Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(8)

Hot tears stab the backs of my eyes as reality sinks in that I’m not going to see a dime for this entire week’s pay. All of it gone because I couldn’t hold my temper in for just three more fucking hours. I need that money. I’m not set to get paid for my new job until two weeks from now, and I needed this paycheck to hold me over until then. But even though I feel the walls of regret for my impulsive lash-out closing in on me, I won’t let him see me break.

I spin around on my heel and practically sprint away, while trying to ignore the shit that spews out of Sean’s mouth as I go. “Yeah, go on. Get out of here, you crazy bitch!”

My cheeks burn with fury, humiliation, and shock at what I just did as I make my way to the back room. I hurry across the cramped space and over to the employee shelves, snatching up my sweatshirt, keys, and cell phone. My hands are shaking, making me nearly drop everything before I can get a better handle on it. I need to get out of here. Now. As soon as I walk out the door, I nearly barrel into Vicky.

“Oh, honey, I feel awful!” she says, her eyes wide.

I shake my head. The last thing I want is for her to blame herself. “Don’t worry about it.”

Vicky yanks me into a hug, and I pat her awkwardly on the back. We’ve always worked well together, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends, and we definitely never hung out outside of work. “It’s fine,” I tell her again before strategically pulling away. I know she’s just being nice, but I really need to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.

“Here,” she says, digging into her back pocket before shoving some wrinkled bills at me. “Take my tips.”

I immediately shake my head and shove her hand away. “I’m not taking your money, Vicky.”

The blonde looks like she’s ready to cry. “Please? It’s my fault he fired you and is being an ass about your pay.”

I give her a small strained smile. “You got kids at home to feed. Really, I’ll be fine,” I lie as I push her hand away once more.

She sighs and stuffs the money back in her pocket. “Take care of yourself, honey,” she tells me.

“You too.”

I sidestep past her and hurry to walk across the bar, keeping my head held up. When Sean gives me another “Get the fuck out” shouted at my back, I flip him off, wishing I could chuck another beer bottle at him.

Trembling with emotions and the hot anger still pumping through me, I shove the door open and walk outside, taking in a shaky breath as I look back at the place I’ve been working for the last seven years. Since I was twenty-one, I’ve been coming in here, serving the same tables and the same drinks, and what do I have to show for it?

Nothing.

No savings, no friends, not even a fucking goodbye cake. Just a “Get the fuck out” from a shithole boss who turned this place into a shitty bar and wouldn’t even give me my last shitty check.

Fuck.

With tears stinging the backs of my gray eyes, I turn and head around the brick building to where my moped is parked in the back lot for employees. As soon as I get to it, the sound of thunder makes me pick up my head, and I see storm clouds rolling in. “Great. Just fucking great,” I grumble as I shove my helmet over my head and get on, an anxious tremble starting in my hands.

Revving the engine, I nudge the kickstand back and turn the handlebar, walking my moped forward for a bit before I peel out of the lot. The air changes as I drive down the freeway, filling with the scent of impending rain. I kick the gear up and go faster, weaving through the traffic of Sandpiper, Oregon, as I rush to get home.

My neighborhood is just outside of the city, so even though there’s a commute, it’s not as busy, which I like. The street is simple, lined with outdated houses filled with families and elderly people.

My house was left to me when my parents died. It was supposed to be their dream house. They bought it cheap, and my dad spent his weekends here, slowly fixing the place up bit by bit, which is why I’m still in over my head with needed repairs. It’s still a fixer-upper, even after all these years. Not just because I can’t afford to hire anyone to renovate it, but because this was my dad’s passion project. It just feels wrong to have someone else do it. So I spend most of my off days watching YouTube videos for how to lay tile, scrape a popcorn ceiling, or fix a leaky faucet. It’s slow going because I’m shit at it, but at least it keeps me occupied.

I pull up to my driveway and park my moped beneath the carport. Lightning and thunder clash above me, and I grit my teeth, hurrying to my front door. I slam it behind me, probably a little too hard, but storms always make me edgy.

I leave my helmet, keys, and shoes by the door as I flip on the lights. I go through the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, making sure to close all the heavy blackout curtains to block out the lightning that I know is coming, and then switch on the TV and pull up an app that will play loud rock music to drown out the thunder.

By the time I’m finished, I’m breathing heavy, the scent of rain still somehow filling my nostrils. I grab the lighter that I keep in my kitchen drawer and light some floral scented candles. Only then am I able to take a full deep breath without feeling like there’s a boa constrictor around my chest.

I smell like a bar, but I’ll take that over the storm, and I’m too emotionally exhausted to shower just yet. Slumping onto my thrift store couch, I hold my head in my hands, my fingers digging through my purple tresses as I massage my scalp. My mom used to do this when I was sick or upset. She’d just let me lay my head in her lap while she’d run her fingers deftly through my hair, and it was like she just caressed all the tension away. It didn’t matter what was wrong—a shitty day at school, the stomach flu, or a blow up over my lack of impulse control and violent tendencies. She’d still let me lie right there on her legs while she silently comforted me.