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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  25

  With a shaky hand, I reach up for the ceiling of the truck, searching for a light. I press the button when I find it, illuminating the front seat. Brett’s hands are still on the steering wheel, his eyes are open wide, not blinking, and his mouth is ajar. I grab his arm and shout at him louder. "Brett! Can you hear me?"

  His chest is moving fast, up and down, and the sound of hyperventilation grows from his lungs.

  He’s breathing.

  "Say something," I beg. He still won’t blink. I push the gear into neutral and yank the emergency brake up, thankful it’s in the center.

  I search his body for injury, but the interior of the truck is still intact. Maybe he knocked the wind out of himself if his chest hit the steering wheel. The airbags didn’t deploy.

  I unbuckle and check myself for any sign of injury, feeling nothing but shock. I lean over and place my hand on the side of Brett’s face. He’s cold, but there’s sweat on the back of his neck. "They did it on purpose," he says.

  "Keep talking," I tell him. "It was an accident. We’re okay. You’re okay,”

  "They did it on purpose," he says again.

  The driver in the plow truck is knocking on Brett’s window, but Brett isn’t moving a muscle. I open my door and jump out. "I think he’s in shock, maybe. I’m not sure what’s going on," I tell the man.

  "Unlock the door," he says. "Let me help. I’m so sorry. I miscalculated the turn. I’m so sorry."

  I search the door for the lock button, finding it right away. The other driver opens Brett’s door and looks him over from head to toe. "Hey bud, can you look at me?"

  "They did it on purpose," Brett says again.

  "No, man, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to get so close. I’m so sorry. My tires slipped."

  "They killed them. All of them," Brett continues.

  The other driver looks over at me with a confused look written across his face. "I don’t know what he’s talking about."

  I climb back into the passenger seat and place my hand back on his cheek. "Brett, you’re okay. Take a deep breath."

  His hands are white with red rings encircling his knuckles from squeezing the steering wheel, and his cheeks are burning red. "I don’t understand," Brett says.

  I take one of his hands from the steering wheel and squeeze it between mine. Sweat coats his palm, and he’s shaking.

  Brett moves his other hand to his lap, feeling for his pocket. His face seems to relax as he glances down to his pocket. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but he moves his head around, looking from side to side, finding me. "Oh my God, Melody. Are you okay?" he asks.

  "I’m okay. What’s going on? You’ve been in shock or something?"

  Brett swallows hard and leans his head back against his seat then runs his hand through his hair. "That hasn’t happened in a long time."

  "What?" I question. "An accident?"

  "The collision must have triggered a flashback," he mutters. "Afghanistan. There was an armored enemy vehicle, it took out the hummer in front of me. It was a suicide bomber."

  I take a minute to digest what he’s saying. I’ve been around other military vets, but haven’t spent a significant amount of time with them. I know it’s common to have flashbacks, but I didn’t know they came like this. "Are you okay now?" I ask him.

  Brett looks around, seeing the trees a few feet from the front of the hood and then the other driver outside of his door. "Are you okay?" Brett asks the other guy.

  "Yeah, yeah, man, I want to make sure you’re good."

  Brett still seemed hyper-focused on whatever is going on in his head, but he steps out of the truck, holding onto the metal as if he needs an anchor. He circles the truck. "There isn’t much damage aside from the dent on the front bumper. We hit the snowbank," Brett tells the guy.

  "The dent is from the plow. I’ll pay for the damage. I’m so sorry. I—I’ve been out cleaning the roads for two days straight now."

  "It’s no problem. It’s metal," Brett says, sounding surprisingly unaffected, given his mental state a moment earlier.

  "Let me give you my information," the other driver says.

  Brett eases back into his seat behind the wheel, first staring through the window, then looking over at me. "Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not hurt?"

  "I’m completely fine," I tell him, holding out my arms to show there are no injuries.

  Brett places his hand on my leg. "Melody, I’m sorry."

