Chapter 8
Zara
"Because they'll never meet."
I slow blink at Randy, a regular who is grinning from ear to ear, as if he's just told the funniest joke in the world.
"Get it?"
I shake my head, my smile still in place.
He holds his hands up, facing each other in front of him. "Parallel lines run like this."
"It's a math joke," Jersey adds, but he isn't laughing either. "Why is it sad parallel lines have so much in common? Because they'll never meet."
Randy snorts another laugh, making me chuckle just by his response.
"You have to come up with a better one than that," Jersey tells the man.
"I told you after the last joke that you didn't need to cheer me up," I repeat. "I'm fine."
"Any woman who has ever said they were fine was never fine," Jersey mutters.
"I'm not your concern," I remind him, but he doesn't look any less curious about why my smiles haven't been as frequent the last couple of days.
I hate that others around me are paying so close attention to me in the first place. The concern is nice, but it's coming from men who have no business worrying about me. Billy was more concerned about everything that was going on outside of our home to even notice if I were in a bad mood.
I mistakenly thought for a brief second the other night that Owen was concerned for my safety, but as it turns out, he was just some asshole that wanted to scare the shit out of me. It probably should've scared me, but there was just something different in his eyes that made his grip on my throat more enthralling than threatening.
"How many monsters are good at math?" Randy continues, because the guy just isn't that great at reading social cues. "None if you Count Dracula."
His cackle makes me grin wider, and although I told him I wasn't upset, the laughter is actually helping some.
Jersey must see the change in me because he grins a little too.
"Another beer?" I ask Randy after he stops snorting.
I walk away when he shakes his head.
Another two hours before closing time, and just like the last three shifts I've worked, I know they're going to drag by. I know when I turn the lights off and step outside that my pulse is going to race in anticipation of him being out there again, despite not having seen hide nor hair of him since I drove away Sunday night.
It hasn't stopped me from snapping my head in the direction of every roar of a motorcycle or imagining the sound echoing around my house in the late hours of the night. I have no idea what exactly I want from Owen Clark, but it sure as hell isn't his ability to infiltrate my dreams and thoughts of him while I'm awake.
I've got no business spending my time wondering if he's found another bar to sit and scowl at, or if he found some other woman who reacted to him the way he needed in order to take action himself.
When I'm feeling strong, I know it's not normal for a man to act the way he does, but in my sleep and during moments of weakness, I long for that difference. I ache for him to take me away from this bone-deep boredom I feel, knowing it has nothing to do with Tennessee. I've been bored for most of my life. I want a little adventure in my life. I must be clinically insane for Owen to come to mind every time I ask myself what I'd rather be doing.
My mood shifts once again when I struggle to pull the overly full bag of trash from the can, barely managing to get it free before practically bending over backward. I tie the ends and replace the bag before carrying it through the door to the exit in the back.
I use the brick right outside to prop the door open, wishing, not for the first time, that Tommy would install better lighting back here. I practically have to use the sense of feel to get the lock off the trash can bin. Every bin in this part of Tennessee has one in order to keep the bears from pilfering through the trash. I feel madness creeping in as I consider the rustle in the woods that meets my ears as Owen coming to thrill me again, when there's a greater chance it's one of the fucking bears around here seeing an opportunity to pull the trash bag from my hand, rather than waiting in the darkness to see if they can get to it after I leave.
With a heightened sense of urgency, I manage to get the bin open and the bag inside, locking it back hastily. Just as I turn to go back inside, a car pulls up behind the bar, its headlights blinding me. I lift my arm in an attempt to try and see who would be coming around the back side of the bar.
The lights are quickly dimmed, but it takes several long seconds before the brightness fades from my vision.
I feel frozen in place, a hint of fear and something akin to disappointment because I know it isn't Owen. All I've ever seen him on is his motorcycle. He doesn't seem like the type of man who would lock himself away in anything that would be safe. The man is dangerous all the way around.
