Bourbon on the Rocks: The Barrel House Series - Book 2

by Ryan, Shari J.

  The light from my monitor pulls me in and holds my attention so well I forget to blink until my eyes burn. I sometimes think back to when Mom used to yell at me for sitting too close to the TV or for watching television in the dark and how it would hurt my eyes.

  This part of my apartment gets the least amount of sunlight, my screen is twenty-seven inches in width, and I sit less than two feet away for hours most days. Every photographer has their own method of editing. Some have plug-in filters, or auto-adjustments, others go through each photo, one by one and study the lighting, the colors, the contrast, and highlight the focus by altering effects little by little until the picture appears perfect. I’m the type that takes the longer route. I like to inspect my work, study the details and treat each image uniquely.

  Even photos of food can capture my attention. This one of the roasted duck breast, perfectly pink with a contrasting red wine reduction which catches the light. The green garnish wasn’t as green as I would like, but a couple of alterations to the vibrancy and saturation, then a little brightening on the white plate, and the rest pops off the screen, making my stomach grumble.

  I forgot lunch again, and the sun went down an hour ago, I think. My gaze searches for the time on the top right of my screen. Maybe the sun went down more than an hour ago. It’s seven, which would explain my hunger. I power off my machine and tuck my chair beneath my desk. One thing I never saw myself doing was working past five, but most days I don’t feel like I’m working a job. It never gets old, and it brings me the happiness I need to keep moving every day.

  After stepping away from the glow of my monitor, I feel blinded by the darkness as I stumble across the apartment for the light switch, grabbing the remote at the same time. I find the first mindless reality show on Hulu and head to the fridge to see what I grabbed at the grocery store this past weekend. It feels like a month ago even though it’s been three days, but I can’t remember what I bought.

  I spot the Perdue breaded chicken next to the bag of mozzarella and thank my Monday self for grabbing ingredients for my favorite cheating chicken parm dinner. Already breaded chicken, already made sauce, and already sliced cheese. I only have to boil water for the pasta and heat the chicken.

  Just as I close the chicken into the toaster oven, I hear footsteps outside my front door, but my neighbor is out of town for the week and there are only two units per floor.

  I grab the remote and mute the TV, listening for more noise. Amazon and the other delivery services don’t come upstairs in this building. They leave our packages by the main entrance since the front door is supposed to be secured but is usually cracked open because of a faulty spring.

  The noise seems to have stopped, but I don’t hear footsteps going down the stairwell either. If only I could see through the door my eyes are burning a hole through, I’d know what’s going on.

  My doorknob turns. What the hell. I race to the door and grab the knob. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout, trying to sound tough though I’m convulsing. The doorknob moves within my clenched grip and my heart flutters in my chest. “I’m calling the police,” I follow my unanswered question. This building is so old and not designed for apartments so we don’t have peepholes, which I could desperately use right now.

  My door presses against my hand. Whoever is in the hall is trying to make their way in and I’m using all of my weight to keep them out, but I’m on hardwood floors and I’m wearing socks, which means I’m moving with the door.

  Brody’s words replay through my mind: “Do you even lock your doors at night?”

  Laughter echoes into my apartment and I recognize the damn laugh. I see the sleeve of tattoos first and I have the urge to slam the door on his arm, but I also feel like I might pass out from the cold-blooded fear that just ran through my body. “I bet you’ll start locking your door now, won’t you?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout at Brody as he helps himself into my apartment and closes the door behind him.

  “I can ask you the same question. The front door of your building isn’t even secure, Journey. You were followed to your car last night, and that didn’t spark an idea in your head to lock your door?”

  I get a grip on my nerves and slap Brody across the face. I’d prefer to punch him, but I don’t want to get accused of being abusive later. The slap didn’t feel good enough. My hand isn’t stinging yet. So, I slap him again.

  Brody places his hand over the spot I slapped, forming an o-shape on his lips. “Ouch. You must be pretty pissed to touch my beard like that,” he says through an elongated sigh.

