Sorry, but that isn’t the real kind of happily ever after. Not in my book.
Dealing with PTSD is a matter of acceptance rather than waiting for the day they will stop. The therapy helps tremendously, and I rarely have moments of distress during daytime hours, but if I do, I use the coping skills I learned in therapy to help me through the thick of it. I will always have nightmares and thoughts of the what ifs. I will always miss my best friend, and the fact that Parker doesn’t have her biological mom to watch her grow into the beautiful young lady she’s becoming.
What I do have … is a loving wife, a wonderful marriage, and two beautiful children who tell me I’m the best dad in the world. It’s more than I ever could have asked for and more than I feel I deserve, despite what anyone might say.
“Brett, did you know Brody was coming over?” Melody shouts from the kitchen.
I look at my watch, seeing it’s ten in the morning on a Sunday. “No, he didn’t even text me,” I say.
Brody opens the front door before I can even get off the couch. “Dude,” he says.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You look like Mr. Rogers. Is that what you wore to bed last night?” Brody jabs me.
“Breakfast, Brody?” Melody calls out with a hint of sarcasm.
“Nah, I already ate for two.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Remember that thing from when I was twelve or thirteen …”
I look up in thought, wondering what he’s talking about. “Uh.”
“Seriously? I almost went to juvie for this.”
“Oh, that,” I play along.
“Let’s just say that ‘special’ location we used to spend our time at … apparently, it reopened, and my daughter, you know—your fourteen-year-old niece, was the one to find it and bring it back to life. I’m going to need your help closing it back up somehow. Can I borrow you for the day?”
“Wait, what are you two talking about?” Melody asks, crossing her arms over her robe.
“And you … you look like Mrs. Rogers. How cute.”
“There was no Mrs. Rogers,” Melody snaps back. She has no problem giving Brody grief, which is one of my favorite things about my wife.
“It’s nothing important,” Brody says.
“I’m going to need to tell her where I’m going if I’m disappearing for the day.”
“It’s just a thing—a place where kids hang out. There’s nothing to worry about. I just need to put some dirt on the ground and tie a few things up. No biggie,” Brody says.
“Yeah, sounds fun,” Melody replies.
“If you don’t want me to go, I can tell Brody to go shove it,” I offer.
“Bro, seriously? Come on. I rarely ask you for help.”
“Just in the days that end in ‘y’ usually, right?” I add.
“You know what kind of trouble that place caused me, and not just—me. Please.”
“Fine,” I say. “Under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We get to have one last hurrah there with a little Fireball tonight. Hannah can babysit the others. It’s quite perfect, actually.”
“I like the sound of this,” Melody chimes in.
“Journey is not going to like the sound of this,” Brody continues.
“Journey doesn’t know either?”
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way,” he says.
“Oops. Just texted her. It looks like we’re all going tonight. Go make it look pretty, boys, whatever this place is,” Melody chimes in.
This is most definitely going to be the best, worst idea ever. “I’ll clink a bourbon glass to that.”
* * *
________________________
Brody’s story is next. Keep an eye out for Bourbon Fireball!
A Preview of Bourbon Fireball
Prologue
This is the story of my life … starring me, Brody Pearson.
It all started tonight. No, wait, it technically started twenty years ago. It was a nice summer day, and I was a cute baby—a whopping ten pounder with a set of pipes meant for competing against the loudest babies in the world. Fast forward a couple of years and, for some reason, my parents wanted another one of me. So along came my brother, Brett.
Some might say, I’ve paved the way for him.
Anyway, the girth of this story starts tonight, but the last few hours might be a result of the shortest story known to man. I mean, I can’t complain about the thickening plot, but damn, things aren’t going too well.
To make a short story even shorter because really … who even wants to hear a long story? I ran into a family friend I hadn’t seen in a while because Brett “Mr. Popular” (or so he thinks) was invited to this New Years Eve high school bash. Since I graduated a couple years ago, I had so many plans to choose from tonight, it was too hard to make a decision, so I tagged along. Plus, I need to watch the guy like a hawk. He’s always causing trouble wherever he goes.
Pfft. Right. I’m kidding. Brett’s the good one, the well-behaved, yet under-achieving-successful—the definition of an oxymoron (emphasis on the moron part)—who gets by on his good looks and ability to whip a fastball at nearly ninety miles-per-hour. Brett is the pride and joy to all who know him. But, he’s just a dweeb to me, which is why I need to watch his back tonight. God only knows what could go down at this rager in the basement of the bourbon distillery.
I walked into the distillery—a restored firehouse—earlier in the night as if I was, in fact, a big deal. Maybe that sounds cocky. Maybe I am a little cocky, or—was—until right this minute. Before this minute, I referred to myself as an opportunist—a guy who finds great methods to acquire what I want.
Tonight, though, I wasn’t expecting what happened and wasn’t prepared with the usual tricks up my sleeve to make the night a little less bumpy.
In fact, I didn’t know I wanted her until tonight. The “her'' in my story is Journey Quinn, the bourbon distiller’s daughter. She is the more devilish of the owner’s two girls so it’s not surprising to find out she doesn’t play along with daddy’s rules, which would forbid a killer party with an endless supply of booze.
