Chapter 28
Zara
I don't have a clue what I'm going to do.
I drove straight home from that cabin and haven't come into contact with anyone since. Short of sending a text to Tommy about quitting my job at the bar, I haven't even reached out to anyone else. I know I'm going to have to move. Working at the bar was part of the condition of getting this house at such a low-rent cost, but that didn't keep me from blocking Tommy's number after I sent that text. I've also blocked every damn number that has called me since, wondering each time if it was Owen or Hemlock or whatever his damn name is that’s trying to call me.
I can’t let my head get wrapped in what could’ve been because everything I felt was based on lies. It was all fake, all something he wanted me to see or feel so he could manipulate me.
I’ve worked on packing my things which makes me even more depressed because a lot of the stuff I packed and brought from Kentucky was still in boxes. It’s like my subconscious knew I wouldn’t be staying here long and didn’t let me waste time and energy on making this house into a home.
I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes, wondering all the while if shaving my entire head wouldn't be a good choice, but I know better. I know that the urge to change who I am is more about the man who exploited my emotions is the problem not that frustrating strand of hair that refuses to stay pulled back in my hair tie .
The knock does more than startle me. I'm frightened as I stand from my crouched position by the television. I grab my gun, the one I had to reload after—shit I don't even want to think his name—he expertly unloaded the damn thing.
It wasn't the first red flag that he waved right in front of my face, but like I've always done, I've avoided thinking or worrying about them where he was concerned until it was too late. Until I was locked in a basement, not knowing if I'd survive the trip downstairs.
With as steady of a hand as I can manage, I hold the gun up and open the door, only it isn't a stranger sent to kill me or even the man I feel disappointed isn't standing there.
"Seriously?" Tommy asks, using the tip of one finger to lower the gun so it's not right in his face. "Do you even know how to use that thing?"
I don't answer him because honestly, loading it, which was shown to me by the guy at the gun store, is the only thing I know. I hadn't made time to go to the gun range to even practice with the thing. Keeping my finger off the trigger unless I plan to shoot is the extent of my gunslinging skills.
Tommy walks inside my house, and I know I should stop him, but he also owns the place, so I'm not exactly sure where my rights stand, and I hate that he's just one more man in my life who thinks he can dictate what I do.
"What do you want?" I growl, closing the door because it's cold as hell outside.
"Why did you quit?" he says, noticing the packing boxes all over the living room, but he doesn't ask me what my plans are.
It's as if they don't matter, as if he's already determined that I'll do what he says.
I do feel bad for Edith. I know she'll be the one to have to take up the slack and extra shifts, but maybe this will enable Tommy to hire more than one other person so we aren't worked like dogs. Not that serving a handful of customers a night is a hard job. I just know it's hard on Edith's old body to stand and shuffle around for a full shift .
"A man was stabbed in your bar," I mutter, not willing to take the story any further.
I don't hold on to my secrets, the true story of how that night played out because I'm protecting them. I feel stupid and would look like a complete fool if anyone knew how gullible I was for getting tangled up with him in the first place.
"It happens," Tommy says with a disinterested lift of his shoulders. "Have you ever felt like you were in danger at the bar?"
Every time that stranger looked in my direction . I shouldn't feel the echo of a thrill just thinking about the first time he locked those multicolored eyes on me.
"If you feel like you're in danger, then I can add security."
"You'll add security but you won't hire another bartender?"
I hate the way he casually moves a box off the couch so he can take a seat as if he's been invited into the house as a guest.
"I haven't hired a new bartender because the business doesn't necessitate one. Is the job difficult for you?"
"Really?" I growl, hearing the insult in his tone as if he thinks I can't handle what I've been doing.
"Do you need more time off?"
I don't justify his annoyance with an answer. Needing time off now is a moot point because I've quit, and he won't be able to change my mind. Now all I need to do to fully rid myself of the trouble I've gotten into is to pack my shit and move very far away, not that I think Hemlock will waste any time looking for me.
Hell, I can't even guarantee they won't come and take care of me because I'm a loose end. Jericho had me drive to the cabin after the stabbing, and then I was allowed to leave. I literally just walked out the front door and drove off like I was there for a vacation or something.
There was no hood over my head or a verbal threat to keep my mouth shut although I could sense it in his tone when he advised me to keep my experiences to myself.
"I quit," I say, the two words as simple as the text I sent to him when I woke up this morning. "The reasons aren't up for discussion."
"Something has you spooked," he says, his tone even, sounding I imagine like a therapist would if they were trying to coax you to open up for the first time.
Who is this guy?
"Why do you even care?" I mutter, putting the gun down on the half wall that divides the living room and kitchen. The house isn't much bigger than a studio apartment, but until it was tainted by Hemlock's presence here, it felt like a place I could eventually make my own.
"You're family."
I shake my head, rejecting his declaration.
"We're not family. Even if I had stayed married to your piece of shit brother, we wouldn't be family. I don't even know you."
He watches me, his attention making me want to shift back and forth on my feet.
He spreads his hands as if opening himself up to me. "Ask me anything you want to know."
This is where I waver. I have a million questions to ask, starting with a lot of the stuff that was implied with my conversation last night with Hemlock. I want to know about the young girls. I want to know who that girl he escorted to the car was weeks ago. Why Teena was there for a job interview that ended with him fucking her.
But I won't ask those questions.
I've learned very quickly to keep my mouth closed and to turn a blind eye to the shit I see. I don't want to be in the middle of his shit because it always comes at a cost, and I don't have anything left to give to anyone. I left all I had in that basement before I scurried away.
Also, I can't seem to let go of that insanely ridiculous loyalty that I feel for Hemlock. I don't know if it is real or if it was somehow cultivated by the man as another way he manipulated me, but I won't open my mouth or any door that may lead back to him. It's why I have to leave town because part of me insists I go back to that cabin despite the further danger that could put me in.
"Maybe you'd be interested in a different job," he says, his eyes sweeping down the front of me, and it makes my skin crawl.
I cross my arms over my chest as I stand a little taller. He has a lot of nerve right now, and I hate that he doesn't even pause in his suggestion. He doesn't falter or take a moment to consider maybe he should stop while he's ahead.
"A different job? One that I'd need to interview for like Teena did the other night?"
I hate that he's pushed me to the point of even mentioning it because I didn't ever want to have a conversation like this with him. I just wanted to skip town and keep to myself.
His chuckle scratches at me like a thorny bush, annoying and angering me further.
"My clientele isn't exactly into middle-aged women," he says in such a matter-of-fact way that I can't help but be offended.
I knew there was something other than just running the bar going on, but knowing he's probably some sort of pimp just solidifies my need to get out of this damn town.
"I want you to leave," I say, exhaustion from the last several days sinking inside of me.
"Where do you plan to go?" he asks as he stands rather than arguing about my request.
"Back to Kentucky," I lie because it's what he expects. I imagine everyone would expect me to go crawling back home to familiar territory.
He shakes his head as he walks toward the front door. "Unblock my number, and the job offer at the bar still stands if you ever need it."
For some reason Tommy makes my skin crawl more than Hemlock ever did, even after finding out he's been lying to me the entire time .
Of course, my first instinct is to drive back to the cabin and ask for help, but I need to be done with doing that. I have to be independent. I have to do things on my own and understand that although I may fail during many attempts to get my shit together, I need to keep on trying until I get it right, and I know for absolute certainty that running to a man for help isn't the right way to go.