  "It’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry about."

  The guy comes back with his license, registration, and insurance information. Brett takes his phone from the cup holder and types the information into his notepad app. I watch for a moment before I offer to help.

  Brett looks at me with tired eyes, and I ease the phone from his hand. "Here, let me take pictures of the information, and then I’ll take a few photos of the damage. Just take a few breaths.”

  I’m never the calm one in situations like these, but I guess when someone needs me to be the calm one, I can step it up and handle things. Good to know. I make sure we have a few images of the man’s information, and I walk around the outside of the truck, snapping photos of Brett’s truck and the other guy’s license plate and truck.

  "You sure he’s all right?" the driver says asks me.

  "We’ll be okay. Thank you, though."

  "I’m sorry again," the guy says, leaving with a nervous wave.

  Brett pulls his door closed, and I resettle into my seat too. "I’m so so—" Brett tries to say again.

  I cut him off, though. I don’t want him to feel anything but okay for himself right now. "Don’t say that, please.”

  "I keep a lot buried inside," he says.

  "I can’t imagine how much you’ve seen or been through, and I’m not judging you.”

  Brett covers his hand over his eyes and shakes his head. "Damn," he says. “It’s been the one flashback I get most, and it got worse after finding out Parker’s Mom was killed when a grenade hit her vehicle. Sometimes, I confuse the two incidents as if Abby was in the hummer in front of me when I was deployed, and I was there watching. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t killed for another three years."

  "That’s a lot to carry around," I tell him. "I know I’ll never understand what you went through, but if you want to talk, I’ll listen."

  Brett’s eyes are filled with evident pain as he peers over at me. "I try to talk about it, but the memories get stuck, and I can’t find the right words. Then I tell myself, it’s better not to rehash old wounds, and I bury it away again."

  "I won’t pretend like I know how to help fix this because I’m sure everyone is different, but talking through some of the events through might release some of the pain. I don’t know, though, and I don’t want to ask you to say something you don’t want to. Just know I’m here if you want to talk." I didn’t consider the complexity of the life he’s lived over the last ten years. Knowing he’s held in so much makes me want to sit by his side and wait for him to talk. I wonder if he knew what he was getting himself into when he enlisted? I remember thinking it was such a noble act to join the military, and I didn’t think about what it entailed.

  "Honestly, no one has offered to listen. I don’t expect anyone to want to hear gory details about the war. It was my decision to sign up, and I feel like it’s something I need to live with now, but thank you for offering to hear my story."

  "Day or night, if you want to talk, it’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me these past few weeks."

  "Thanks for understanding and not running from the truck right now," he says.

  I’m staring into his eyes, wishing I understood why he would think I’d run when he needed someone to be here. "I wouldn’t run away from you," I assure him.

  "That means a lot, Mel." With a deep breath, he places his hand on the gear with a questioning look.

  "I put the truck in neutral and pulled the emergency brake. I couldn’t see
if your foot was on the brake."

  "You think fast on your toes, huh?" he asks. It’s the first Brett-like statement he’s made since we ended up against a snowbank.

  "Not usually," I tell him. "Are you okay to drive?"

  He takes another breath and forces a small smile. "I’m okay. I promise."

  Brett places his hand around the back of my seat, glances out the rear window, and switches the gear to reverse, backing away from the snowbank.

  It only takes a few minutes to get to the restaurant, and Brett seems to have shaken off whatever he was going through. "This stuff happened a lot when I got back from my first tour, but I haven’t had a deep, long-lasting flashback in at least four years," he says.

  "I’m sure trauma can trigger them," I say.

  "Maybe," he says. "Are you still up to having dinner?"

  "Of course, I am.”

  "Okay, don’t move," he says, jumping out of the truck. I watch him walk behind the trunk and over to my side. He opens my door and offers me his hand. "I might have almost gotten us killed tonight, but I can still be a gentleman," he says, trying to laugh through his obvious discomfort.

