“New?” I ask with a stifled laugh. “Weren’t you two in love with each other back in high school or some shit?”
“Bro, language, come on,” Brett says, pointing at Parker.
“Do you girls want to see what I found in the back of the store today?” Melody asks Parker and Hannah.
Parker perks up and shimmies out of Brett’s grip and Hannah shrugs but follows Melody as she walks into the storefront.
“What’s going on? Why didn’t you at least tell me someone else was taking Parker tonight? I didn’t recognize Journey and it made me nervous as hell to see her with some random chick.”
“You didn’t recognize Journey? Haven’t you seen her over the last month or so?” Brett asks.
I shake my head. “No, where would I have seen her?”
Brett drops his head into his hand. “Uh, well, let’s see … there was a goodbye party for Harold you didn’t attend, nor the wake or the funeral. So, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have seen her at any point, but I’ve seen her almost daily since Melody has been home and I felt comfortable with her taking Parker tonight. It’s not a big deal.”
“You could have told me,” I argue.
Brett drops his head to the side. “Something happened, didn’t it? What the hell could have occurred at a bake sale, Brody?”
Naturally, my eyes roll up toward the ceiling and I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to hold back the laughter rumbling through my chest. “Dude, she basically pinned me against my truck tonight, kissed me, and told me she would never be interested in me because I have a beard. Who the hell does that?”
Brett’s eyes narrow as if he’s trying to piece together the scene I described. “She kissed you? Why do I have a hard time believing this? Where in the school parking lot? In front of Parker and Hannah?”
I’ll leave out the part that Hannah was oddly watching. “Nah, the girls were in cars already. I don’t know. It seems like we have some unfinished business, apparently.”
“Unfinished business,” Brett repeats with a chuckle. “From New Years Eve fifteen years ago when you chased her boyfriend out of the party?”
“Because he walked in on us hooking up? Yes.” Obviously.
“Don’t get your hopes up with Journey. She’s not in a good place right now. I can tell you that much. Her dad just died and she hardly says a word to anyone, expect Parker evidently.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“That she kissed you in the school parking lot?” He’s looking at me like I’m nuts.
“Yes.”
“Sure, I believe you. Just take it easy okay? You can’t act the way you normally do and explode into people’s lives as if you have reserved seating there. Their whole family is fragile at the moment.”
I slap Brett on the shoulder. “Thanks for the advice, bro, but I think I’ll take things from here.” Brett throws his head back with annoyance and I walk out to the front of the store to collect Hannah.
The three of them are looking at some weird coin on the counter. “Hannah, we better get going so you can do that math homework,” I say.
“I’m sorry if my sister did something to offend you tonight?” Melody says as she lifts the coin from the counter. “She has a big mouth and doesn’t always know when to close it.”
Hmm. I can take that a few different ways. “She didn’t offend me,” I tell her. “No more than I likely offended her.”
“Ah,” Melody says with a quirky smile. “I suddenly recall the trouble you two got into when we were kids. You were the mastermind behind all the great ideas and we usually took the fall for whatever you convinced us to do.”
She might have a point, but I was the oldest of us four and was bored out of my mind during our family fling ding parties we had here. I never did anything as serious as she’s making it out to be. I think we hid her in a barrel once and Journey and I laughed for about an hour while our parents looked for her, but other than that, I can’t think of a time I’ve left a bad mark on my reputation with the Quinn family.
“Well, now that I know what’s going on, I feel better. I’m glad we cleared things up.”
Melody shuffles her head from side to side. “I’m confused. What did we clear up again?”
“That Journey is single, needs a distraction, and she was so desperate for a break from real life that she attended an elementary school bake sale. The girl clearly needs to be saved.”
“Saved?” Melody repeats. “Brody, I’m sure your intentions are good, but I assure you, the last thing Journey wants right now is for some guy to try and save her. Trust me. It won’t end well for either of you.”
Or, will it? [Click to continue reading Bourbon Fireball]
Other Books In The Barrel House Series:
Bourbon Love Notes (Book 1)
Bourbon on the Rocks (Book 2)
Bourbon Fireball (Book 4 - Coming Soon)
About the Author
Shari J. Ryan is an USA Today Bestselling Author of Contemporary Romance and Women’s Fiction.
She lives in Massachusetts with her wicked awesome husband and two amazing sons. Shari started her career as a graphic artist and freelance writer, then found her passion for writing books back in 2011. She has been slaying words and creating imaginary friends ever since.
Some of Shari’s bestselling books include: Bourbon Love Notes, Shattered Stars, Last Words, The Other Blue Sky, A Heart of Time, and Man Flu from the Man Cave Collection.
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A Preview of Bourbon Love Notes
Book 1
This is my dream. This was my dream.
I close my eyes, trying to remember why this was my dream, or what was so desirable about a life like this.
