Page 11 of Eternally Devoted

I’m right.

If they wanted me, they’d have asked me out by now. One or both.

But neither has.

After taking my booth supplies back in the barn, I head inside, snagging a late lunch while I check my list of deliveries. Threetimes a week I make deliveries for those who order from my website, and today is one of those days.

I only have three stops, but one is on the edge of town, so I load my van with a few flats of jam and head to the farthest stop first. With my windows down and 90s music roaring from my speakers, I enjoy the fifteen-minute drive to the edge of town on Old Soulsby Road. The road, lining a ravine, drops down at least fifty feet, to a largely desolate area. Cacti and succulents are everywhere, and though I’m still in Bluebell, it always feels like the desert out here. My van’s worn axles squeal during the tight turns on the country road, and just as I’m about to check the address one last time, I spot a truck pulled over in the upcoming turnout.

It’s not rare for someone else to be out here, as this is the road that connects Bluebell to our sister town, Oakcreek.

But the mere presence of another human isn’t what has my nostrils flaring, dirt flying up around my wheels and clouding my side mirrors, as I stomp the brakes with all my might. My eyes still on the man, I reach over the console, grabbing whatever I can, not even fully pulled off the road. Within seconds, my door is open and my feet are on the ground.

The man, who has yet to notice me, continues to do the thing that made me stop.

There’s a beautiful golden dog in the bed of the truck, hooked to a rope leash. He yanks the leash, driving his fist in the dog’s back each time the animal refuses to move toward the tailgate.

“Get the fuck out!” he screams, whaling on the dog repeatedly as he struggles to drag him out of the truck bed. “Get out of the truck, you fucking asshole!” he shouts. The dog curls into the plastic bed liner, whimpering, clearly scared to get out, but equally scared to stay. Poor baby.

“Hey!” I shout, closing the distance between us with each aggressive stomp of my boots, my heart hammering. No onetreats animals like this. There is no acceptable reason for it. And there is no forgiveness in it, either.

The man turns to face me, sweat glistening on his forehead, malice pinching his dark eyes.

“Mind your business, you dumb bitch,” he shouts, rewrapping the end of the rope around his hand, giving it another hard yank. The dog slides forward in the back of the bed, his nails grating, coughing and gasping from how tight the rope holds his throat. The poor baby can hardly breathe. “Get the fuck out!” he screams again, this time coming to the side of the truck bed to lean over, punching the dog in the head with his closed fist.

No, no, no.

No.

My ears burn, the corners of my vision grow dark as a familiar energy sweeps over me. “Do not touch that dog again,” I warn. It’s in all of our best interests if he walks away now. Unstoppable darkness creeps up my legs, searing through my veins. I know what’s about to happen if he doesn’t listen.

If he leaves now, I can channel it or defuse it. Or at least try. Theitbeing the all-consuming, blinding wave of energy that possesses me in times like these.

“Sir,” I mutter, unmoving while somehow also gaining on him, the world around me slowly twisting into a muted, dark blur. “Do not touch that dog again.”

With beady eyes pinched, he faces me, thin lips twisted in defiance. With our gazes locked, he raises his closed fist, and hits the dog again. He yelps so loudly my spine straightens.

I warned him.

I really did.

I didn’t want this to happen again. And definitely not like this.

But that doesn’t matter now.

This is happening.

My arm burns with foreboding; my hands throb in anticipation. Anger continues to cloud my sight, causing the scene to taper, leaving the dog beater’s face in a tiny pinhole of clarity.

Maroon, scarlet, crimson—so many shades of red fog my vision as I swing, bringing the jar of Strawbarb preserves down on his head, over and over. Preserves go everywhere.

It’s my food service jar, which means it’s big. Heavy. Full of carefully cooked fruits, sweetened with sifted and measured sugar, stirred to perfection, heat sealed with precision, the jar shatters in my palm, bits of jam-coated glass flying like confetti. Still, a large portion of the jar remains intact, and I use it to continue punishing the man.

Only when I succumb to my chest full of flames do I relent and drop to my knees, palms pressed to the dirt as I work on steadying my breath. After a moment gasping on my knees, my senses return, and I’m able to see beyond fifty shades of red.

Chest heaving, my hands pressed firmly into the unmoving ground in an effort to regulate my senses, knees dug into the sun-warmed gravel beneath me, I glance up at the yellow dog standing before me. With his wet nose, he nudges my shoulder and cheek until I get to my feet.

“Poor baby,” I croon, a soft breeze moving through, kissing my skin, damp with sweat, leaving me chilled. Unease shudders all around us as I smooth my hand along the dog’s soft fur, leaving a streak of red along his back, contrasting his golden hue. My palm aches, so I smooth it against my leg, trying to clear it of dirt and debris, to assess the damage. Only, I can’t figure out which streaks of ruby are jam or blood, and my vision hasn’t quite settled yet.

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