  As we walk toward the restaurant, hand in hand, we both seem to notice a lack of other cars around us in the parking lot. "Um," he says.

  "I don’t see lights on inside," I reply. When we reach the door, we find a sign, saying: the power is out.

  "Damn," he says.

  "Wow, our luck is top-notch tonight.” I try to laugh the unnecessary tension away. “It’ll be a night we remember—for sure.”

  "How about we order take out and bring it back to my house," he offers.

  "That sounds like a nice idea." He’s bringing me to his house. I haven’t even thought about where he lives, how he lives, what kind of person he is when keeping up with a house. "It’s not fancy, but—"

  "I just want to spend time with you, so you don’t need to worry about making anything fancy for me.”

  Brett smiles at me, and his body appears to relax as we walk back to the truck. He opens the door for me again and waits for me to buckle before closing the door.

  "We can go somewhere else, but you know the options in town are slim," he says.

  "Delivery is my favorite," I reply.

  "What kind of delivery?"

  "Chinese."

  "Me too," he says, starting up the truck.

  Brett’s house and town are about twenty-five minutes away from the where we were, so he called in an order on the way, hoping we wouldn’t have to wait long for our food. He pulls up to a log cabin style house. It looks fairly new, along with the neighboring houses in the development.

  "I love your neighborhood.”

  "It’s a young development. They were building on lots when I was moving home, and I snagged one up at a good price."

  I follow Brett into his house, expecting the inside to have a similar feel as the outside, but the interior is modern, bright, and cozy. His place is clean, and I shouldn’t find it surprising, but after living with Ace for so long and being the only one who would ever clean, it’s something to notice.

  Brett flips on the lights as we continue walking through the open concept. "You’re so neat and orderly.” I’m stating the obvious, but it’s something worth mentioning. Most men are not this clean.

  “The habit was drilled into me for years. If you ask my mother about me being neat, she would laugh. I used to make her nuts, leaving messes everywhere I went."

  He leads me into the living room area and gestures to the couch. "Have a seat," he says. "I’ll get us a couple of drinks."

  I plop down onto his plush sofa and make myself comfortable between a mess of throw pillows. Most men don’t decorate with throw pillows, but it’s my favorite part of a comfortable sofa. He has good taste. Maybe someone decorated for him. I can see Parker being picky about decorations. She might have had a say in some of the decor.

  Brett returns with two glasses and a small amount of bourbon in each glass. "This is another good one," he says. "Quinn White Mountain."

  Dad rarely brought those bottles home. He had his favorites and stuck with them.

  "Are you missing the South right now with all this snow?" Brett asks.

  I look out toward his back porch through his oversized windows, watching the crystal flakes fall in front of his dim outdoor lights. "Nah, I’m happy to be home."

  Brett leans forward for a small remote and presses a button, bringing his fireplace to life.

  "Impressive," I tell him. "Is there a Marvin Gaye button too?" I bite down on my bottom lip, teasing him. Maybe he knew the restaurant was closed. This could all be a part of his plan, getting me to his house alone.

  Though, I think I’m okay with the direction tonight is heading.

  "Whoa, slow down there," he says. "You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?"

  He has hands up in defense as if I’m accusing him of this imaginary plan working out so perfectly. "I only wanted to order delivery and warm up by the fire. I don’t know where your mind is at ..."

  He’s trying to embarrass me, or make me blush, but I can hold my own too.

  There’s space between us on the couch, so maybe his intentions are innocent. He takes his drink from the coffee table and takes a small sip. "Try it," he says.

  I take my glass, but he places his hand on mine before I take a sip. "Close your eyes when you take a taste. It’s easier to determine the flavors." He asked me to close my eyes last time too. It works. "Your other senses become stronger when you block one out."

  "I taste honey and vanilla," I tell him.

  When I open my eyes, he has a prideful grin. "You’re getting good at this," he says.

  "I’m a natural-born bourbon-taster," I jest.