A white picket fence surrounded by cucumber colored grass, and a scattering of lemon-yellow daffodils to encircle a big oak tree. In the spring, we would have tulips—the colors of tangerine and Washington apple. Inside the house, there would be a loving husband and a child or two. A simple, yet perfect life.
How cliché?
A glass plate slips off the pile of dishes in the sink, and a splash of soap bubbles splatters all over my violet silk blouse. I try to keep my focus out the window, but the view becomes foggy as hot water pings off the back end of a frying pan, causing a metallic harmony of zings.
I adjust the dishes to stop the water catastrophe and continue loading the dishwasher. "Is everything okay in there, babe?"
My gaze floats toward the ceiling, and I take in a breath before responding. "Just wonderful.” I should have said something different because now he will peel himself from the couch, away from the game he’s been waiting to watch all day and will come in here to perform his assignment of playing the part as my boyfriend.
Thirty seconds pass before Ace’s hands squeeze around my shoulders. "Did you have a bad—Oh yeah, baby! Go, go, go!" His hands are gone, and his neck is craned around the wall to catch the gameplay on the TV.
I secure the dishwasher and take a sponge to the casserole pan. I saved the worst for last. At least the fog has cleared from the window, allowing me to sneak a peek at Suzette and Tim as they stroll by the window, hand in hand. Every night after dinner, they walk down the sidewalk, following their adorable two-year-old, Mia, in her Little Tyke’s red car. The three of them are in a fit of laughter, probably from taking the joy out of watching a monarch butterfly weave between the three of them. I thought life was supposed to get more challenging when you have children, but it doesn’t appear to be the case from inside the window. The life outside this window seems far more desirable.
"What were you saying, babe?" Ace asks, placing a kiss on my cheek.
"I wasn’t saying anything. You didn’t finish asking me whatever you were trying to say."
"Oh," he says. "Uh, did you pay the water bill today?" Ace steps beside me and drums his hands against the countertop, bouncing to whatever song is in his head.
"Of course," I respond. It’s not like I have anything else going on. Ace thinks since I work from home, I must take four naps a day in between the moments I stop to smell every single flower in our front yard.
"Did you get the mail?"
I shake my head. "No, I didn’t have a second."
"The mailbox is at the end of the driveway, babe," he says with laughter filled with the sound of annoyance.
"Yet, you pulled into the driveway and saw the red flag down, but couldn’t bother to grab the mail, right?"
Those words will lead to our nightly banter about who works harder and who works more. We didn’t always bicker and fight, but throughout this last year, I lost the strength to brush my feelings aside. "Melody, I worked all day," he says as if my comment was insulting his job.
"As did I, Ace."
There’s the snicker I was waiting for. "Okay," Ace continues.
My attention is pulled back out the window where Gianna and Paulo stroll by for their nightly couple’s jog. I didn’t even know people could smile while running, but they do. They are just that happy. The sight of them redirects my attention to my ring finger—my empty ring finger.
"What are we doing, Ace?"
I grip the granite rim of the sink, watching my knuckles whiten. "Fine, I’ll get the mail since you have been so damn busy painting your nails today, or whatever it is you want to call your job." A screenwriting editor, but who’s keeping track.
Ace stomps out of the kitchen, channeling the type of testosterone I might expect from the twelve-year-old boy I assume he once was. The clang of the screen door reverberates through the house, and I watch out the window as Ace makes his way to the mailbox. He retrieves the pile of envelopes and sorts through them. Once he’s gone through the pile, he purses his lips to release a long breath, probably hoping he can calm down before he returns inside.
He places one letter on top of the stack, keeping his gaze fixed on the one envelope, but I can’t understand what could be so fascinating about a sealed letter. His stomps become weak, ambling steps as he returns inside. I debate asking if everything is all right because if I do, it would mean I’m giving into this stupid argument. But if I don’t ask, I’m acting like a twelve-year-old child too.
"Babe, you got something weird in the mail."
"What is it? A bill?"
Ace walks back into the kitchen, still staring down at the envelope. He places the stack of mail down on the teak kitchen table, except for the one letter he reaches over to me. "It’s made out to you, but turn the envelope over."
I do as he suggests, finding the words: ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written with red pen alongside the seal.
It’s my dad’s writing, which makes my stomach gnarl. In a frenzy, I spin around until I spot my phone on the kitchen island. My hand is shaking when I search through my short list of Favorite Contacts for Dad’s number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring. He almost always answers after the first ring.
Ring.
"How is my beautiful daughter?" Dad finally answers.
"Dad?"
"What’s the matter, sweetie? Is everything okay? You sound startled."
"Why did you send me a letter with the words, ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written on the back?" I have never received a letter from either of my parents. We have phones. There is no purpose for a letter.
"A letter?" Dad questions. "What letter?"
"It’s your handwriting.” I’m feeling more concerned as the time passes. I hear him shuffling around and the sound of papers slapping together.
"What in the world … "
"What is it?" I ask.
