kind of visit from a feral animal. One of the wine barrels that makes up the bar has huge holes in it, and old wine has leaked out onto the floor. Glass from broken bottles is strewn all over, and the wood floors and bartop have stains from whatever dark liquor sat long enough to soak into the grain.
I look around in complete awe. What the hell happened?
The question sits ready on the tip of my tongue, but when I turn to Flint and Alder to voice it, my face falls and the question dies on my lips. Neither one of them are lookin’ around in shock. They aren’t lookin’ like they can’t believe the sight of this place and what appears to be evidence of a Tasmanian devil rippin’ through their bar.
No, instead, they’re both watchin’ me.
Their intense eyes are fixed on my reaction, and I sense worry and unease in their gazes. That right there says it all. It’s not some Looney Tunes character that did this. It’s not some mystery break-in or bar fight that tore this place apart.
It was me.
Tribulation Medley strikes again.
13
“Good Lord,” I exclaim, my gray eyes swoopin’ over the space. Everywhere I look, I catch another hint of destruction, and guilt starts to pace around in my stomach like a worried daddy waitin’ for his daughter to come home from a night out.
The aftereffects of my tribulations always look a little different. When I was a kid, it was usually cryin’ kids and angry teachers talkin’ about tantrums or backtalk. When I got a little older, violence started to pepper the blackouts. Nothin’ major. Well...except for that one time. But it was all chalked up to anger issues, and I became very good at hidin’ that I didn’t remember a thing.
Mama helped me find a way to feel them comin’ on. She read and listened to anythin’ she could get her hands on that might help me. We developed a breathin’ technique, and she gave me my necklace. It worked, and by the time I got to college, I hadn’t had an episode in over three years. I thought I’d outgrown them all.
I was dead wrong.
I toe some broken glass beneath my boot, emotions and memories bubblin’ up in my gut, before I whirl around on the pair behind me. I look at them with accusation in my eyes as I cross my arms in front of me. I did this, and they tried to hide it from me. “I thought you said you talked me down?”
Flint scratches the back of his neck. “Well, we did. Eventually. This was before we managed to.”
“No harm done. That’s what you said,” I relay to him before I swing my arms around in a circle like a crazy person. “This sure looks like a hell of a lot of harm done to me, Flint!”
He cringes a bit at my voice, and I’ll admit, I did get up there in octaves, but that’s beside the point.
“You lied,” I tell them both. “Lyin’ is a sin.”
Alder chuckles. “Not to us. Demons, remember?”
I wave a dismissive hand at him. “Don’t pretend like this is no big deal. You should’ve told me.” An ache starts behind my sternum. I feel horrible. I trashed their bar, and for some reason, they’re more worried about how I’m going to take the news rather than be pissed that I’ve made matchsticks out of the interior of their business.
Alder shrugs, completely unremorseful. “We didn’t want you to feel bad. And it’s not like this is entirely your fault. Besides, it should’ve been cleaned up and put back together by now. We told Mickey to take care of it with the imps. Clearly, he didn’t follow directions.”
“Mickey is the I am Groot bartender, right?”
Alder smirks. “Right.”
“Well, it wasn’t Mickey’s responsibility. Or these...what did you say?”
“Imps,” he repeats smoothly.
“Or these imps. Wait...what are imps?” But as soon as the question is out of my mouth, I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t wanna know right now.”
I turn around and snap the hair tie off my wrist, and then bundle up my long blonde and green locks up in a high twisty bun on the crown of my head. Walkin’ across the bar, I’m careful not to step on too much glass and spread it all over the place, but there’s nothin’ for it right now. My favorite cowboy boots are probably gonna have to be tossed after this.