Closing the door behind me, I sank into the floor and knocked my head back, loosening my reins. “How the fuck am I going to get twelve thousand macs in thirty days?”
That “something stronger” sounded good right about now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The thing about stampeding into the town tavern with heavy feet, looking as if the devil himself had come for my flesh, and after being gone for three years, was that the whispers started immediately.
Crispy clothes, mud-splattered hair, and a catastrophic exhaustion tugging my shoulders caused enough of a stir to get nearly the whole place to turn around and gawk. I had the decency to change out of the skirt I was wearing, considering the filth clinging to it added ten pounds, but the rest of me remained an entire mess.
I’d left Honey Brooke three months before my twenty-first year, so I never actually drank at our local tavern. The old and rustic Rabbit’s Foot reeked of beer. Something possibly defined as music filled the air, terrible pitches, slurred words, and not an ounce of harmony. Stomping feet and clinking mugs fought for my attention. Judging by the chaos of this place, I knew I wouldn’t mind it. Ineededit.
The dim-lit cedar bar called my name. The lone open seat. Social isn’t one of the words I’d describe myself as; however, something about the unpredictability of drunken chaos felt unnaturally beautiful. And when my gaze caught Goldie’s honey-filled eyes staring back at me, I exhaled. Her gray-highlightedblack ringlets peeked out from her ponytail, framing her tanned cheeks.
As my lips tightened into a grin, I slumped into a chair—hot mess incarnate.
Goldie walked to my seat, picking up a glass and frosting it with her hand. From her touch, ice dusted around the curves like powdered sugar.
Some people have magic in their blood, some don’t. Most of those with it didn’t live in places like Honey Brooke. And those of us who did live here, did so for a reason. There was me, who couldn’t train my own magic to save myself. But then there were those like Goldie, who never spoke of her past or where she came from. As far as we knew, Honey Brooke was her home. She used her magic for drinks at her tavern and to keep fruits and vegetables fresh at her market.
“You’ve seen better days.” One of the reasons Goldie remained a favorite townie of mine: she never asked questions. No “Where have you been?” or “Are you in a relationship?” or “Do you have your shit together yet because you look like you lost it ten miles back?” Not even a second glance.
Gods.What better way to be greeted than being told you look as bad as you feel? “Good to see you, too, Goldie.”
A soft chuckle. “What’s it going to be, then?”
Before I could answer, from my peripheral, a hazy image of dark-blond hair blurred from the bathroom—the very last person I wanted to see. The heat of Goldie’s attention burned my skin as she followed my stare.
“Right.” She nodded. “Something strong.”
I laughed at her pity. “Put it on his tab.”
Without arguing, she did. Or she gave it to me on the house. Pity perk.
Underneath the bar, my feet bounced, and each time the muscles in my thighs ached. Nobody told me existing would be such an exercise.
I hated exercise.
Within only two days, I’d gone from running a cute little flower boutique with my best friend to dodging chicken flames and raccoon shit. A beautiful transformation, truthfully. This had to be the punch line of a bad joke, except it was just me—getting punched.
“Reece?” An old, creaky voice called. “Reece McCarthen?”
Gods.Cringing involuntarily, I turned to my left, and sitting in a chair with his tucked-in tunic sat Harvey Stiller, my father’s oldest and only friend. His aged, dark-brown skin wrinkled around his eyes as he focused on me, his gaze flickering over my face, blinking too many times as if trying to piece together if I really sat there or if I was a mirage.
“Harvey,” I said sitting up, offering a genuine smile. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”
He shook his head. “You must be back for the sanctuary then, I guess?”
I nodded while Goldie brought him a paper sack of food; he must’ve ordered to-go for himself and his wife, Ruth. Watching him grab it, his hands were calloused and scathed from years of fishing. He and my father used to go at least once a week; it was the only time my father got out of thehouse. Eventually, I stopped caring that he’d spend time with Harvey but not me. Ruth always made me cookies.
“Is that Laken boy running it now or no? Chester didn’t say nothing, just up and left.” Harvey frowned, hesitating. “But the boy seems to know what he’s doing.”
“Laken? Oh, no, absolutely not.” I laughed. “He was just watching over it until I got into town.” Laken running it… the idea was absurd.
“Well, that’s great.” Harvey nodded for an extra moment as if trying to convince himself his words were true. “Good to see ya around, ya know. I’d love to catch up, but if I don’t get Mrs. Stiller her food, I’m afraid I won’t be seeing the sun tomorrow.” He laughed, hoisting the food into his arms. “But… I do have some of your father’s stuff at home if ya want to come by tomorrow and get it.”
Not really. “Sure, that works for me.”
He smiled, his cheeks squashed and plump. “Alright, I’ll see ya then, Reece.”
