“Eh, it’s four on a Tuesday, and it’s cold,” Pete says.
“True.” I follow Pete down the man-made dirt path, both of us quiet until we make it to the small dam and eight-foot long bridge. I’ve always wondered why there’s a bridge here without a legitimate path leading up to the spot. Whatever the case is, the bridge allows us a shortcut to Razor’s Edge. This place is so well hidden, you need coordinates by measuring steps to find the sliver of an opening within the thick brush. I’ve memorized which trees to look for and could find my way there blindfolded, but only because I’ve been here so many times over the last few years—a benefit to knowing the older kids on the football and lacrosse teams.
“I’m going up today,” he says.
“Up, up? Like to go for a swim?”
Pete twists his head for a glance over his shoulder. “Dickhead.”
I might be the only one who knows about Pete’s intense fear of swimming, but it doesn’t mean I can’t poke him about it. “Just asking,” I jest.
Climbing up three steps to sit and talk isn’t at the top of my list of fun things to do, but people do it all the time for the view, privacy, and quiet. No one can sneak up on you when you’re up in a wooden tower forty feet above ground. It was a watchtower back in the day. But I don’t think any person of power has given this place a second thought over the last fifty years, at least not by the looks of the rotting wood.
“Ah, just a few more weeks until it will be warm enough to take a dip,” I say, dropping my legs over the ledge of the wooden plank. Miles of lake water unravel before us. Only on clear days is it possible to see where the water meets the base of the mountains. Otherwise, the fog settles in and visibility isn’t great.
“Yeah, have fun with that,” Pete says, glancing up at the rope tied to a beam within the roof of the tower.
Pete sits down beside me and pulls his knees into his chest rather than dropping off the side like me. He takes his ragged Boston Red Sox cap off and shuffles his hands through his hair before replacing the hat. “My parents are filing for bankruptcy,” he says.
I’ve heard the word before, but I’m not entirely sure what it means. “Does that mean you can’t pay bills or something?” I ask.
“They’re in debt up to their eyeballs, or so they say. They had to borrow money to pay for lacrosse. I told them I would get a job at the grocery store or something, but they said it wouldn’t be enough and I don’t have the time, anyway.”
I try to digest his words, but I’m confused why even a little financial help wouldn’t be something. I think it’s great he’s offering to help. Why wouldn’t they let him? “Yeah, but—”
“I fought with my dad for two hours about it last night. He told me I can’t get a job because of the bankruptcy thing. I don’t understand all of it.”
I’m not knowledgeable enough about it either. That sounds off, though. “Man, this sucks,” I offer.
“My dad’s drinking again and my mom’s been threatening to leave him for the past month. In any case, I can’t stand living in that house anymore. It’s like a war zone that never sleeps.”
His words seem to melt together as if he’s stuck on his thought, and when I look over, he’s staring out into the water. “Can I do anything? You can stay at my house. My parents are always cool with you staying over.”
“For a night, yeah, not permanently,” Pete says.
“We have a year of school left, then you’ll be able to make your own plans, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, despondently.
“Why is your dad wasting money on booze when you’re so tight on cash?” I can already guess there isn’t a logical answer.
“Booze outweighs the wellbeing of his family. I think I can assume why he’s drinking again. I have a feeling my mom’s been seeing some dude after work. They’ve said some weird things when they argue. Neither of them will tell me a damn thing, but whatever is going on, it doesn’t sound good.”
That’s a lot of shit all at once. “I’m really sorry, man. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thanks, I just needed to tell someone, and I hope no one else finds out.”
“I won’t say a word.”
Pete looks over at me, a dark look swimming through his eyes. “It means a lot that I can trust you, bro. Thanks for hearing me out.”
Silences fills the space between us for several minutes before I remember I’m supposed to go to some stupid party with my parents tonight. I glance down at my watch, seeing I have about an hour to get home before I get my ass handed to me for taking the car without asking, especially since this isn’t an actual emergency like I thought. “I have to go to some party or whatever at The Bourbon House tonight with my parents. Do you want to tag along, get out of the house for a bit?”