  “What if I had a weapon? What if I had a knife on me? I would have just cut your arm off.”

  Brody’s in a cuffed black tee shirt, one size too small for his triceps, a backwards baseball cap, and he’s folding his arms across his chest to give me a look, one I assume I’m supposed to understand. “A weapon?”

  “Yeah, I have knives,” I tell him.

  Brody reaches out and grabs my arm, pulling me over to him, giving me a hug without my consent. “You’re shaking, which gives me an inclination that if I was someone trying to break in, you still wouldn’t have had a knife on you.”

  “You tried to break in!” I yell, pushing myself away from his chest.

  “Well, technically, I broke in.”

  “Is this your way of trying to woo me? Because it isn’t working.” I just don’t know why I have to look away from him when I say such a thing.

  “Honestly, I came by to pick you up for our date. I knocked three times, but your TV was so loud, you must not have heard me. I’m sure I heard Kim Kardashian say, ‘Come in!’ So, I figured, why not?”

  Kim Kardashian? I turn my head to look at the TV, finding the Kardashians on the screen. I return my glare to Brody and though I want to tell him he scared the shit out of me, I know it’s what he wants to hear.

  “I declined your offer to take me to a bar tonight, and I don’t recall giving you my address.”

  “Your sister gave it to me,” Brody says with a nonchalant shrug.

  “What if I had called the police?” I press.

  Brody walks over to my kitchen bar and plops down on the stool. “Well, I know every cop in this town, but he or she still would have asked you if you know this man. If you lied and said no, you’ve then lied to a cop and committed a crime.”

  “I don’t know you, Brody. It’s been fifteen years since I kind of knew you.”

  “We saw each other last week and this morning, didn’t we?”

  The urge to pull his seat out from beneath him is strong, but I’m aware it won’t work since he’s likely twice my weight. “Great, can you leave now?”

  “Is something burning?”

  “My dinner that you’re ruining,” I tell him, running to the toaster oven.

  “Perfect, since I’m taking you out tonight.”

  “No, no, you’re not. I like burnt chicken,” I argue.

  “You just said I ruined your dinner.”

  “Yeah, because you’re here.”

  I pull the smoking pan out of the toaster with an oven mitt and toss it down onto my cutting board, creating a loud metal clang.

  “The chicken isn’t just burnt, it’s charred, carrot-top.”

  I was so excited for my chicken parm and now I just want to cry because he’s irritating the shit out of me and I can’t have the dinner I wanted. “I was looking forward to my dinner,” I tell him.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I can’t tell if he’s serious about asking me if I’m serious, so I don’t respond.

  Brody places his hand on his chest. “Shit, I’m sorry, Journey.” He walks over to my fridge like he’s been in my apartment before and finds the rest of the chicken patties. How did he know I didn’t make these from scratch?

  He grabs a half empty bottle of bourbon from the counter and rummages through three of my cabinets before finding glasses. “Sit down,” he says.

  I told him to
leave.

  I remain standing.

  He places the glasses and bourbon down next to the cutting board, tosses the charred chicken into the trash bin behind him, rinses the pan and places four chicken patties on the tray instead just the two I had. He closes the chicken into the toaster and refills the pot of boiling water that has lost half the contents.

  “I didn’t want to go out for dinner with you tonight,” I tell him.

  “Okay, fine. How about we have dinner here?”

  I’m staring at him with wonder. How can someone be so rude, arrogant, egotistical, and yet charming all at the same time?

  “I said I didn’t want to have dinner with you tonight,” I correct my previous statement.

  “I’ve been dreaming about having a night with you, so what about what I want?” he asks.

  “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter when the word ‘no’ is involved.”

