Chapter 20
Zara
Expectations are a slippery slope.
More often than not, someone's expectations are something they formulated without regard to the person or situation involved.
I could argue that I didn't expect Owen to show his face ever again at The Lost Kitten, but I also didn't expect him the times before. Then he came sauntering in like he hadn't been gone for days and days.
Knowing it would be best for my heart if I never saw him again didn't keep me from expecting it to be him every time the damn door opened.
I give the young woman a smile as she looks around the bar before approaching me.
Edith is busy arguing with Jersey about why Sharon still isn't back with the kids, and I'm grateful the woman doesn't mind sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. I've worked every day since Christmas and the man is growing sappier and sappier by the damn day. Yet he still doesn't seem to even be attempting to be proactive in trying to put his family back together.
"Hi," the woman says, her eyes darting to the side when someone pulls out a bar stool causing the legs to make a god-awful screeching noise.
She seems a little scared, definitely not a local.
"I'm here to see Tommy."
I look her up and down. She can't be a day over seventeen.
"Do you have ID?" I ask her, watching as her smile fades away. "After six, it's twenty-one and up."
Her nose scrunches as she pulls a Minnesota license from her pocket, handing it over to me. I have no idea if the thing is a fake or not but it declares her to be a couple of months over twenty-two, making me feel old to have thought she was much younger.
"Have a seat," I tell her, handing her back the license. "I'll go see if he's back there."
I walk past Edith who is working the closing shift tonight since I worked the whole Christmas shift alone. I feel a pang of guilt for leaving her with all of it on New Year's, but she said she'd be fine.
I make my way down the short hallway, the sound of an angry voice stopping me from connecting my fist to the office door in a knock.
"I don't give a shit what she said. The money is still due. I'm not running a fucking camp for orphaned girls here, Carl."
A shiver runs up my spine, very similar to the one I've been getting when I think about the redhead he had in his office earlier in the week. I'm not one to kink shame anyone, but there just seemed to be something off about that entire situation, namely the age gap between her and Tommy.
When the man on the other side of the door releases a long line of curse words, I knock.
"What?" he growls, making my hackles go up.
I shove the door open, wondering just how fake this man has been to me with the smiles each time he sees me because he doesn't even try to hide his snarl. It doesn't have the same effect on me that Owen's angry scowl does.
"Something wrong?" I ask, knowing the man isn't going to tell me his problems. Hell, I pray that he doesn't. I don't want to know shit about what he's up to, although I can't help but feel guilty for not speaking up right now. For not questioning why a young girl would be on her knees, sucking his dick the other day and why another one, no doubt fresh from a fucking farm in Minnesota, is sitting at the bar waiting for him.
"Nothing you need to worry about. What do you need?"
An internal battle rages inside of me as I try to decide if I should tell him never mind and go tell that girl to get as far away from this place as possible or if I should mind my own damn business.
As he glares at me, I opt for the latter. It's not my place to get in the middle of anyone else's shit. That girl walked into this bar of her own free will, and I don't get a say in how she lives her life.
I wouldn't want people getting in the middle of mine. I know that for a fact because Jersey has no shortage of advice each time Owen walks up to the bar.
"There's a girl waiting in the bar for you," I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder. "Do you want me to send her back?"
"I have a call to make. Give me five minutes then you can send her back."
I nod and back out of the doorway quickly, pulling it closed behind me.
Teena, as her license said her name was, is still sitting at the bar, but she's leaning away from Carlen who seems to be laying it on really thick. It's still two hours until the countdown, but from the looks of it, Edith will be calling him an Uber before the ball drops.
"Leave the girl alone, Carlen," I tell him as I approach. "Tommy is on the phone, said to give him a couple of minutes. Can I get you a drink?"
"A soda would be nice," she says, looking relieved that I stepped up and interrupted Carlen's pickup game.
I make her a drink, watching with a grin as she covers it with her hands when she senses someone coming close to her. Maybe she isn't as innocent and inexperienced as I initially thought.
"How long have you worked here?" she asks a few minutes later after I serve a few more drinks and make my way to her.
"A couple of months," I tell her with a shrug.
"Seems less busy than you'd think for New Year's."
"We usually only get locals around here. It's very seldom we get a stranger."
"Do you do the modeling too?" she asks, her eyes skating down my body. I can see the judgment in her gaze as if she's locating and cataloging every imperfection.
"I just serve the drinks," I tell her, wondering if that's the line Tommy is using. I had almost convinced myself that she was possibly going to be a new bartender, maybe a floater that would cover shifts so the burden didn't always rest on my and Edith's shoulders. "I bet Tommy is ready for you. Follow me."
I walk to the end of the bar and wait for her to join me, once again trying to decide if I should tell her that she should get far, far away from this place.
But I don't. I tap on Tommy's door, noticing the change in his demeanor from a couple of minutes ago when I came back here by myself.
He no longer looks pissed. His smile is wide and welcoming when I open the door and announce Teena.
I leave Tommy to whatever he plans to do with the girl, guilt chewing away at me as I make my way back behind the bar.
I had planned to leave over an hour ago, but the guilt of leaving Edith and now the guilt about that girl in the back room keeps me here.
"You don't have to stay," Edith grumbles after I hand half a dozen beers to a guy in a trucker hat. "But if you're gonna stay, we're almost out of Coors, and those boxes are heavy as hell. Think you can bring a case up?"
"Sure," I say faster than I normally would, but going down the back hallway gives me the chance to sort of spy on Tommy and Teena and make sure there isn't anything bad happening .
Silence meets my ears in the hallway until I get closer to the door.
"And what do you say?" I hear Tommy rumble.
"Harder," Teena grunts, making my skin crawl.
Her whimpers aren't ones of distress, but Jesus fuck, why can't he do this shit at his own house? Why does it have to be here in the bar?
I grab a case of Coors and make my way back to the front, having committed my mind to staying until I see that girl walk out of here safely, even though she didn't seem to be in trouble.
I spot him the second I finish filling the cooler with the new case of beer, and the bottle in his hand says he's either been hiding out in the corner for a while or he ordered while I was spying on Tommy and his evening guest.
Of course, his eyes are locked on me, and as much as I want to give him a middle finger, I'm overcome with a sense of relief. The man rides a motorcycle, which even on straight roads is dangerous, especially with how little care people in regular vehicles take. I know it's silly to think an accident would be the only thing that would keep him away for days, and I know I should be upset to find out that he's here and perfectly healthy. It's not sane to be mad that he's okay.
I narrow my eyes at him, and I swear I see that dimple dig in just a little deeper, telling me that he's trying not to smile at me. Knowing I'm able to pull that kind of reaction from him is intoxicating, addicting, the whole reason I'm in this stupid situation to begin with.
"I see your stranger is back," Edith says. "Thanks for bringing the case up. Why don't you go say hi?"
"He's not my stranger," I argue, but I'm already pulling my apron over my head.
Jersey's voice issuing a warning about Owen hits my back, but I pay him no attention. A man who can't keep his own family together because of his addiction doesn't get to question me about mine. And I know for a hundred percent certainty that Owen Clark is most definitely an addiction.
Why else would I crave something that has left me angry and questioning my own judgment so many times?