Our families have known each other my whole life, but we live in two different towns and only see each other a few times a year at parties our families throw. Actually, it’s been a few years since I’ve gone to one of these stellar events, and seeing that Journey has aged as beautifully as the bourbon in the barrels we were standing around all night, making it worth the trip over. I don’t know if bourbon is hot, but Journey is hot, hot, like a bottle of fireball with her stark red hair and gorgeous green eyes. The night went flawless. We drank some bourbon and somehow, I don’t know how, ended up in a dark closet. My hands were all over her body, and my tongue enjoyed the flavor of bourbon in her mouth.
Thankfully, I know how to control myself. I’m a pro. I don’t fall for a girl who might have baggage, or worse, a boyfriend, and I definitely don’t mess with family friends. But when it does happen on occasion, I maintain control of myself, that is until tonight.
I lost control.
My knees buckled. Like, I was sitting there thinking … this can actually happen, for real? I thought “weak in the knees” was just a stupid term chicks use when talking about the dude they’re crushing on. Seriously, though, it was so bad, I fell against the wall. I’m just glad I managed to make it seem like it happened like I did it on purpose. Whatever the case, Journey Quinn was a fantasy come true. I wanted to figure out how to barricade us in the closet like a psychopath and keep her to myself for as long as she would have me. There was a spark, one we could have lit the place on fire with. Journey’s heart pounded against my chest, and it was obvious she was feeling the same thingI was. Her nails nearly pierced the skin on my back, and we ran out of breath twice because of how hot things got.
And then, we lived happily ever after.
Nope. Not even close.
Instead, her ex boy
friend, who had only been an “ex” for like two seconds, barged into my love-making palace in the bourbon shop, and claimed his woman back. Well, sort of. When he caught us, he ran off like a sissy and Journey chased after him with a look of guilt plastered onto her face.
In my head, I saw myself getting ready to act like one of Shakespeare’s dude’s, clutching my chest with one hand and reaching out to her with my other while screaming, “Journey, thou shall come back to me!”
But, um … yeah, I’m still standing in front of the firehouse with a beer in my hand, waiting for thou to come back to me after watching a two-car chase burn rubber out of the parking lot. A perfect finish to a lovely evening. I just can’t help but wonder if Journey is the coyote, or the road runner.
I’m hoping to find out sooner rather than later.
Yeah, that didn’t happen, but I’ll save you from having to wait as long as I did for an answer.
It’s been fifteen years, and I’m about to find out who won the fair damsel that night.
Chapter 1
Current Day
“Mother of—”
“Dad, just don’t,” Hannah says with a sigh. If it was possible to hear my daughter roll her eyes, it would be the equivalent of the scream of one of those plants she talks about in the Harry Potter series. Lethal is the way I believe she described the sound. “Who was that, anyway?’
I snicker, quietly so she doesn’t hear me. “Just an old friend.”
“Hmm,” Hannah continues. “I didn’t know old friends kissed upon reuniting.”
I shift around in my seat to look my daughter in her evil eleven-year-old eyes. We were in the blind spot, for the love of—breathe in, Brody. Just breathe. It’s what I’m supposed to do. “Are you capable of offering me privacy at any given moment of any day of the week?” I ask her.
She twists her lips to the side and furrows her brows as if my question is stupid, lame, or “so basic.” “You didn’t ask for privacy. You told me to get into the truck.”
“Still, some things aren’t meant for children’s eyes, Hannah,” I argue.
“Then, some things should wait until a child’s eyes aren’t within seeing range.”
This conversation isn’t going to t end well so I’m just going to drop it and hope she does the same.
I pull out of the parking spot in front of the school where we just hosted another infamous bake sale. Thank God this is the last year for her in this school because Ive, just about had it running the show with the PTA.
The words, “Joining the PTA, and becoming an active member will have a distinct impact on your overall parental appearance during the hearing. You’re already in good shape, and this will make winning a breeze.” This is how my shark of an attorney spoke about winning full custody of Hannah. She was the prize at the end of the drawn out battle in his eyes, but her well being was my only concern. I took his advice and not only joined the PTA but became the damn president, as well as the only dad on the board. It bodes well for me and has done so for the past couple years since I won the custody battle.
As I reach the intersection where the main road and school parking lot meet, I watch Journey Milan, formerly known as Journey Quinn peel out of the lot with my niece, Parker in tow. The questions have risen. Where the hell is Brett? Why did he send Parker to a school event with Journey Quinn of all people, and why didn’t they ask me to take Parker, knowing I’d already be there? I could call my little brother and rip him a new one or I can follow Miss Journey to wherever the hell she’s taking Parker.
“I’m helping Brett out,” she says when I ask her why she is driving Parker home. Something is off.
“Where are we going now?” Hannah groans. I take a left when I should have taken a right.
“I want to make sure Parker gets home all right,” I respond, while trying to hold my focus on Journey’s tail lights. I don’t want to get too close or she might see I’m following her. Can’t have that.
“You are following the woman you just kissed in the school parking lot where you oddly think children’s eyes shouldn’t be, and it’s so you can make sure Parker gets home all right?”
