Chapter 3
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.
Ace said I'd have to think on my feet, and as far as I can see right now, maybe getting close to her is the only way. It's the quickest way to find out if she's a part of what's going on here.
Tommy Wilkinson wouldn't allow me to get close to one of his toys, would he?
Although I've all but made up my mind about what needs to be done, I just can't seem to pull the trigger.
I open my mouth a half dozen times to speak to her, but small talk and flirting are so fucking far out of my wheelhouse that my pulse changes in a way I hate more than the chaos that's normally swirling around in my head.
It keeps me silent. It keeps me watching her like a creep who's more likely going to end up being escorted out of here with a warning never to return than a phone number and the chance to use her to figure out why this place would end up on Nathan Adair's list.
There's always a chance that there's nothing criminal going on here at all, but Ace advised that ICE wants the surrounding thirty-five to forty miles around our base camp to be as free from the criminal element as possible. I, along with others involved with this new organization, have a list of places, some on Nathan's list and others we've been made aware of through snitches, that need to be eliminated before we can get to the real business of shutting down as many domestic sex trafficking rings as we can.
With these places cleared, we can breathe a little better and operate with as little suspicion as possible.
I jolt, hating that I let myself get lost in my head enough that the slap of the beer bottle on the bar top causes me to startle.
I didn't ask for another beer, but instead of growling at her, which is my first instinct, I give her a nod and slide the half-empty, warm one I've been mutilating the label on across to her.
As far as smiles go, hers is really pretty—straight, white teeth, proving that at least her early life must've had someone who at least cared about her appearance in it. In my time with Cerberus, we came across so many people who had bad lives as children. They were neglected, and that sometimes made them easier to take and abuse. We also came into contact with very important people who were also in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up victimized.
"Thank you," I tell her, the words coming a little too late to seem natural.
But instead of calling me on it, she simply dips her head before grabbing a bowl of lemons.
It's going to take a lot more than just sitting at the bar and staring at her to be able to come back here and not raise the suspicions of everyone around .
Her skill with the paring knife is no better with the lemons than they were with the limes, and I fight the urge to give her directions on how to do it correctly.
"I like the silent type."
I pull my eyes from her hands when they stop moving, looking up to find her watching me.
The thrum of my pulse slows, my breaths coming a little easier as we lock eyes.
"Excuse me?"
The voice is mine. I recognize it, but the direction to speak didn't come from a command I thought of before it happened.
"I've been told I talk enough for everyone," she says with a wider smile, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. "So it doesn't bother me that you're not filling in the silence with small talk."
I sense the edge of irritation in her words, knowing there's more to it than she's letting on. Whoever has told her that in the past did it in an unkind way. It was an insult rather than her being praised, as if it were a good character trait. She annoyed someone or spoke when she was expected to stay silent.
Irritation for her rather than at her catches me by surprise. I should probably tell her whoever said that was an asshole, but I also worry she'd think I was digging too deep into the situation, and that would be suspicious.
Social interaction and knowing what to do and when to do it is fucking hard. I always seem to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. It's why I value solitude so much. I could go days, probably weeks, in utter silence, with nothing but the whispers in my head to keep me company and be just fine. Others talk out loud to themselves when they're alone to stay sane.
I give her another quick dip of my head, unsure of what else she expects from me.
Like she has done several times before, her smile widens before she goes back to cutting the lemons.
I watch her as she works, the evening ticking away. The limited sunlight that was trickling in from the handful of transom windows on the front of the bar fades out, casting shadows everywhere. A sense of familiarity embraces me, but sitting here with her has already taken the edge off the anxiety that is normally chewing on the sharp points of me, so the difference isn't as vast as it normally would be.
I spend an hour formulating a way to speak with her. Knowing I'm going to use someone for my own personal, or with this situation the organization's, gain wouldn't bother me as much, but I'm finding it nearly impossible to come up with a topic of conversation that wouldn't leave her running for the hills rather than leaning in and wanting to get to know me better .
I pull in a deep breath, well aware that I might've jumped the gun by telling Ace that I could handle situations like this.
I'm better suited for being the monster in the corner. The one who people with morals need to extract information. I can easily get what I need with the help of a knife or a strategically placed electrical current. Hell, a thick towel and a bucket of water can make some of the toughest people open their mouths and spill all their secrets.
Talking to a woman in a bar should be easy. It should be natural.
Right now, for me, it seems an impossible task, but failure isn't an option. Failure here in Tennessee means I'll no longer be connected to Cerberus at all. That connection, the one that Hound helped me establish, is the only thing keeping me from being on the same side of the law that this woman might possibly be. I'll be damned if I end up like Tommy Wilkinson and all the evil men that came before him.
Think of the devil and he shall appear. Isn't that close to the saying?
I watch, my scowl back in full force, as the man of the fucking hour slips out of the door at the opposite end of the bar from me.
Of course, he would show his face right when I was on the brink of garnering the confidence to speak with her.
She greets him with a smile, the same one she gives everyone else, not a special one, as far as I can tell. They have a short conversation on the opposite end of the bar from me before he leans in and presses a quick kiss to her temple.
I swallow down the bile that threatens to rush up my throat, uncertain why his touching her bothers me in the first place.
She disappears into the back room with him a moment later, and I use the opportunity to get the fuck out of Dodge, slapping a twenty on the bar top and making my way to my bike in the parking lot.