Prologue
This isthe 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 that, 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.
