Bourbon Fireball (The Barrel House Series Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  Want to be friends?

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  COMING SOON

  Other Books in The Barrel House Series

  About the Author

  Also By Shari J. Ryan

  Acknowledgments

  BOURBON

  Fireball

  The Barrel House Series – Book 4

  * * *

  SHARI J. RYAN

  * * *

  Copyright © 2020 by Shari J. Ryan

  * * *

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  * * *

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  * * *

  Edited by: Cindy Dimpfl

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  Prologue

  This is the story of my life … starring me, Brody Pearson.

  The journey all started tonight. No, wait, it technically started twenty years ago. It was a pleasant summer day, and I was a cute baby—a whopping ten pounder with a set of pipes meant for competing in the world’s loudest baby contest. Fast forward two years and, for some odd reason, my parents decided on another one like me, so along came my brother, Brett.

  People might say, I’ve paved the way for him with my worldly wisdom, or I’m giving myself a pat on the back.

  Anyway, the meat of this story started tonight, but the last few hours may be the culmination the shortest story known to man. I mean, I can’t complain about the thickening plot, but damn, things aren’t going too well.

  To make a brief story even shorter … because really … who wants to hear the long, drawn out version, I ran into a family friend I hadn’t seen in a while because Brett “Mr. Popularity” (or so he thinks) received an invitation to this New Year’s Eve high school bash. Since I graduated two years prior, my plans were sketchy and limited at best, so I tagged along with the bro. Plus, I needed to watch the guy like a hawk. He’s always causing trouble wherever he goes.

  Pfft. Right. I’m kidding. Brett’s the good one, the well-behaved, yet under-achieving-successful. He is the definition of an oxymoron (emphasis on the moron part)—who gets by on his good looks and ability to whip a fastball at ninety miles-per-hour. Brett is Mom and Dad’s pride and joy, but to me, he’s just a dweeb which is why I need to watch his back tonight. God only knows what could go down at this rager in the basement of a bourbon distillery.

  I walked into the distillery—a restored firehouse—earlier in the night as if I was, in fact, a big deal. I guess that sounds cocky. I am a little cocky, or—at least I was—until right at that moment. I’ve referred to myself as an opportunist—a guy who finds intriguing methods of acquiring what I want, but tonight, I wasn’t expecting what happened, nor was I prepared with my usual tricks up my sleeve to make the night a little less bumpy.

  In fact, I wasn’t aware I wanted her until tonight. The “her” in my story is Journey Quinn, the bourbon distiller’s daughter. She is the wild child of the owner’s two daughters and therefore, not surprising to find out she doesn’t play along with daddy’s rules, one of which would be not allowing a killer party around an endless supply of booze.

  Our families have known each other my entire life, but we live in two separate towns and only see each other a few times a year at parties our families throw. Actually, it’s been a few years since I’ve gone to one of those popped-collar events, and now I see that Journey has aged as beautifully as the bourbon in the barrels we were standing around all night. I’m not sure if Bourbon is hot, like that, but Journey, she’s hot with her stark red hair and gorgeous green eyes.

  The night went flawlessly. We drank some bourbon and somehow, I don’t remember how, ended up in a dark closet. My hands were all over her body, and my tongue enjoyed the lingering flavor of bourbon in her mouth.

  Thankfully, I’m capable of controlling myself. I’m a pro at that. I don’t fall for a girl who might have baggage, or worse, a boyfriend, and I don’t mess with family friends. But if I do, just because the opportunity presents itself, I know how to maintain control of myself … at least until tonight.

  My knees buckled as I stood there thinking … this can happen—for real? I thought “weak in the knees” was just a stupid term chicks use when talking about the dude they’re crushing on. Seriously, though, it was bad, so bad I fell against the wall. I’m just glad I made it appear that I did it on purpose. Whatever the case, Journey Quinn was like an answer to every question I ever had about the opposite sex. Feeling somewhat like a psychopath, I tried to figure out how to barricade us in the closet and keep her to myself for as long as she would have me. There was a spark, one we could have lit the place on fire with, kind-of-thing. Journey’s heart pounded against my chest, and it was obvious she was sensing something along the same lines I was. Her nails nearly pierced the skin on my back, and we ran out of breath twice between our groping and making out.

  And then we lived happily ever after.

  Nope. Not even close.

  Instead, her ex-boyfriend, who had only been an “ex” for like two seconds, barged into my love-making palace in the bourbon shop, and claimed his woman back. Well, kind of, not really, but when he caught us, he ran off like a sissy and Journey chased after him with a look of guilt plastered onto her face.

