Page 66 of When the Storm Breaks
I force myself to turn, to reach for the door, but the second I pull it open, the cold air slams into me like a reality check. I step out anyway, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m leaving something behind.
Something that, for better or for worse, is already waiting for me to come back.
Chapter 22
Haiyden
This is a shitshow.
We’re at peak, and nothing’s running smoothly. The air is thick with body heat, the scent of spilled liquor and sweat clinging to every surface. Every table, every seat, every corner of the bar is packed. Drinks slosh over rims. Chairs scrape. Voices rise over each other in a discordant drone.
It’s too loud, too crowded, and there’s too much movement.
And then there’s Tanner.
I like the kid—I do. But tonight, he’s fucking killing me.
I watch, for the fourth time in twenty minutes, as he fumbles another drink order—hands jerking, trying to balance two beers and a cocktail on the same tray. His elbow clips a shot glass, and I already know what’s going to happen before it does.
The crack of glass shattering on the floor makes my teeth clench.
I exhale through my nose, fingers digging into the edge of the counter. Spilled drinks. Wrong tables. Glassware piling up.
I’ve been seeing his mistakes before they happen, stepping in tofix them before they drag the whole night down.
I try to cut him some slack. He’s not the only one off his game tonight.
But if this keeps up, we’ll be underwater in another hour.
Normally, I thrive on nights—the rhythm, the mindless repetition, the way I can keep my head down and work.
But tonight, I’m counting the seconds until people start checking their phones for rides, deciding they’ve had enough of this place and moving on.
Somewhere that’s not my fucking problem.
“Taaannnnner!”
The high-pitched call snaps me out of it.
I glance toward the front corner of the bar, near the door. A table of loud, drunk women—mid-forties, maybe older—wave him down like they’re at a damn concert.
They’ve been camped there for hours, knocking back wine like it’s water.
I saw Tanner floating around earlier, soaking up their attention. He got their first few rounds in, flirted shamelessly, then ditched them completely.
I blow out a breath, roll my shoulders back, and walk over, throwing on a charm I don’t feel.
“What can I get you ladies?”
The one who called for Tanner turns toward me, her eyes dragging down my chest, clearly assessing.
That familiar itch creeps up the back of my skull—the instinct to shut this down before it gets worse.
“You’re not Tanner,” she slurs. But her tone shifts instantly, syrupyand flirtatious.
Her smile wobbles as she steadies herself on the table, like even sitting up is a challenge.
Fucking great. Just what I need tonight.
