Page 68 of Heart of Stone
The smell of sour milk hits me as I open the back door. "Jesus."
Paper towels, cleaning spray, and determination–that's all I've got right now. I lean into the car, scrubbing at pink-tinged upholstery, trying not to gag.
Movement across the street catches my eye.
Hawk stands on his porch, illuminated by the party lights. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders as he stares in my direction.
Our eyes meet.
For a moment, I think he might come over. That he might help, like he has so many times before.
Instead, he turns, heading for his bike.
The rumble of his engine is louder than the music as he rides away, leaving me alone with my pink-stained car and sleeping kids.
"Right," I mutter, turning back to my task. "This is what I wanted. To get rid of all the people I can’t rely on."
I scrub harder at a particularly stubborn spot, ignoring the burning in my eyes.
As I finish cleaning, the baby monitor crackles with the sound of vomiting.
Rushing inside, I find Abby leaning over the side of her bed, missing the bucket I put beside it just for this.
“Oh, baby.” I sweep her up, hurrying her into the bathroom as she begins to cry.
I want to weep alongside her.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror–I look exhausted, haggard.
I look like a single mom whose just spent the last three days in the hospital with her kid.
You've done hard things alone before,I silently tell myself as I hold Amy over the toilet, murmuring reassuring things to her.You can do it again.
I have to. I don’t have any other choice.
18
HAWK
Iam three bottles deep into trying to forget the look on Andi's face when Ginger finds me.
"Really?" She kicks an empty bottle aside. "This is your solution?"
I can't go home. Can't face the emptiness of the house, see her struggling with the kids across the street.
So I'd come to our bar. Owned by one crochety old-timer by the name of Devil, the bar has stood in this town for longer than the town existed. If a health inspector had dared to walk across the threshold, the place would have been shut down years ago. Instead, the bar—simply called ‘Devil’s’ because it has no official name—still stands, slinging alcohol at all hours of the day and night, and serving food that tastes solely of grease and salt.
"Fuck off," I growl, pouring myself another whiskey.
"Charming." She perches on the bar seat beside me, watching me drain the shot. "You know what your problem is?"
"Don't care."
"Your problem," she continues as if I hadn't spoken, "is that you're so busy being sergeant-at-arms that you forgot how to be human."
I snort. "That right?"
"Yeah." Tank's voice joins in as he and Axel appear in the doorway. "That's right."
