off and folds her feet beneath her, making herself more comfortable in my favorite spot on the couch. I’ve worn in that area to make it the plushiest of all the cushions in this house, but she can sit there tonight. “Okay, so how about you just say what you’re concerned about, and I will tell you if you have valid reasons for concern?”

  I’m surprised she’s being so free with whatever she keeps locked so tightly within her head, but I’ll take the bait. “I’m concerned that you seem to hate the world and that certain subjects are off-limits because they cause intense spikes in your mood. You seem depressed, but at the same time, there’s a flicker of hope in your eyes, like there’s a part of you that wants to escape whatever darkness is holding you hostage.”

  Journey’s gaze falls to her black leggings as she traces her finger down the stitching around her knee's side. “My dad just died, Brody. Even before that, life hasn’t been all cupcakes and rainbows.”

  “I get it.”

  “I see the similarities in our lives,” she says, but just like no one knew about Pete, or the reason that you seemingly disappeared for two years, I have my reason for the way I am too—reasons that are still unresolved and trapped within my soul. Those reasons are a part of me and who I am. We’ve lost people in our lives, right?”

  I’m not sure if she’s referring to Pete in this circumstance or Kristy, but she must think it’s relatable to Harold. It isn’t the same. Losing a parent—it’s unfathomable.

  “That’s a loaded question for me,” I explain. “Did I lose people from my life? I’m not sure I can compare a loss that I’ve had to someone like your dad, who had no choice. The people who are no longer in my life had a choice.”

  Journey’s forehead wrinkles with a look of confusion. “Do you mean your ex-wife?” she asks.

  “Well, her for one, yes, but—”

  “You said you saved Pete, right?”

  “I didn’t finish my story,” I say with a slight smirk. “However, I don’t want to upset you over the rest either. Obviously, it was a lot to take in all at once, and while I’ve become somewhat numb to it all, I need to remember that not everyone feels the same way.”