"Your mother must have thought it was a piece of mail that needed to go out. Please don’t open the letter. I wasn’t ready to send the—"
"Send what? Dad, what is this?" My heart is racing, pounding so hard it feels like I have the hiccups in my chest. "It’s back, isn’t it?" I’m not sure he can understand my last question as it comes up in gasping breaths.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
I have circled this day on my calendar with red ink. After I used the red pen, I began analyzing the color. Red symbolizes blood, negative feelings, and anger. I should have used a blue pen or purple. That way, I would associate the marking with a calmer mood. I’ve questioned if my subconscious already knows the truth—the results, and it’s why I chose red.
My chest feels heavy, and my stomach is full, but with pain. I figured I might be numb to it all by now, but I’m the one who is usually full of hope. I’ve tried to be the rock in our family. Inside, I’m falling apart, but I know I should be strong on the outside to support everyone else.
I take my keys, wrapping my hand around the purple rabbit’s foot I’ve had since my teenage days. I haven’t always used it as a key chain, but in recent months, I have found every form of good luck charm to put all my hope into. I spot the Target bag on my coffee table, remembering why I stopped by the store last night. We all might need tissues, and I’d rather be prepared than ask someone for a box. I purchased a pack of the mini travel pouches, so I drop three packages into my purse. God, I hope we don’t need these.
The sky is blue on this blustery fall day. There are only a few leaves left on each tree around the apartment complex. The rest of the trees have fallen over the last week because of the rain and high winds. I don’t know if the leaves are prettier on the trees after they’ve changed color or if they’re more eye-catching while scattered across the browning grass. I’ve always preferred fall over the other seasons, but after today, it might become my least favorite season of all.
The drive is short through the woods where little tornados of red leaves spiral and dance in front of my windshield as if they’re guiding me down the street. Mother Nature knows more than we do, and I wish I could read this moment as a sign.
The changing of the leaves.
A change.
Fall is the transition from hot to cold.
Hot to cold.
I turn up the radio to drown away my unruly thoughts, but I’m not sure the heaviest metal band in the world could make my thoughts any quieter today.
Driving in a daze from point A to point B feels timeless as I wonder how my brain knows to keep driving safely while my mind is in another world. However, I arrive, and I guess that’s what matters.
Mom and Dad have just pulled into the parking lot, and I watch them from my rear-view mirror. Mom drove.
Before the last six months, Dad always drove the car. They’re from a generation where the man drives, and the woman doesn’t have the desire to fight for the task.
Journey whips into the parking lot next in her little black coupe, which accents her personality. We’re only two years apart, but different like night and day with our lifestyle decisions. She likes to sit back and wait for the world to bring her gifts, and I work fifteen hours a day to get further faster. Neither of us is wrong. She’s become a well-known photographer at twenty-four, and I’ve landed a job with a movie channel to edit screenplays while living in our own apartments down the street from Mom and Dad. We have both threatened to leave the area many times before, but I’m glad neither of us did. Dad needed us this past year.
I’m the last one to join Mom, Dad, and Journey as we all silently walk into the medical facility.
While standing between two sets of glass doors, in a state of purgatory as it feels, Dad stops walking and turns to face Journey and me. Tears are in his eyes as he wraps his arms around both our necks, pulling our heads into his chest. "I love you, girls. My girls. Everything will be okay, one way or another. Do you understand?"
Journey, who has never been big on emotions loses a
tear first. She clenches her dark-lined eyes, and more black makeup filled tears fall as she wraps her arms around Dad and me. Mom’s cool hand then falls upon my back; the four of us quiver and cry quietly in between the unknown outside and the news awaiting us inside.
The four of us have always made comments about our luck. Since Journey and I grew up in a time when divorce was prevalent, we know we are fortunate to have two loving parents who always paint a picture of a healthy relationship. Our family dynamic differs greatly from what I had seen and gone through with my closest friends. Our situation often made me feel like we were escaping the jaws of death. We were all healthy, we never needed much, and we were an exceptionally happy family.
It turns out, we were also a target for disaster.
The fifteen minutes we had been waiting, felt like hours, but now we’re being escorted into a room with oversized windows, which offer us the view of a lake with colorful reflections of some surrounding trees that haven’t lost their warmth yet. I keep my focus on the scenery, while we wait for the doctor to startle us with what will probably be an abrupt knock on the wooden door.
As I assumed, the sound of his fist makes my chest hurt, and my throat feel tight. My stomach no longer feels like it’s in a knot, but now feels weak like I’m going to be sick.
Dr. Manapple walks in, dressed in a white coat; pristine and starched, his almond brown pants have a perfect crease down the center from his knees to his ankles, and his toffee-colored loafers are so polished they reflect the ceiling light.
"How is everyone doing today?" he asks while folding Dad’s files under his arm.
How does he think we’re all doing? The four of us are nearly green with worry.
"What’s the verdict, doctor?" Dad asks, sounding stronger than he must be feeling.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 23