  In my head, I saw myself getting ready to act like one of Shakespeare’s dude’s, clutching my chest with one hand and reaching out to her with my other while crying out, “Journey, thou shall come back to me!”

  But, um … yeah, I’m still standing in front of the firehouse with a beer in my hand, waiting for thou to come back to me after watching a two-car chase burn rubber out of the parking lot. A perfect finish to a lovely evening. I just can’t help but wonder if Journey is the coyote, or the road runner in this case.

  I’m hoping to find out sooner rather than later.

  Yeah, that didn’t happen, but I’ll save you from having to wait as long as I did for an answer.

  It has been fifteen years, and I am about to find out who won that night.

  1

  Current Day

  “Mother of—”

  “Dad, just don’t,” Hannah says with a sigh. If it was possible to hear my daughter roll her eyes, it would be like the scream of one of those plants she talks about in the Harry Potter books she reads. Lethal is the way I believe she described the sound. “Who was th
at, anyway?”

  I snicker to myself. “Just an old friend.”

  “Hmm,” Hannah continues. “I wasn’t aware old friends kissed upon reuniting.”

  I shift around in my seat to look my daughter in her evil eleven-year-old eyes. We were in the blind spot, for the love of—breathe in, Brody. Just breathe. It’s what I’m supposed to do. “Hannah, are you capable of offering me privacy at any given moment, of any day of the week?” I ask her.

  She twists her lips to the side and furrows her brows as if my question is stupid or lame, or “so basic.” “You didn’t ask for privacy. You told me to get into the truck.”

  “Still, some things aren’t intended for children’s eyes, Hannah,” I argue.

  “Then, some things should wait until a child’s eyes aren’t within seeing range.”

  Forget it. This won’t end up anywhere good, and I’m just going to drop the conversation and hope she does the same.

  I pull out of the parking spot in front of the school where we just hosted another infamous bake sale. I’m thankful this is the last year for her in this school because I’m about done running the show with the PTA.

  The words, “Joining the PTA, and becoming an active member will have a distinct impact on your overall parental appearance during the trial. You’re already in decent shape, and this will make winning a breeze.” This is how my shark of an attorney spoke about winning full custody of Hannah. She was a prize at the end of a tiring game in his eyes, but her well-being was what matters in the end. I took his advice and not only joined the PTA but became the damn president, as well as the only dad on the board. It bodes well for me and has done so for the past couple of years since I won the custody battle.

  As I reach the intersection where the main road and school parking lot meet, I watch Journey Milan, formerly known as Journey Quinn, peel out of the lot with my niece, Parker in tow. The questions have risen. Where is Brett? Why did he send Parker to a school event with Journey Quinn of all people, and why wouldn’t he tell me or ask me to take Parker, knowing I’d already be there? I could call my little brother and rip into him, or I can follow Miss Journey to wherever the hell she’s taking Parker. “I’m helping Brett out,” she said.

  No. Something is off.

  “Where are we going now?” Hannah groans. I took a left when I should have taken a right.

  “I want to make sure Parker gets home all right,” I respond, while trying to hold my focus on Journey’s taillights. I don’t want to get too close or she might see I’m following her. Can’t have that.

  “You are following the woman you just kissed in the school parking lot where you oddly assumed children’s eyes shouldn’t be, and it’s so you can make sure Parker gets home all right?”

  “Hannah. Do you know that woman, Journey?” I ask, huffing with frustration.

  “She looks similar to Mr. Quinn’s other daughter, Melody. Plus, she’s with Parker and Melody and Brett are pretty much dating now, so … this is too complicated to figure out.”

  “How do you know any of this? No one said anything to you about the two of them dating. Where are you getting your information?”

  “You’re getting too close to her Jeep. She will recognize the truck,” Hannah continues.

  If I don’t suffer from blood pressure issues before I turn forty, it will be a literal miracle. I step on the brake, acknowledging my tween might be correct this time. “I asked you a question.”

  “The answer is grandma, and even if she didn’t outright tell me they are dating, it’s a little obvious by the way they stare into each other’s eyes like they’re hypnotized or something.”

  I guess I haven’t noticed the gazing looks, which is better for everyone involved. Brett has been slowly beginning the wooing process of his old high school crush, but I wasn’t aware it had surpassed the flirtatious looks stage. Usually, that lasts about three months with Brett. Then, when he feels he has dealt enough longing stares, he might ask for her number.

  “Interesting,” I reply.

  “Not really. Grandma said they liked each other in high school. So, technically, it’s old news.”

