Bourbon on the Rocks (The Barrel House Series Book 2)

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Fine. You get the first point,” he says. “Goodnight, fireball.”

  I grab my phone and hit ‘end’ button without saying goodbye.

  It’s a long fifteen-minute drive filled with racing thoughts before I’m pulling into the parking lot of the old-stone-mill that houses my studio apartment.

  I find myself peeking over my shoulder while clutching my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, wishing the landlord would add a couple of lights to this parking lot. It isn’t until I’m inside my eight-hundred square-foot open space that my shoulders relax, and my pulse slows. With another peek at my phone’s dark screen, I toss the device onto the counter.

  The quiet hits me as I stare out the dark windows, knowing there is nothing out there but the view of cloud-covered mountaintops that can’t be deciphered at this time of night.

  I drop down onto my sofa and toss my head back, staring through the window, upside down, toward the slight blur of the hidden moon and stars. “I miss you so much,” I utter. “It hurts. It hurts like it was yesterday. I hope you can hear me.”

  2

  When the dawn light used to leak into iron-framed window, I would pull my weighted blanket up over my head, blocking out life for a few extra minutes until the rush of adrenaline sparked my desire to grab my camera and seek a unique snowflake glimmering in the sun, or the moment when a cloud would bear the peak of a freshly coated mountain. There hadn’t been a day I could remember where I didn’t have the Christmas-morning-excitement to start snapping stills of the moving world around me.

  Until lately.

  It’s been just over a month since Dad passed away for the ugly c-word. Each morning when the subtle hints of sunlight glow across my closed eyelids, I’m pulled from a place where my heart feels intact. He’s alive in my dreams—his voice, his all-knowing life explanations—I can still hear him. Then, I question if my head is playing tricks on me.

  There’s a heaviness on my chest, one that holds me down like the weighted blanket I haven’t slept without this past month. It’s more comforting to stay in bed; easier than facing another day filled with a roller coaster of emotions, points where I forget, moments where I remember as if it happened five minutes ago, and flashing memories that bring me to my knees.

  I stretch my arms out across the sheets, feeling the familiar emptiness beside me—a blank space which has never bothered me before. After Dad died, thoughts of investing time into a loving relationship just to reach a point where one person has to say goodbye began to feel more pointless than any reason I’ve had to appreciate my independent lifestyle. Then, something changed.

  On the side of a dumpster behind my apartment building, I saw words spray-painted in white letters. At first, I wondered what derelict would take the time to obstruct a piece of property filled with trash just to write some random line, but the sight piqued my interest and I stopped to read what was written—a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

  I’ve heard this quote many times throughout life but never gave it a second thought until now. Maybe the vandal was heartbroken and felt as if his or her heart was in the dumpster. It’s all I could muster. It was like a blatant messy sign. However, I began to wonder who gets to determine that it’s better to feel love than not? Did Alfred Lord Tennyson lose his love, or did he never love at all then eventually feel regret? What if he didn’t have an accurate portrayal of which pain is the lesser kind?

  I glance at my phone, displaying the time, knowing I have to shower and get downtown before eight. Melody and I are doing a photoshoot of the upcoming season’s bourbon bottles to display in the local Mountain Living magazine. Dad never advertised his shop, The Barrel House, because his clientele were loyal repeat customers. However, business has changed a bit since he passed away. I think some patrons are having a hard time returning to Dad’s favorite place. Maybe they assume it’s the honorable thing to do—not continue buying bourbon from a man who can no longer enjoy the taste. As unfortunate as it is for the business, I understand. I opted out of taking over the shop with my sister because the thought of walking in Dad’s fading footprints every day is too overwhelming to consider.

  However, Melody has vowed her future to continue running our family business, feeling the opposite—feeling more connected to the man whose presence was ever so prevalent in this small town. She doesn’t know a thing about bourbon, but she has some help, and I will support her desire just as she understands my lack thereof.

  I drag around the heaviness of my hungry body, knowing I haven’t been feeding it enough to store energy. Some enjoy comfort food when in grief, others lose the urge to eat altogether. I’m feeling the consequences of my low-calorie routine—the soreness in my ribs, my exhaustion, and shortage of stamina. Therefore, I paint a layer of happiness across my face in the form of foundation, bronzer, and blush. A dark line above and my lash-lines and a coat of mascara offer me the false appearance of: I’m fine.

  “I am fine,” I tell myself, staring at the facade in the mirror.

  In less than forty minutes, I’m out the door, waiting for the seat warmer in my Jeep to light a fire under my ass. Best investment ever. Speaking of great investments, I appreciate our anti-chain shop town agreeing to a drive-thru Dunkin’, so I don’t have to get off my heated seat to acquire my daily intake of caffeine.

  I consider sending Melody a text, asking if she would like a coffee too. She would ask me, plus it would be the sisterly thing to do.

  At the stop sign out in front of my apartment building, I take my phone from the cup holder and thumb out a quick message to my sister.

  Me: Coffee?

  I sometimes think Melody has her phone adhered to her hand because she rarely leaves me hanging for more than ten seconds before responding.