Pete shakes his head before I finish asking the question. “Can’t. They said I need to be home because people are watching everything we do right now because of the bankruptcy thing. I don’t know who they mean, but they were clear I have to be home every night. They don’t get home from work for another hour, so I took a break while I had the chance.”
Pete stands, pulling himself up by the hut’s wall. “We better get going. I don’t want you to get in trouble either,” he says, heading for the stairs.
“You don’t seem right. This all sucks, what’s going on at home, but are you okay?”
He continues descending the spiraling steps. “Yeah, as good as I can be, I guess. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“For good reason,” I follow.
Pete’s words are still stirring in my brain as I try not to succumb to motion sickness from Dad’s driving through the back roads to The Barrel House. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Brody. Is everything okay?” Mom asks.
Brett flicks me in the shoulder, and I punch him in return. The sound of my knuckles against his arm makes a loud smack that makes Mom whip her head around. Brett is acting like a wuss, grabbing the spot I just hit. “Yeah, everything is fine,” I tell her.
“Except he took the car out for a joy ride after school today,” Brett says, gleefully ratting me out.
“Dad gives me a look in the mirror—one that says we’ll be talking about this later.” There’s nothing better than having a sick pain in the pit in my stomach for hours, waiting for whatever wrath I have coming my way.
“Brody,” Mom sighs along with a disapproving groan.
“I can explain. Later,” I say.
There isn’t time now since we’re pulling into the parking lot behind The Barrel House. As usual, Dad pulls up right next to Mr. Quinn’s truck. He turns in his seat and points at me, then Brett. “No funny business tonight, boys. You understand?”
“Yes, sir, Brett and I say in unison.”
Brett isn’t usually the one responsible for causing trouble, or more like, he’s never the one who is caught. As for me, I can’t help boredom and curiosity. It gets the best of me, and they’re my weaknesses. Mom and Dad don’t see my character flaws the same way I do. Curiosity often leads to wonderful things. I read that somewhere in a book.
Per the norm of one of these kiss-butt bourbon parties Mr. Quinn throws, the four underage kids are told to stay in the backroom or in the basement away from the machinery.
will Journey and Melody are making those stupid paper fortune teller things that determine who they’re will marry or what kind of house they will live in someday. It’s a dumb girl game.
Brett has his Game Boy and I have nothing because I have no clue where my Game Boy is anymore. I could take a nap. It might be in my best interest, so I find an empty spot along the wall between a few crates of supplies and empty bottles and plop down.
“What are you playing?” Melody asks Brett.
God, that girl is in love with him, and the dork does not even have a clue. In fact, I don’t think Melody has a clue either. It’s kind of funny.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, replaying some things Pete said when we wer
e sitting at the top of the tower. He rarely complains about shit with his parents, but I figured he didn’t have the best family situation since they rarely attend functions at the school together. It’s either Pete and his mom or Pete and his dad. I don’t think I’ve seen the three of them together in one place since we were in middle school.
I wouldn’t want to be going through the crap he is—it’s too much for a sixteen-year-old to worry about when we’re a couple months shy of finishing up our junior year. They say the summers before and after senior year to be the best one of a kid’s high school experience and I, for one, am counting down the days.
Knowing Pete the way I do, he’ll find a way to get a job doing something stupid so he can bring in the cash his parents need. He’ll mow four hundred lawns a day and sign up to be some old lady’s servant who will probably pay him under the table. He’s a fixer, and I assume he has a lot running through his mind right now. Maybe I should have offered to do something more than let him stay with us, but I don’t know what else I can do.
A bony shoulder presses against mine. The scent of vanilla body spray informs me Journey is beside me. I’m not sure why every girl between the ages of fourteen and sixteen flock to the scent of vanilla, but Melody hasn’t found a use for perfume yet, so I know it’s Journey.