“Hannah. Do you know that woman, Journey?” I ask, huffing with frustration.
“She looks a lot like Mr. Quinn’s other daughter, Melody. Plus she’s with Parker and Melody and Brett are pretty much dating now, so … this isn’t very complicated.”
“How do you know any of this? No one said anything to you about the two of them dating. Where are you getting your information?”
“You’re getting too close to her Jeep. She’s going to recognize the truck,” Hannah continues.
If I don’t suffer from blood pressure issues by the time I turn forty, it will be a literal miracle. I step on the brake, acknowledging my tween might be correct this time. “I asked you a question.”
“The answer is grandma, and even if she didn’t outright tell me they are dating, it’s a little obvious by the way they stare into each other’s eyes like they’ve been hypnotized or something.”
I guess I haven’t noticed the looks. I know Brett has been slowly beginning the wooing process of his old high school crush, but I wasn’t aware it had surpassed the flirtatious stage. Usually, that lasts about three months with Brett. Then, when he feels enough longing stares have been dealt, he might ask for her number.
“Interesting,” I reply.
“Not really. Grandma said they liked each other in high school. So, technically, it’s old news.”
Why am I still asking questions or hearing my ex-wife come out of my daughter’s mouth?
“Did you finish your math homework before we left for the bake sale?” It’s a great way to change the subject and probably start the second round of the battle on our twenty-minute drive.
“How could I? You said we had to leave when I was halfway through. You know, so you could be at the bake sale a half hour early to set up with all the moms.” I hear another eye-roll. Hannah hates that I’m on the PTA. I guess I could have called it quits last year after everything with the divorce was settled, but I didn’t want it to look like it was just a court-con, and I wasn’t hating the evening events with the dozen or so women who desire attention from the opposite sex when their husbands aren’t looking. I never crossed a line, but a little flirting never hurt anyone. Plus, I get what I want when it comes to the PTA. It’s a win win situation.
“Great, well I did ask you to bring it to the school so you could finish it while I was setting up the event. So, there’s that, but you can either do it when we get home or wake up an hour early tomorrow morning. Either way, you’ll be exhausted tomorrow so it’s your burden to bear now.”
A quiet hiss tells me she’s done speaking for the remainder of the ride, and it’s probably for the best. I lost track of Journey’s Jeep two street lights ago, but I’m fairly positive she is heading to The Barrel House, where Brett has been spending late nights helping the Quinn family pick up the pieces after Harold passed away. I haven’t been as much help, I suppose, but as it is, I’m hardly able to manage my daily schedule with Hannah. I sent Mrs. Quinn a card and flowers, but they probably all think I’m an assfor missing the funeral. I really didn’t have a choice because custody rules demand I drive Hannah three hours south to meet Kristy for her forty-eight-hour bi-weekly visitation rights.
I enter The Barrel House from the truck entrance, hoping to avoid a run-in with Journey. Maybe I can just spy from across the lot to make sure that Parker arrives in one piece. With a flick of my headlights to hide my existence, I watch the exchange of Journey lifting Parker out of her back seat and handing her to Brett. They’re goodbye is quick and Journey leaves the parking lot as fast as she most likely pulled in.
I flash my headlights back on and pull around to the few empty parking spots. “Come inside with me for a minute,” I tell Hannah.
I hear her head hit the back of the seat. “Seriously, are you trying to torture me tonight? You just said I have to finish my math
homework and we’re just making random stops now before we can go home.”
“I told you to bring your work to the school. You decided to ignore me and I don’t owe you an explanation for our stop. Get out of the truck and come inside with me for a minute. Please.”
I’m not sure what I did to make Hannah hate me over the last two years; if it’s because of the divorce I didn’t cause, or the fact that she likely has teenage hormones raging through her body. I don’t know, but whatever it is, she’s making things tough lately.
She stomps behind me, her hideous two-million dollar Ugg boots clunking every inch of the way. The back door is unlocked and I usher Hannah through, finding Brett holding Parker, who’s slouched over his shoulder half asleep, and Melody, Journey’s angelic sister.
“Dude,” I bellow, announcing my entrance as if they didn’t see me bolt through the door. “Why didn’t you have me bring Parker tonight. You knew I was going to be at the school anyway.” As the words are spewing from my mouth, I realize I’m more than likely offending Melody whose sister was nice enough to volunteer her time tonight. Something must have been in it for Journey. I don’t know anyone who would volunteer a night at a PTA event without a child involved.
“Oh,” Melody says, slapping the air as if what she’s about to say will be a joke. “Journey needs a distraction at the moment, and she’s taken a liking to Parker. We thought it might be good for them both tonight.”
We. Hannah was right.
I cross my arms over my chest and step to the side. “So what’s this ‘we’ thing? You didn’t feel like sharing the news?”
“Dad, don’t be a jerk,” Hannah says, swatting me in the arm.
I’m about to snap at Hannah for hitting me when I notice how red Melody’s cheeks are. She’s staring down at the ground, avoiding any form of eye contact. Shit. I embarrassed her. Brett releases an exasperated sigh. “Bro, things are uh—new. Take it easy, okay?”
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 22