  Why am I still asking questions or hearing my ex-wife come out of my flesh and blood’s mouth?

  “Did you finish your math homework before we left for the bake sale?” It’s a brilliant way to change the subject and probably start the second battle round of this twenty-minute drive.

  “How could I? You said we had to leave when I was halfway through. You know, so you could be at the bake sale a half hour early to set up with all the moms.” I hear another eye-roll. Hannah hates that I’m on the PTA. I guess I could have called it quits last year after everything with the divorce settled, but I didn’t want it to look like it was just a court-con, and I wasn’t hating the evening events with the dozen women who have a desire for attention when their husbands aren’t looking. I never crossed a line, but a little flirting hurt no one. Plus, I get what I want with the PTA. It’s a win-win situation.

  “Great, well I asked you to bring it to the school so you could finish it while I was setting up the event. So, there’s that, but you can either do it when we get home or wake up an hour early tomorrow morning. Either way, you’ll be tired tomorrow, so it’s your burden to bear now.”

  A quiet hiss tells me she’s done speaking for the rest of the ride, and it’s probably for the best. I lost track of Journey’s Jeep two street lights ago, but I’m fairly positive she was heading to The Barrel House, where Brett has been spending late nights helping the Quinn family pick up the pieces after Harold passed away. I haven’t been as much help, I suppose, but as it is, I’m hardly able to manage my daily schedule with Hannah. I sent Mrs. Quinn a card and flowers, but they probably all think I’m a dick for missing the funeral, but custody rules demanded I drive Hannah three hours south to meet Kristy for her forty-eight-hour bi-weekly visitation rights.

  I enter The Barrel House from the truck entrance, hoping to avoid a run-in with Journey. Maybe I can just spy from across the lot that Parker arrived in one piece. With a flick of my headlights to hide my existence, I watch the exchange of Journey lifting Parker out of her back seat and handing her to Brett. They’re goodbye is quick and Journey leaves the parking lot as fast as she likely pulled in.

  I flash my headlights back on and pull around to the few empty parking spots. “Come inside with me for a minute,” I tell Hannah.

  I hear her head hit the back of the seat. “Seriously, are you trying to torture me tonight? You just said I have to finish my math homework and we’re just making random stops now before we can go home.”

  “I told you to bring your work to the school. You ignored me and I don’t owe you an explanation for our stop. Get out of the truck and come inside with me for a minute. Please.”

  I’m not sure what I did to make Hannah hate me over the last two years; if it’s because of the divorce I didn’t cause, or that she has teenage hormones raging through her body, but she’s making things tough as of late.

  She stomps behind me, her hideous two-million-dollar Ugg boots clunking every inch of the way. The back door is unlocked, and I usher Hannah through, finding Brett holding Parker, who is slouched over his shoulder half asleep, and Melody, Journey’s angelic sister.

  “Dude,” I bellow, announcing my entrance as if they didn’t see me bolt through the door. “Why didn’t you have me bring Parker tonight. You knew I would be at the school anyway.” As the words are spewing from my mouth, I realize I’m more than likely offending Melody whose sister was nice enough to volunteer her time tonight. Something must have been in it for Journey. I don’t know anyone who would volunteer for a night at a PTA event without a child involved.

  “Oh,” Melody says, slapping the air as if what she’s about to say will be a joke. “Journey needs a distraction at the moment, and she’s taken a liking to Parker. We thought it might be good for them both tonight.”

  We. Hannah was right.

  I cross my a
rms over my chest and step to the side. “So, what’s this ‘we’ thing? You didn’t want to share the news?”

  “Dad, don’t be a jerk,” Hannah says, swatting me in the arm.

  I’m about to snap at Hannah for hitting me when I notice how red Melody’s cheeks are. She’s staring down at the ground, avoiding any form of eye contact. I embarrassed her. Brett releases an exasperated sigh. “Bro, things are uh—new. Take it easy, okay?”

  “New?” I ask with a stifled laugh. “Weren’t you two in love with each other back in high school or some shit?”

  “Bro, language, come on,” Brett says, pointing at Parker.

  “Do you girls want to see what I found in the back of the store today?” Melody asks Parker and Hannah.

  Parker perks up and shimmies out of Brett’s grip and Hannah shrugs but follows Melody as she walks into the storefront.

  “What’s going on? Why didn’t you at least tell me someone else was taking Parker tonight? I didn’t recognize Journey, and it made me nervous as hell to see her with some random chick.”

  “You didn’t recognize Journey? Haven’t you seen her over the last month?” Brett asks.