“Whatcha’ doing?” she asks, ignoring the fact that my eyes are closed. I could very well be sleeping, but Journey isn’t the type to care whether she’s waking someone up.
“My eyes are closed, and my head is comfortably resting against the wall,” I respond.
“But you’re talking, so if you’re not sleeping.”
I open my eyes and twist my head to face the red-headed spitfire with black nail polish and a silver ring on each finger. “Hi, Journey.”
“Hi, Brody. Why so glum? You’re usually hosting our four-person dance party while the old-folk have a dandy old time out front.”
I’m not sure I’ve held a dance party here before, but I’m known to have been friendlier than I am at the moment. “It’s been a long day,” I tell her.
“Long, like, you had a test and ran like four miles after school?” Actually, I did neither, which would be a typical reason for my exhaustion.
“Nah. I had to help a friend after school. He’s going through some shit and it has me stirring.”
Journey leans her head back against the wall and picks at one of her nails. “Shit, like drugs or booze?”
“Family shit,” I continue. “He’s just not acting like himself. It’s weird” I’m not sure why I’m telling Journey this because I promised Pete that I wouldn’t say a word to anyone, but Journey doesn’t know Pete and we go to two different schools.
“A friend of mine is dealing with her parents going through a divorce. It’s pretty nasty. She’s been in a mood for months.”
Divorces seem way too common lately. It’s like someone had the idea and it suddenly became the thing to do. I don’t get it, but I don’t think my parents are heading in that direction. They seem to like each other more than the average couple. “It sucks. I just don’t know what to say to him. I can’t exactly relate.”
Journey folds her legs into a pretzel and grips her pale hands around her ankles. Her black chucks draw my attention in as I notice the inked words scribbled along all the white rubber. “The best thing you can do is listen. Offer distractions and let him know he’s not alone.”
The advice sounds so simple and something I’ve already tried to do for him, but I didn’t realize he was going through as much as he is until today. I must step up my distraction skills. “That’s solid advice. Thanks, smarty-pants.”
“We should go write lame quotes on some bourbon barrels downstairs. No one will ever know we did it,” she says.
Journey. She’s a big part of the reason I get into trouble at these parties, but I do have to take credit for some bad ideas. Boredom equals trouble.
4
Somehow, I got Hannah to bed before ten tonight, which means I get a few minutes of quiet before passing out on the couch. Out of habit, I reach for my phone, do the whole scan and laugh at the ridiculous posts popping up in my Facebook feed, then get the brilliant idea to search for Journey. Maybe I can find some insight on her.
I search for both her maiden and non-maiden names (whatever that means), but nothing comes up, which shouldn’t be surprising. I suppose she’s never been the social butterfly type, from what I’ve seen.
Screw it. I dial her number, knowing I’ve already annoyed her once since running into her at the school the other day, so what could be the harm of doing it again?
I position myself so I don’t look like I’ve worked an eight-hour day at the warehouse and a five-hour day being a single dad of a tween. I’m not sure a good angle will help me look any better at the moment because I need some sun, but we’re all ghostly this time of year in this neck of the woods.
The phone rings four times before a connecting ding sparks a pulse in my gut. “You again,” she says with a sigh.
“You picked up the call. I’m surprised.”
She arches an eyebrow, unfazed by my words. “I didn’t want to listen to it ring,” she says.
“How was your day?” I’ll keep it casual.
She stares into the camera and I wonder if she’s thinking about her day or doing her best to come up with her next snippy response. While she’s deep in thought, I notice a slight tinge of red around the green in her eyes. She isn’t wearing any makeup; unlike the last two times I saw her. I’m not big on a woman needing to wear gobs of makeup to enhance their natural beauty because I’ve come to learn that although attractive in some situations, makeup can mask the truth. Without Journey camouflaging her face, I see a beautiful woman looking worn down, broken, and barely hanging on. Maybe it’s not fair to assume or speculate, but something’s missing—a spark or a twinkle in her eye. Something that says, “I’m alive and well.”
