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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “See, right on time. You thought we’d be late. At some point, you’ll learn to trust me,” I say to Hannah.

  With no response, I peek into the rearview mirror, noticing she has her headphones plugged into her ears. I can’t say I feel like I’m talking to myself all the time, when I am talking to myself all the time. I twist around in my seat and point to my ears so she’ll take the earbuds out for a minute, but she holds her hands up with a look of confusion. Was I this bad at her age? There’s just no way.

  “I’ll be right back. I have to go pick up Parker,” I tell her, assuming she hears me. We’re parked right out front of the distillery so I can keep an eye on Hannah as I run inside real quick. Journey is visible through the shopfront window, holding an expensive looking camera. She’s sitting on her knees and shifting her head from right to left.

  I open the front door and prance in with hands on my hips and my chest puffed out. “Uncle Brody is in the house,” I announce, ignoring Journey’s presence as I’m sure she’ll ignore mine. “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.”

  Brett rolls his eyes and tosses his head back. “You always need to make a show of your grand entrance,” he mutters.

  “Uncle Brody,” Parker squeaks while running toward me with open arms. “Look who’s here this morning.” Parker points at Journey, forcing me to do what I was avoiding. As if she’s painful to look at, I’m slow to turn my head to the side, acknowledging her with a stiff nod.

  I don’t feel awkward often, but she makes me feel like a bungling idiot. In fact, I don’t recall the last time a woman made me less sure of myself or made me want to look in a mirror before seeing her. I have to guess it’s the unreachable factor. I want what I can’t have. Journey has made that clear. I didn’t even know I wanted her until she kissed me at the school last week. I still can’t figure out why she did that, or what her motive was. Maybe she knew it would make me crazy and just enjoys torturing people. I’d place money on that. However, there’s a slight chance that her erratic behavior is because of something I’m not aware of. It’s a stretch to think that our one make-out session fifteen years ago would hold a flame for so long, but maybe I’m just that damn good. Still doubtful, I guess I’ll go with my original assessment of her behavior, which is to torture me for no apparent reason. I did nothing to her, not anything that I remember, anyway.

  I could ask her what was going through her head that night, but that takes away the fun in figuring this cryptic puzzle out. There’s a look about her, one that’s screaming for a hand to hold. Everyone would tell me I’m wrong, but I don’t buy it. How could she be okay? Her dad just died. She’s living alone. From what I’ve gathered through our few phone calls, she doesn’t have much of a social life, and she’s a solo working photographer—not a porn producer like she told me. If she was a porn producer, people would surround her daily, but as a photographer, I wonder if it involves people much at all. She said something about object photography as her specialty. I assume that is what she is doing with the bourbon bottles set up.

  I wish I could stay and tease her for a bit, but I have to get the girls to school. The few minute long drive is enough time to come up with my next terrible idea, which is to wait by Journey’s Jeep until she’s done with the bourbon photoshoot. I’ll catch her off guard and ask all the questions I want answers to. I’ll even offer to buy her a coffee. She can’t turn that down if she enjoys it as much as breathing.

  “Dad!” Hannah shouts as if I’m the one who has had headphones on for the last twenty minutes.

  “Yes?”

  “Let me out right here,” she says as we pull into the looping circle out front of the school.

  “No, that’s against the law,” I tell her.

  “It’s against the rules and what’s Miss Betsy going to do to you? Offer you her phone number again?” Hannah has a point. Miss Betsy is the fiesta administrative assistant who helps during drop-off and pickup. She likes to scold me then smiles like she’s joking. It’s very confusing when I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong aside from not pulling up to the yellow stop-line correctly a few times.

  “Fine,” I say. “I love you. I hope you have a wonderful day.”

  “Love you. Yeah, it’ll be dope,” she says, jumping out the back door. Dope? Is that word still in use?

  “There’s the boy,” Parker says.

  “Oh, I know. I have spying skills,” I say, tapping the side of my head. “He’s mean. I don’t know why Hannah likes him.”

  “Who is this kid mean to?” I ask.

  “Like, everyone,” Parker continues. “He thinks he’s so cool with his undercut and blue hair. Oh, and he has his nose pierced too. I didn’t know kids could even do that!” He has a piercing in his nose—he’s in fourth grade? It has to be fake. The blue hair, though, it makes sense now. My daughter likes the “bad boy.” Go freaking figure. Dammit to hell. She will give me an ulcer along with a heart attack. I have no chance of surviving this child’s adolescence.

  “Thank you for letting me know, Parker,” I say as we pull up to the yellow line. I inch forward until I know I’m in the exact spot I’m supposed to be, hoping Miss Betsy didn’t see Hannah’s grand escape. She’s caught up in a conversation though, so I might be in luck.

  “No problem,” Parker says. “She likes a boy who hates everyone, and you like a woman who hates everyone. Maybe it runs in the family.” Her giggle is almost infectious until I realize the truth of what she’s saying.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, turning in my seat to face her.

  “Oh please, Uncle Brody. I saw it with Dad and Melody, and I see it with you and Journey. You like her, and I overheard Melody say that Journey hates the world, so—it just makes sense, right?”