  Brody walks up to me, hovering, breaking into my personal space. I refuse to move and give him the satisfaction that he’s bothering me in such a way. “You’re in a lot of pain. A lot. I saw it in your eyes last week, and I’ve seen it in your beautiful damn eyes every freaking time I’ve called you. I knew you fifteen years ago and Jesus, Journey, you didn’t look so f’ing sad. You’re going through hell, and our siblings are basically planning out their happily ever after. You don’t like people. I get it, but you can’t stop people from liking you. You need a friend.”

  His words pierce my chest, pushing me beyond the point of anger and into a realization of pain. “What makes you think I don’t have any friends?”

  Brody blinks slowly, and his head tilts to the side. “If you did, that person or people would have said everything I just did, and my words wouldn’t have been jarring enough to make your cheeks pale or that cute lip quiver just one time.

  “Don’t break me, Brody. Whatever it is you’re trying to do, just stop.” My voice is so weak, it’s obvious, and I can’t hide how I’m feeling, which makes me crazy.

  “You’re already broken,” he says, his eyes close, and his lips unfurl into a grimace. “I’m sorry for saying so.”

  I walk away from him and close myself in the bathroom, needing air, needing a minute. With my reflection staring back at me through my oval mirror, I dissect what I’m feeling because it’s so much at once. All I know is, I wish for the pain in my chest to subside. I splash some cold water onto my cheeks and pat my face dry with my magenta and cream-colored decorative hand towel.

  When I step out of the bathroom, Brody is breaking up the spaghetti and placing it into the boiling water. He found a saucepan and has the jar ready to pour.

  “You’re going to get beard hairs in my food, aren’t you?”

  Brody chuckles and tosses the empty box from the spaghetti into the recycling bin. “I tend to it every morning, oil and brush it, it isn’t falling out, okay?”

  I make a gagging sound because that’s disgusting. “Mind if I pour the bourbon?” He ignores my insult and moves onto his next best idea.

  “I’m not getting drunk with you tonight.”

  “Please, I have a tween daughter who shrieks her head off about clothes for an hour each morning before school. I don’t reach the point of a buzz without knowing my consequence,” he tells me.

  “One sign of maturity,” I counter. “Amazing.”

  “A beard is also a sign of maturity,” he follows.

  “Yeah, at fourteen when you hit puberty ...”

  “One drink and you can have one chicken patty, then you’re leaving.”

  “You were only going to have two, now you’re having three?”

  “I got really hungry when I thought I had to stab a robber,” I tell him as I grab the remote and unmute The Kardashians.

  4

  Brody and I have been staring at the fourth uneaten chicken patty for the last five minutes. I know I can’t stomach another bite, but at the same time, I know he wants it very badly.

  “Truth or drink?” Brody asks while stabbing a chunk of tomato from the remnants of sauce on his plate.

  “Too easy.” I grab my glass and take a swig.

  Brody takes a minute to look around my apartment, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to find something or if he’s thinking. “Truth or fart?”

  For a short moment, I glare at him until I realize he’s taken a second turn at a game I didn’t agree to play. “You don’t get to go again.”

  “Fine, it’s your turn,” he tempts me.

  I let the thoughts stir around in my head as I stare straight at Brody’s chiseled features. He still has those freckles on his nose. I don’t know why I remember being fascinated by them when I was younger. They’re in a cluster and perfectly centered down the bridge toward his nostrils. And his hair—it’s shaved on the sides; the top is relatively thick for a man in his mid-to-late thirties. He still has natural streaks of caramel blended through his coffee brown hair, which accents his hazel eyes. The jerk is always good looking even with the horrible beard.

  “I just made up a new rule,” Brody announces. “If you don’t ask a question within sixty seconds, you forfeit your turn.”

  I drop my fork to the plate. “You don’t get to make up new rules in the middle of a game.”

  “Fine,” he says, reaching his fork toward the plate between us and stabs the last chicken patty. “This is mine.”

  “Truth or leave,” I announce, firmly and proudly.

  His mouth is full of chicken. “Obviously, I choose the truth,” he mumbles.