  Melody: Sure! I’ll give you the cash if you can grab a few, though. Brett and Mr. Crawley are here too.

  Me: No problem. Be there soon.

  Melody: Are you texting and driving again?

  I drop my phone into my cup holder as I take a right onto the four-mile-long road where I won’t pass another moving vehicle for the next ten minutes. In the spring, I might get stuck behind a manure tractor, but not in December.

  The line at Dunkin’ takes more time than I’d like, and I can see a considerably shorter wait inside, but I’d rather sit behind six cars expelling exhaust from their tailpipes.

  Vermont is so green, yet there is so much diesel. The irony.

  Melody: It’s five after eight. Just making sure you didn’t text and drive yourself into a tree.

  If I texted and drove myself into a tree, it would be the punishment I deserve for what I’ve caused in the past.

  I receive her text as I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Barrel House; which used to be a firehouse from a hundred years ago. Every year older Melody gets, the more she becomes Mom—a worrywart. Sometimes, she’s worse than Mom, and that concerns me for when she has kids someday. I thought the type of worry Mom carries like a suit of armor was due to having children, but Melody is proving otherwise.

  After pulling the key from the ignition, I thumb back a quick text.

  Me: Come open the back door. My hands are full.

  Melody: If your hands are full, how are you texting me?

  I throw my head back against my seat, rolling my eyes at my darling younger sister, who I adore more than life, but who drives me bonkers more often than not. With the coffees in hand, I kick my door closed behind me just as Melody pushes through the oversized metal door, creating a screeching moan that echoes between the surrounding trees.

  “You look pretty this morning,” she says.

  “You look like you had sex last night,” I reply.

  Melody raises a brow and grabs two of the coffees from my overfilled hands. “Don’t be crass,” she groans.

  I follow my sister out to the front of the bourbon shop where she seems to have cleared off on the back counter,
most likely for the photoshoot. “I think we need a different spot. This won’t be the best place to capture the proper lighting.”

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Brett calls out from across the shop, holding his cup up with a cheerful smile—far too perky for eight in the morning.

  “Yup, definitely had sex last night,” I reply, loud enough for him to hear.

  Melody and Brett have finally decided that their teenage crush wasn’t just a teenage hormone issue and have rekindled a pubescent relationship. It’s still fairly new, but Brett is distracting her from pain, which I support. Plus, he’s a good guy, even though I won’t outwardly admit to it. He’s related to Brody—the real problem.

  Our families have been friends for longer than we can remember, and we saw them a fair amount while growing up, but we all went our own ways these last ten to fifteen years, then all found our way back to the town we vowed never to live in forever.

  “Journey, it’s always such a pleasure having you around Parker,” Brett utters, walking toward me.

  Parker. I spin into the opposite direction in search of Brett’s seven-year-old-daughter, finding her leaning against the front counter, reading a book.

  “Oh, hey, Parker,” I say, acting as if I didn’t say something completely inappropriate for a child’s ears.

  Parker places her finger down on a word, holding her spot, before glancing up at me. “Hi, Journey!”

  “What are you reading today?”

  “Still Charlotte’s Web. It’s a long book.”

  I grin and squat down in front of her. “Have you convinced your dad to get you a piglet yet?”

  Parker huffs and places her head back against the wooden wall of the counter. “He said no,” she whispers, “but I’m not giving up that easily.”

  “That-a-girl,” I reply, squeezing her shoulder.

  “So, where are we doing the shoot?” Brett asks.

  “Well, I cleared some space on the counter,” Melody calls out from the back room.

  “I need a corner and a little space,” I tell him. I have wooden box props and smooth vinyl backgrounds, which will make the setup more manageable, and quicker.

  “I’ll move the display of bottles near the window so you can use that space. Sound good?” Brett asks.

  “Perfect,” I tell him.

  It takes about twenty minutes to set up the area with the lighting and backdrops before I can begin test shooting. Without the chance to set the exposure before the first photo, the shop door chimes. I came here an hour before the opening to get this done before customers started coming in. I glance at my watch, finding it’s only eight-twenty-five. Why is the door even unlocked?

  I lean back and crane my neck around the display that was concealing my view of the entrance.

  Oh God. Give me a break.

  “Uncle Brody is in the house,” he shouts. “Here for Miss Parker Pearson, the youngest of the Pearson clan. Come on down: you just won a round-trip ticket to school by the one and only.”

  I guess his cockiness isn’t just for my sake. Maybe if I stay in this little corner, I can avoid an unneeded morning rendezvous with the bearded-grizzly.

  “Uncle Brody,” Parker chirps, standing up with her book. “Look who’s here this morning.” Parker ousts me like a kid playing dodgeball with a neon statue. She’s even pointing at me, making it more convenient for Brody to spot me.

  “Well, well, I thought vampires only emerged at night,” he says, walking toward me.

  “A vampire?” I retort, trying to sound unaffected by his attempt at teasing.

  “Well, a blood-thirsty chick roaming around the streets at night—what else am I supposed to think?”

  “Do you even know what blood-thirsty means?” I ask him, pressing my eye against the viewer of my camera.