  “That’s not true,” I argue. I’m just not sure what part of what she just said isn’t true.

  “I saw her kiss you, Uncle Brody.”

  Shit. I give up.

  “Okay, get out. Go to school and learn something, will ya? I love you, kiddo.”

  Parker covers her mouth and continues laughing as she hops out of the truck. “Love you too,” she says, slamming the door. Parker is safe within the orange cones and just a few feet away from the front door when I see Miss Betsy turn to face me. Nope, not today Miss Betsy. She lifts her hand to wave or ask me to wait, but I can’t tell what she’s trying to say as I watch her in the rear-view mirror while driving away.

  5

  Maybe she knows I’m outside, waiting. I’ve parked far enough away to be out of sight, but Journey must have a sixth sense for men like me. She eats my “type” for breakfast and always seems to have the upper hand. Why I’m attracted to that, I do not understand.

  While standing beside her Jeep, expecting her exit from The Barrel House, I notice a slight scratch on her fender. The Jeep is a rusty orange color, but light enough to show flaws. I wonder how she feels about flaws. If someone sneezes near my truck, I have a fit and go through the carwash.

  I shove my thumb beneath the hem of my shirt and stroke at the scratch, seeing if I can tell how deep it goes. Oh, it’s not bad. I could buff that out for her.

  “Why are you touching my Jeep with your shirt?” It’s good to know all I had to do was touch her car to summon her presence.

  “There’s a scratch. Did you see it?”

  Like the gentle flower Journey is, she storms forward and nudges me away from the spot. “What the hell? That wasn’t there this morning.”

  “You inspected your Jeep before leaving home this morning?”

  “I would have noticed it,” she corrects herself.

  “I can buff that right out for you. Nothing to worry about.”

  “How do you know I can’t buff it right out?” she replies, and it’s evident she’s taking offense to my chauvinistic offer.

  I place my hands on my hips and widen my stance. “You know, I don’t recall trying to be
an asshole to you, at least not in the way you’re responding to everything I say. In fact, I have tried hard to be nice to you despite your inability to reciprocate.”

  Journey huffs with aggravation, rolling her eyes up toward the sky. “Brody, why are you trying so hard to reconnect with me?”

  I could remind her that she made the first move at the school, but I’ve said it enough times. She knows what she did. She re-sparked something that never fizzled out all the way.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I’m not sure how else to answer at this point. I feel the need to break down her wall and I’m not one to give up.

  “Well, that clears everything up,” she says.

  “You know, by the way you speak to me, you’d think I did something as horrible, like steal your Jeep and return it in pieces, but I haven’t done a damn thing, so what’s your problem?”

  She turns her back to the Jeep, facing me. The sun blares its mid-morning rays into her eyes, turning the green hues to turquoise. “I can’t do this. I’m not in a place where I can offer someone attention or friendship. Rather than lead you on, I figure it’s best to keep things simple.”

  “You kissed me,” I remind her. Again. Like I wasn’t going to.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I had an urge and acted on it, and I shouldn’t have. It was a mistake, and I apologize for being inappropriate.”

  Ouch. I wish I hadn’t brought it back up again. I think I’d prefer wondering what initially sparked her desire. I hold my hands up in defense. “Okay, okay, point taken. I’ll back off.”

  With a couple steps back, I prepare to turn back for my truck and leave her be, but there’s a squint to her eye. Maybe it’s the sun, or maybe she’s thinking she’s wrong.

  “Why were you waiting here, anyway?” This is where she bates me back in so she can sucker punch me once more.

  I can take it.

  “I wanted to see if we could go grab a coffee?”

  Journey’s gaze floats across the street to the coffee shop. “I’m not up for any deep meaningful conversations or epiphanies about life,” she says.

  “We don’t have to talk at all. I know you like coffee, and I like coffee, so I figured what the hell, if two people enjoy coffee, they should just have one together, right?”

  She’s breaking at the seam. I can see it.

  “Fine, but you’re paying,” she says.

  “Only if I can borrow three bucks.” I take a step forward and playfully nudge her at the shoulder.

  “I figured that would be the case,” she says. I hope that her words are just another bout of sarcasm, and not because she thinks I’m a lowlife who has accomplished nothing and can’t afford to buy her a cup of coffee. “I have to grab my purse out of my car. One second.”

  “You keep your purse in your—unlocked car?” I ask, watching her open the driver’s door without unlocking the doors.

  “Who will take it around here?”

  “Do you know every single person in this town or anyone who might drive through, looking for trouble?”

  “Yup,” she says.

  “Cool.” While she’s digging for her purse, I open the app on my phone for the coffee shop and place an order for two and pre-pay.

  In silence, Journey retrieves her purse and closes her car door. I decide it’s best not to mention locking her Jeep. Instead, I follow her toward the street. A car flies by and the coast is clear, which instinctively causes my hand to land on her lower back as she steps off the curb. Journey stops short in the street and twists around to look at my hand. I retract my arm and shove my hand in my pocket. “Sorry, it’s a bad habit of being a gentleman. I won’t do it again.”