“I spent the day staring at my computer screen, editing photos from a gig I did yesterday.”
Editing photos. A gig.
Before she mentioned it, I was unaware what she did for a living because we hadn’t gotten past being snarky to each other long enough for me to find out. She has a lot of walls up, metal ones covered with electrified, barbed wire.
“So, you’re a photographer?”
“Nah, a porn producer. Pays well,” she says without an inkling of humor.
I’m positive she’s being sarcastic, but I’ll let her run with it. “Interesting. Do you work with anyone I might know?”
Journey smirks and a hint of life flashes through her pretty eyes. “I’m guessing you know them all, Brody Pearson.”
“Probably,” I continue. “Are you in bed?” I can’t see much aside from a mess of gray pillows behind her back.
“Yup, with three of the actors I worked with today,” she says with a shrug. “I told them to be quiet when I took your call.”
She doesn’t crack a smile this time, not a hint in the world that she’s making up stories. She’s like a dense piece of glass—still breakable, but unable to see through. “What’s a guy gotta do to become a star in one of your productions?”
Journey rests her head back against the pillow she’s leaning on. “Oh, it doesn’t work like that. The production has a strict invite-only casting call. Otherwise, we end up with stuffed banana hammocks, dimpled cheeks, or Viagra deprived victims. It’s a tough business to get into.”
For someone who is being obnoxious, she’s whipping this crap out like a pro. I’m fascinated by her storytelling abilities. “Journey, can I take you out for dinner so we can continue this discussion in person? I’d like to hear more about your infamous business.”
She scoffs a quick chuckle. “Like I said, it’s invite-only. I doubt you’d meet the requirements.”
Ouch. “You’re wrong, and it’s not nice to assume anything.”
“Do you have any references?” she continues.
I glance from side t
o side, thinking of a suitable response. “My ex-wife, I guess, but I’m not sure how honest of a referral she’ll give me.”
“Yeah, amateur acting isn’t our thing either, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
“Come on. Have dinner with me. Let’s catch up.”
Her frozen gaze into the camera of her phone offers a moment of hope that she’s pondering my proposal. “I have a lot going on right now. It’s not the best time.”
She breaks her stare from the camera and peers down. She doesn’t know I’m a professional at detecting emotions or pain. Most people don’t know, and it’s not something I brag about because I don’t think it would be fair to give the other guys a poor reputation. We’re not known as the breed who are quick to notice feelings.
“Do you live alone?” I’m not trying to sound like a creep. I’m curious if she spends most of her time secluded from the world aside from when she’s filming pornos.
“Thankfully, yes,” she says.
“You’re not supposed to admit stuff like that to a man you hardly know,” I tell her.
“I know who you are, Brody. We just haven’t seen each other in fifteen years.”
“A lot can happen in fifteen years,” I argue.
“Yup, it can.”
“I’m going to get to bed now, Razzle is becoming inpatient,” she says.
Razzle. Nice.
“Well tell Razzle, Dazzle, and Snazzle I say hello and to enjoy your company tonight.”
Journey rolls her eyes but fights against a smile as she flips me off and disconnects the call.
She’s totally into me again.
I’ve never asked myself how many times might be too many times to call a woman and beg for her to accept an invitation to dinner. I’ve asked in several unique ways and even tried to be charming once. Nothing has worked, yet she continues to answer my calls. She even shared a tidbit of personal information with me last night. She loves coffee as much as she loves breathing, and she has to be at The Barrel House this morning when I’ll be picking up Parker. Weird timing. Almost like a coincidence, but not quite. If she doesn’t like coincidences, she wouldn’t have told me where she would be this morning. It’s my morning to take both girls to school. Brett and I try to switch off with carpooling as often as we can, but with Hannah’s incessant need to be at school early these past couple of weeks, I’ve had to tell Brett I can take Hannah myself on his mornings. I don’t want to ask him to get up earlier too.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 71