  “If that guy didn’t walk away last night, there would have been blood,” he continues.

  “What guy?” Melody asks from behind Brody.

  “It was nothing. Just a job, and a horny restaurant owner. I’m fine. We’re all fine. I have to take these photos before the shop opens to the actual public.”

  “You shouldn’t be going to those jobs at night by yourself,” Melody continues. “I thought you hired an assistant?”

  “Fired her. She didn’t show up a few times, and I don’t have time for that shit.”

  As I’m setting up the first display of bottles, Brody squats down beside me. “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Still?” I question. “Interesting. It’s almost like you’re insinuating I agreed to go out with you. We both know this didn’t happen, so I will go with my initial answer and say, no, again.”

  “Come on, throw me a bone,” he says.

  “If I had one, I would, so you’d move out of my lighting.”

  Brody stands up and dips his hands into his back pocket. “You’re making this hard, Journey.”

  As much as I’d like to believe he meant that sexually, I’ve come to learn that Brody still doesn’t think before he speaks. Therefore, I do him the favor of staring up at his package. “If that’s hard, then my no is even harder.”

  Brody laughs. “That’s cute, but I assure you there is no mistaking my excessively large pride for a measly dog bone.” He knows his comeback is below par, and he’s scratching his chin as if trying to think of something to follow up with, but he falls short. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he mutters beneath his breath.

  “Always have been, always will be.”

  “Ready, Parker?” Brody calls over to her, clapping his hands together.

  Parker gives Brett a hug and a kiss before walking to her uncle’s side. “Have a good day, kiddo,” Brett tells her.

  I get a couple of photos shot when Melody plops down beside me. “I knew it,” she says, her voice sinister and full of unnecessary excitement.

  “You knew what?”

  “You and Brody ... that’s happening again.”

  “No,” I tell her. “It’s not, and you’re dating his brother. That’s ridiculous and weird.”

  I feel her gaze burning into the side of my face as I focus the lens.

  “I don’t believe you,” she continues, “and it isn’t ridiculous or weird. We’re not related to them. They’re related to each other.”

  I close my eyes and shake the thoughts away. “No, it still feels weird. Plus, if anything like that was happening, you know, with someone unrelated to Brett, I’d have a Viagra smile like yours. Rest assured, I do not and will not have a Viagra smile anytime soon.”

  “Well, maybe if you got one of those blue-pill smiles, you’d quit being so damn crabby all the time.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I tell her.

  “I give it in two weeks,” she says, standing and walking away. Melody made sure I couldn’t have the last word, but I’m not sure I feel the need to say anything else.

  3

  I’ve been sitting in the driver’s seat of my Jeep, staring out the front window for the last fifteen minutes. My mind is going through a loop of unsteady thoughts; blurry memories of Dad swinging me by the arm while my feet flew toward the sky. I couldn’t have been too old. He would tell me my giggles sounded like a chimp’s, and it was the best sound in the entire world. Sometimes, I think he parked across the lot, so we had a reason to walk hand in hand into The Barrel House. I would tell him made-up stories about unicorns or fairies, and he would tell me about dragons and knights. He wanted me to grow up, being well rounded, not forced into seeing only the colors of the rainbow.

  A knock on my window startles me. I gasp and lower the glass. “You scared the crap out of me,” I tell Melody. She’s shivering with her arms wrapped around her chest.

  “You must have left the back door open a crack because it flew open, causing a windstorm in the back room. I saw you were still out here when I went to pull the door closed,” she explains. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just taking a breath.”

  Melody doesn’t let muc
h pass her by and highlights the fact by glancing down at her watch. “You left like twenty minutes ago.”

  “Dad used to take me to work with him when you were little. I was just thinking about some of those times.”

  Melody’s gaze falls between my car door and the pavement. “No one can take those moments away from us,” she utters.

  I try to stretch my grimace into a smile, but it’s becoming painful to try. “You know, you could come back to Mom’s and spend more quality girl time with us. Your apartment isn’t going anywhere,” Melody suggests.

  I wasn’t staying with Mom and Melody for my benefit. They needed me. The three of us needed to be a unit while grieving the loss of Dad, but I preferred to be alone with my thoughts. “I have a lot of work to do, but I appreciate the offer,” I tell her.

  “I know you’re mad at the world, Journey, but I still love you.”

  I am angry. The world didn’t have to be so cruel. My chest hurts, knowing if I sit here any longer, I will cause Melody’s pain to resurface too. “I love you too,” I tell her. “Now, back away before I run over your feet.”

  I shoo my hand at her playfully.

  “You’re just so pleasant,” she hollers as I back out of the spot, waving at me because she expects nothing more from me.

  It’s not me. It’s the chemical imbalance, I want to tell her. Maybe I’d freely spew those words if I hadn’t been a devoted closet case for the last twelve or so years.

  By the time I’m settled at the desk in my apartment, it’s just before eleven, which leaves me plenty of time to get moving on the edits for Marco. After last night, I’d like to tell him where he can put the photos but being professional is the one crappy part about running a business. Not that he was showing off his professionalism. Bastard.