Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Hemlock
I don't stick out like a sore thumb sitting alone. There are several people in the bar that seem just as unapproachable as I am. What does make me stand out is the fact that I haven't been seen around here as often as the others. I'm the stranger, the outcast, the ripple in the pond that makes people curious.
I knew I was going to be put in a position I didn't want to be in when the man and woman started arguing and the woman looked at me like I was her saving grace. I'm no one's savior and getting hit on by a woman in a rocky relationship while her angry partner witnessed it would draw more attention than I'm already garnering.
Sitting at the bar closer to the bartender seems like a better choice, but when she looks up and notices me, a wide smile on her face, I think this might not be the best approach, either.
Just like the other day when I arrived, the elderly woman was behind the bar. An hour into my observation, the younger woman arrived.
Formulating a plan to get more information is proving more difficult than I thought. We're inching up on evening on a Saturday night and there doesn't seem to be an influx of customers, a shield that would make it easier for me to slip into the back and try to gather some intel.
How is Tommy Wilkinson keeping this place open with only a handful of customers at any given time? If Ace's speculations are correct, then this place is a front for more nefarious business and the customer count doesn't even matter.
Noticing me, she halts the paring knife in her grip. "Need another beer?"
What I need is to be left the fuck alone.
My scowl deepens, but instead of bothering me further, she holds her smile and continues to cut the limes on her tray.
I watch her fingers work, noticing how unevenly she makes the cuts. Knife skills are one of my specialties, making it clear that although she's working as a bartender now, it hasn't always been what she does. She'd be more efficient if that were the case.
Watching her calms that raging part inside of me inexplicably, and I drill my eyes to the side of her face, wondering what it means. A sense of calm only comes when I'm feeding those demons inside of me, but she isn't whimpering under the tip of my blade. She is merely existing ten or so feet from me.
I hate her for it. The calm makes me feel out of control rather than making me feel stable like it would for most people.
My thumb picks at the label on my beer, a habit that might seem like a nervous reaction for those around who might be attuned to certain behaviors, but it's the only thing keeping me grounded—the rolling of the paper as it falls apart under my attention.
When she cuts into another lime and the juice squirts into her face, her laughter circles me like billowing smoke from a campfire. I know, just like the scent of ash would stick to my clothes in nature, I'm going to end up leaving this bar tonight, taking that chuckle with me.
It's another reason for me to hate her.
I hate happy people. The smiling, the laughing, the wanting everyone around them to be happy, and formulating ways to make that happen when someone doesn't react the way they expect them to. It's sickening to me.
It's the main reason I left New Mexico the first chance I got.
It's when she turns to grab a hand towel that the mask slips a little. That perfect top lip of hers curls in disgust, and it makes me wonder just how different we really are. Maybe she's got demons too, and she's just better at hiding them than I am.
That smile of hers is back in place once the towel is pulled away, but when I look just a little harder, I can see some of the shadows left behind in her eyes.
Or maybe I'm just wanting to find some darkness in her because it would make my job easier.
Is it a guilty conscience putting that gloom in her look? Does she know things she wishes she didn't? Is she stuck between a rock and a hard place? Is she a victim of this place?
Or is she part of the machine that's trafficking women?
Can she be both?
Would that even matter to me at the end of the day?
I trace a calloused finger over the top line of my lip as I continue to watch her, wondering just how to approach this situation, since sneaking around isn't looking possible. I hate the idea of getting close to anyone. Although using someone doesn't bother me, I'd much rather it be on my terms with a higher possibility of controlling the situation.