  “Who wanted the divorce?” I remember hearing he got married years ago, and then he made a comment about driving his daughter to her mother’s house in Connecticut during Dad’s funeral. I guess if he wants to play this game so badly, I’ll bring it on.

  Brody swallows the last bite of the chicken, but it appears to have gone down like a lump of rocks. He chases the food with a sip of bourbon and releases a growl-filled sigh as he folds his arms behind his head. “There was cheating.”

  I should have figured based on his past track record. Brody was the all-star quarterback in high school. He was a senior when I was a sophomore and every girl’s dream. But from what I heard, when you have a slew of girls to choose from, you treat them like a salad bar.

  “Why would you do that to your wife?” I ask, shaking my head with shame.

  “I figured you’d assume it was me,” he says, smirking. “I need that compliment, and I was fishing for it, but I’m a loyal man when I make a vow. It was our seventh wedding anniversary, and I showed up at work with a bouquet. She was missing from her office, but her assistant mentioned she had to make some copies.”

  I already know where this story is going, and I’m squinting to prepare for the punchline. Brody stares through me as he blinks slowly. “I should have found it odd that her assistant said she was making photocopies since I think that’s what assistants are for, but who was I to judge, right? I shuffled down the hallway and walked into the copy room. She wasn’t in there.”

  I know I have a look of shock because I assumed he was about to tell me he walked in on her behind getting photocopied.

  “Oh,” I say. “So, what happened?”

  “Her assistant was an idiot, and so was I. She left that morning to go on a business trip, and I just hadn’t had my coffee when I said goodbye, and when I remembered, I video-called her. Somehow she must have unintentionally answered my call because that’s when I learned how she was racking up so many hotel points on our credit card.” Brody’s nostrils flare. “Even if she wasn’t cheating on me with her boss, I saw a very unflattering angle of her having sex, and it kind of killed things for me, you know?”

  Despite that being the worst story I’ve heard, I don’t know whether to laugh or feel bad for him. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to do that with their boss. Asking for a raise must be so awkward after.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “So, there you have it. She wanted nothing to do with me or our daughter, so she mo
ved to Connecticut to open up a new branch of the company with her new beau.”

  I stand up from the table and pile up the dishes, preparing to take them to the sink. “I’m sorry you went through that,” I say.

  “You’re trying to end the game, aren’t you?”

  I make a move from the table over to the kitchen sink. “Just cleaning up.”

  “Give me something, Journey. The night of the bake sale, you said you had been married at one point too, right?”

  “I already gave you something,” I say, ignoring his question. “I gave you the extra chicken patty.

  I’m scrubbing the first dish when I hear his chair scrape against the wooden floor. I close my eyes and wish away whatever question he asks next. I hear the footsteps, and I know he’s behind me when his hand pulls my elbow from the sink. “Look at me.”

  He tugs a little more, forcing me to do as he asked. I might have complied a little. “You don’t smile.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “For too many reasons.”

  “Did one of those reasons have anything to do with me?” Brody’s question is sincere, and though our banter has been anything but serious, I’m not sure I can lie about this.

  “That night—the same night of the accident, it was because of me, not you.”

  New Year’s Eve - Fifteen Years Ago

  A stack of hot pink papers with details printed in black ink was the answer to every one of my friend’s pleas. I had space, I had privacy, and I had the nerve to host the New Year’s Eve party we had all been dreaming about.

  I was handing out the last of the invites when I was yanked into the girl’s bathroom. “Journey, what are you doing? Dad is going to kill you.”

  “It will be fine,” I told her. “I promise.”

  “Journey, if anything happens to the shop, he’d never forgive us. This is a bad idea. You know this party is a bad idea.”

  I didn’t tell Melody about the party because I she’d be against the idea. It was my last chance to celebrate New Year’s Eve with my high school friends before we all left for whatever life held in store for us. We’d be in the basement of the shop, away from the distillery and barrels, and everything would be fine. “Nothing is going to happen,” I assured her. “Please, just let me have this last hurrah before college.”