  I place my glass down while feeling Brett’s gaze burn against the side of my face. My heart beats a little faster, wondering what he’s thinking—wondering what’s on his mind.

  "Are you cold?" he asks.

  "A little, but I’m warming up.”

  He takes a throw blanket from the other side of the sofa and wraps it around my shoulders, removing all the space between us. I lose my focus on the flames in the fireplace, feeling Brett’s breath tickle the side of my neck. A kiss beneath my ear sends thrilling chills through every inch of my body. "Did you wash your hair again?" he mutters into my ear.

  "Maybe," I tease.

  Brett touches his hand to my cheek and crashes his lips against mine, stealing my breath, stopping my pulse; creating chaos in the core of my body. This kiss is different from the others, there’s heat behind his lips, there’s power and control—a desire stronger than before. I melt into the mess of pillows I was leaning against, watching his body flex over mine as he continues to steal my lips as if they were once taken from him.

  The weight of his body warms me from the inside out, the scent of his cologne is mild, but the slight spice is something I could inhale all day and never get sick of. His hands slide up the back of my shirt, the heat from his touch burns my sensitive skin, and I want to beg for more of everything. I tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head, finding more artwork, rigid muscles, and perfection in every form. My shirt is next to go, and our bodies are flush, creating friction and need. His hands skate up the center of my torso, cupping my breast as his lips travel down the base of my neck. My body craves more, arching in toward his.

  With a quick swivel of his fingers, my bra falls loose, and in the same second, the doorbell rings.

  My eyes flash open. Brett’s eyes close, and he scrunches his nose with frustration. "We ordered food," he says.

  "We did," I laugh, holding my arm over my face.

  He places the afghan over my chest and grabs his shirt on the way to the front door. "Do you want any money?" I shout after him. Probably not the right moment to offer, but it’s a habit if I order food with someone.

  He presses his hand against the wall and looks back at me before opening the door. "I’m not a prostitute," he says
.

  I meant for the food, I mutter to myself, trying not to laugh.

  Brett returns with the large brown bag and places it in the kitchen on the other side of the open area.

  "Do you like cold Chinese food?" I ask him.

  "It’s so much better cold," he says, stalking toward me as he pulls his shirt back off.

  Brett scoops me off the couch and carries me down the dark hallway, kicking a bedroom door open enough for us to walk through. He even made his bed this morning. His sheets smell like fresh linen, there’s no laundry scattered along the floor, and there are more pillows to fall into—which I do when he drops me down to his bed.

  He steps out of his pants before joining me then pulls his comforter down from beneath me. "Are we moving too fast?" he asks breathlessly.

  "If we are," I utter through weak sounds, "I don’t think we’d survive, moving any slower than we have."

  "Ten years, and a kiss, leaving me wanting more, and not just another kiss—more of you—more of us," he says against my ear.

  "I have had dreams about what could have been," I tell him.

  Brett hovers over me, staring into my eyes with more than simple lust. There’s something deeper, something I feel and abundance of, but can’t describe.

  "I’m not taking advantage, am I?" he asks.

  "Not yet, and I wish you would start," I plead.

  There aren’t any necessary words left to share. The sound of a condom wrapper being torn, the rustle of the remaining articles of clothing being tossed across the dark room, the pressure from his intense touch, and the spice of his body soap permeating my nerve endings. I’m overdrive as I run my fingertips up along the ripples of his lean body, finding the dips and curves of what I couldn’t have even imagined. My world is dark and confined within his hold, but I feel like a feather falling skating through the air, free and untamed. His lips are everywhere, his skin is my skin, and there is nothing left but the sensation of pleasurable oblivion, responding in the form of uncontrolled cries and pleas for more.

  The soft touch of his sheets slides back and forth beneath me as the short hairs on his chest scratch against my balmy collarbone. His lips pull at the skin of my neck, and the heat from his lungs spill down my shoulder blade.