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

by Ryan, Shari J.

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 much 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.

  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.