  Somehow, we make it to the coffee shop twenty feet away. I didn’t think there was a chance in hell we’d walk through this door together. “What do you want?” she asks.

  “I already ordered us both coffees. They should be ready at the pickup counter,” I say, opening the glass door for her.

  A sidelong glance and a couple of small steps, and we’ve made it to our destination. Journey approaches the pickup counter ahead of me and peeks at the slips before grabbing both cups. “Thank you for the coffee,” she says. “Do you still need the three dollars?” Her eyebrow arches with question.

  “I was kidding. It’s something people do to make others laugh occasionally. Ever heard of it?”

  Without a response, she moves forward and prepares her coffee at the condiment station. I’m going with the black version today. I think I could use the extra kick at the current moment.

  I take a seat at one of the empty tables and watch Journey pour the cream into her coffee as if it requires a steady painter’s hand, then sprinkles in a bit of sugar. She takes a sip as she makes her way over to the table I’m at and takes long steps as if gliding toward the open chair. I agreed we didn’t have to talk, so I’ll just sit here until she decides the silence is too awkward. I can play this game as long as she can.

  With two hands curled around her cup, she rests her elbows down on the table and stares at me. “What about me makes you want to sit here and have a cup of coffee?”

  “I thought we aren’t supposed to talk?”

  “You’re right,” she says, taking another sip.

  “You remind me of myself. When I’m angry or hurt, I wear the emotions like a blinking neon sign. Your dad just passed away and I can’t imagine you must feel too good right now.”

  “So, I’m a pity project?” she responds.

  “Shit. Okay, you know what. Forget it. I was trying. I was. We knew each other for the first half of our lives, and I thought it would be nice to reconnect. You seem like life has taken a toll on you and I get it, so I figured you might want company. I was wrong, so I’ll leave you alone. I should have listened to your sister when she said you were unavailable.”

  “Melody wouldn’t use those words,” Journey retorts.

  “She said something along those lines and warned me to leave you alone.”

  “And you didn’t listen?”

  “I don’t like to listen to what people tell me to do. I enjoy taking the scenic route. And no, I don’t pity you. If you can take the shitty parts of life and turn them into anger rather than pain, I’d say you have a step up on most people., I think it’s noble that you can control your feelings like that. Most can’t.”

  “People might disagree with your statement.”

  “Maybe, but it’s better than crying about something you can’t change, right?”

  Something I said resonates with her because her eyes widen in response. “Crying causes headaches and swollen eyes. It does nothing to fix the pain.”

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  Journey glances down at her watch. It’s a sign she’s about to end this little rendezvous and move on with her day. “How do I remind you of yourself?” she asks with a squint of her eye.

  “That’s a loaded question, but for starters, I’m about to turn forty, divorced with a daughter who has an attitude that could scare a WWE wrestler away. I can count the number of friends I have on my third hand, and I have a vendetta against life for reasons no one needs to know.”

  “Is that your way of luring me in?” Both eyebrows rise this time.

  “If I was trying to lure you in, I would have given you the impression that I might spill all my secrets, but I don’t plan to do that.”

  “So, you’re a tease,” she states.

  “Much like yourself,” I reply with a quick wink.

  Journey places her cup down and rests her chin in her hand while leaning on the tabletop. “Maybe you’re not so bad, Brody Pearson.”

  “With that said, what do I have to do to persuade you into spending more time with me?” I’m all in now. I’ve placed my cards down on the table.

  “I’m sure you’ll try very hard to figure out a way to do that,” she says with a hint of a smirk.

  “This is a game to you, isn’t it?” I ask.

&
nbsp; “A game,” she repeats. “If you see this as a game—one you’ll never win, we can call it what you’d like.” The second I think I find a weak spot; she strikes back.

  6

  The beard. Women love the grizzle. I don’t get it. I run my fingers through my untidy scruff, thinking back to that post I saw online about all these women drooling over some book cover with a model who had a long beard. I didn’t think it was a thing, but if most women go for it, the odds should be in my favor. Except with Journey, obviously.

  “Dad!” It’s ten at night. Why is she up and what could she still want? My parenting hours are over for the day, doesn’t she get that?

  “What?” I groan from the comfort of my bed.

  “Can I go to Kat’s after school tomorrow? Her mom can get us.”

  “Did you just make these plans at ten at night?” I shout back.

  “Yes,” she says without hesitation.

  “Don’t we have phone hours along with parenting hours in this house?”

  Hannah releases one of her lioness growls, and I’m not in the mood. “Fine whatever. Go to bed,” I tell her.

  Not even a thanks among all that grumbling.

  Is it me? Am I unlikeable? I’m friendly. I do courteous things for others. I hold open doors. So why … Journey, why? Why does she despise me? She had no trouble saying otherwise that one New Year’s Eve. What changed between then and now aside from fifteen years’ worth of shit?

  Coffee. It’s always coffee. Coffee and beards. It’s so simple yet, I don’t get it. At least I know where she’ll be. The second I dropped Hannah off at school, I booked it for the coffee shop. She must go there every morning. She strikes me as a creature of habit—a routine keeper. If I knew where she lives, I’d just show up there, but maybe that’s too much, too soon.