The back door of the bar swings open, and I watch as Tommy escorts a crying woman from the bar. Makeup smudges her face, mascara trailing down her reddened cheeks. Tommy looks damn near enraged as they approach the waiting car .
Tommy doesn't notice me until he opens the back door to the car and the driver who had to have noticed me the second he pulled up speaks to him. Tommy lifts his gaze to me, but it doesn't stop him from helping the woman into the back seat. When the door closes, he moves to lean over the passenger side door to speak with the driver before the car backs out and drives away.
Instead of walking toward me or offering me any sort of explanation for what I just witnessed, Tommy stares a hole through me for several very long seconds before turning and walking back into the bar without a word.
Unease settles inside of me as I head back into the bar, finding the narrow hallway completely empty. Tommy must've gone back into his office. I dart my eyes in that direction, wondering what the best course of action would be. Do I even have a right to ask him what the hell all that was? To see if that woman was okay? Is this one of those see-something, say-something situations?
The small handbell that Edith keeps on the counter for customers rings, pulling my focus back to my job.
Jersey holds up his empty beer bottle when I walk back into the main part of the bar, and I grab him a fresh one from the fridge on my way. I give him an easy smile, but he doesn't smile back.
"What's wrong?" I ask as I take the empty bottle and toss it into the freshly empty trash can, wincing when it thuds against the bottom.
He cranks his head to the side without a word.
My pulse kicks up when I follow his gaze and see Owen sitting at the far end of the bar.
"Your stranger is back," Jersey says. "Want me to get rid of him?"
I'm barely able to fight back a snort of laughter. Owen looks like the type of guy who could literally pick Jersey up and tie him in a knot, but the chivalry on my behalf is sort of nice.
"I can handle him," I mutter. "Let me know if you need anything else."
I walk further down, hating just how aware my body is of the way he watches me approach him.
"Beer. Bottle. Cap on."
I narrow my eyes at him, pissed that we're right back to this bullshit, the same words he said the first night I saw him in here, like he wasn't rubbing his damn erection against me the other night.
Instead of doing exactly what he wants from me, I pull a glass from the shelf under the counter and stare him down as I fill it with an inch of whiskey, plopping it down so hard in front of him that the liquid sloshes over my fingers. I maintain eye contact as I lift my hand to my mouth. I stop just short of sticking my finger in my mouth, but the plan worked because the man seems entranced with my movements.
I turn away from him, walking toward the hand sink to wash my hands. I'm not going to lick my fingers while working, especially not after taking out the trash. I probably should've washed them before serving both guys, but no one is complaining, not even Owen who isn't getting the beer he wants.
I look back over my shoulder, but his seat is empty.
"Do you need anything before I go?"
My attention is pulled from the empty spot to Tommy, who is standing not five feet from me.
"What?" I ask, more than a little distracted.
Owen is like smoke, fading into nothing so easily. My teeth dig into my lower lip when I picture him waiting outside again for me, both wishing he would and hoping he doesn't.
Tommy is in a polo-type shirt and crisp chino slacks. He's always been more put together than his brother was. Tommy is ten years older than Billy, and whatever rift they had between the two of them was well-formed before I came along. They'd avoid each other at any family function they were both in attendance at.
"I'm going to get out of here. Do you need anything before I go?"
I see the challenge in his eyes, the one that's daring me to ask about what I saw. I can't tell if it's a threat to keep my mouth shut or if he wants me to ask.
"Everything is good," I finally manage, the part of me that ignored all the bad signs about Billy making guilt swim in my gut.
But even if I wanted to confront Tommy, doing it right now with witnesses in the middle of his bar wouldn't be the best place for it. I don't want to get all defensive over that woman and risk losing my job when there could be a very good explanation for her tears.
"Be safe getting home," he says before leaning in and pressing his lips to my temple.
The first time the man did it was to get a rise out of his brother, and they nearly ended up in a fistfight that day. For some reason, he's done it every time he's seen me since.
"Will do," I tell him, relief washing over me when he takes a step back, giving the entire bar a quick once-over before walking away.