Page 22 of Queen of Ruin

Leaving her somehow feels worse after my dream and seeing her like that. Is she going to be alright? It’s been a few days so that surely means she’s past any dangerous turns or reactions to her injuries, right?

I hope so.

Taking the bus to work, I head inside ‘The Crown’ to a cacophony of laughs and cheers.

“He’s not dead!”

“Thought you’d finally taken a day off!”

“How sick were you? You were in here a few months ago with that flu, I don’t wanna catch it!”

“Can’t believe you missed last night. You’ve got so much to catch up on!”

The warm cheers of my regulars are a grounding warmth in an otherwise confusing life and it doesn’t take long for me to throw myself into serving and pleasing every single one of them. Drinks pour, music flows, the sports on the television ignites a brief argument between a handful of patrons that’s solved when the losing team orders shots, and my staff berates me for vanishing without a word.

It’s normal.

Ordinary.

I haven’t felt this grounded since the night before Amber ended up in my car. With the mystery surrounding who she is, what happened to the crime scene, and what happened to her, I quickly forgot that my life still existed. Despite Mindy’s terrible visit, nothing is quite as grounding as the job I love.

Is this what my life is going to be like now? Caught between Amber at home, and the mystery surrounding her, and my regular life here where everyone looks at me with fondness and love? I’ve never done much in my life to be proud of, but this was the start of turning myself into someone better. No drugs. No risk to life. No losing weeks and months at a time chasing a high that would never be as good as the one previous.

I cleaned myself up, turned it all around, and scraped my way up to manager in a bar owned by someone in another country, which basically leaves me in charge.

Can I keep all of this and help Amber get her life back?

Two hours into my shift, I text Amber to make sure she’s doing okay and take a quick break in the backroom, guzzling water like I haven’t drunk in years.

“Boss?” Mags, one of my loyal bartenders, pokes her head through the door and waves at me.

“What’s up?”

“Uhm…”

The strange look of concern on her face makes my stomach twist and I lower my water bottle as she jerks her head backward. Water clings to my lower lip as Mags edges into the room and speaks in a hushed voice.

“There’s a cop here looking for you. Should I send him through?”

9

VALENTINA

Diego leaves and despite my best efforts, I fall back asleep after popping a couple of painkillers and chasing them with some cool, clear water.

I don’t dream.

What rest I do get is like turning off the power to my mind and time passes in a blink. A blink that ends up leaving me somehow more exhausted than before, in the same amount of pain, and just a different light outside the window.

Hunger wakes me this time and I roll over in the bed, biting back a wince as every aching muscle and healing laceration tugs at their stitches like they’re threatening to tear themselves open. Tiredness aches tight across my temple after a simple movement, and the urge to give in to that tiredness and sink back to sleep is painfully tempting.

But I need something to eat and my hunger pangs are on par with the rest of my pain. Groaning, I throw back the covers and pull my aching body from the bed, borrow another of Diego’s shirts, and wander slowly through his apartment to the kitchen. Choosing a microwavable burger from the fridge, I toss it in the microwave and lean back against the kitchen table while it cooks.

Round and round it goes, spinning without a care in the world. The longer I watch it, the more a sense of urgency develops in my chest. It’s similar to the urgency I felt when we were back on that road and I remembered some of what I felt when getting into Diego’s car.

Urgency.

Like I’m supposed to be somewhere or doing something.