Page 14 of Counting Quarters

Chapter Six

Blaire

Grammyslammedthepots and pans around in the sink while she washed them, as she always did when she was in a mood. Mom and I shared a silent look across the small kitchen table and she mouthed, “not it.” Before I could object, she stood up and mumbled something about going to the pharmacy she co-owned as the town's Herbalist, then disappeared behind the front door.

Grammy just shook her head.

I never knew what kind of mood I'd find her in these days. Between her work with Sheriff Abbot, the secret meetings she held with the Quarters, and the lack of business we had from Mayor Douglas' tourist ban, she always seemed to be in some kind of sour state of mind.

Unfortunately, so was I. My ability to feel others’ emotions only heightened it.

“You need to turn down the beds in room three. And clean the bathroom in five again. It's filthy.”

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that she didn't mean to direct her anger at me. I just happened to be standing in the eye of the storm.

“No one has stayed in room three in months. Why do we need to turn the beds?”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Grammy slowly turned to level me with a look, green eyes practically glowing with fury.

“Don't question me. Just do it.”

She wasn't the only one in a bad mood, though. I was tired of being pushed around by her just for the hell of it.

“I'll do the beds, but I'm not cleaning the bathroom in five. I've done it three times already, and each time it's not good enough for you.”

Her body turned the rest of the way, her stance growing wider with the prospect of a fight.

She wanted someone to pick on, and I wasn't going to back down like I always did. I was tired of being on cleanup duty while she kept me out of the loop, yet claimed I held some important role in whatever she was plotting.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said,” I began bravely, climbing to my feet to give myself the height advantage. She stood at least six inches shorter than me. “I'm not your bitch. If you want it done a certain way, you can do it yourself.”

A growl rumbled deep inside her chest as she took three steps toward me, completely unaffected by my towering stance.

“You would do well to remember not to bite the hand that feeds you,” she warned, her voice low and threatening.

I looked into Grammy’s eyes and felt nothing but hatred.

Was it mine or hers?

She was right. I was a prisoner, and she was the warden. As long as I stayed under her roof, I’d never have any freedom. A feral, frustrated growl, louder than hers, escaped my lips before I could catch it. That gift inside me—the one I hated so much—purred awake.

“I can't stay here.”

I didn't care if I had to sleep in the alley behind the motel; I couldn't stay under this roof any longer. Under her thumb.

Grammy sneered. “Where do you think you're going to go, girl?”

My gaze swung to the bulletin board through the open door Mom left out of, to the flier that was hung up a few days ago. And then, they found Officer Abbot, who was practically cowering in the corner, attempting to blend in with the wall. Neither of us had heard him come in, but his timing was impeccable.

Before I could give it a second thought, I pointed to him. “Your vacant apartment. I'll take it.”

His eyes widened, ping-ponging between Grammy, who had whirled around to see who I was talking to, and me, as we waited for his response.

I cut off his jumbled, declining words before they could land. “I'll pay six months’ rent up front.”

His mouth clamped shut. I knew I had him then. He'd be stupid to decline my offer, especially after what he told me about the other day. Why he needed the money.

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