Chapter 29
Hemlock
The show must go on.
That's the saying, right?
It doesn't matter that I probably opened up several of the stitches in my side on the bike ride to the bar. It doesn't matter if Zara will walk her gorgeous ass out of the back and start working.
My history, her history, our history... none of it matters. I need to figure out what the fuck is going on in this bar so I can move on to the next assignment. That's the goal. Keep moving.
Yet, Zara isn't here, and in the several hours that I've been sitting in the corner, she hasn't shown her pretty face.
No one is sitting around gossiping about her. Jersey is at the bar and although he tried to glare a hole through me when I first arrived and ordered a beer, he hasn't said her name either.
The elderly lady shuffles around, filling orders, and staying busy doing other tasks when no one needs her, but Zara is missing.
Maybe it's better this way. It has to be this way. Part of me is glad she isn't here, but that part of me, the one deep inside that keeps telling me that I need her that she's as vital as air for me keeps whispering. It tells me that I need to find her, that something could be wrong.
I've ignored it as best as I can and counted it a win that I came straight to the bar instead of driving past her house, but it doesn't feel like I've achieved anything at all .
I pull in a deep breath as I lift the beer bottle to my lips and pretend to take a drink. The damn thing was well past drinkable an hour ago, but no one's paying enough attention to me for it to matter.
I shouldn't be distracted. The job is what I should be focused on, but as the night drags on without Zara showing up, the more distracted I get. No matter what I have on repeat in my head about getting this job done and moving on to the next one, it's her face I see every time I blink.
When the door opens, I lock my eyes there, only instead of it being Zara walking inside, it's the woman she escorted back for a job interview with Wilkinson the other night. Instead of staring at her, I watch the replay of a football game on the TV hanging on the wall and keep her in my periphery.
She approaches the bar, ordering a drink before taking a seat on the very same stool she sat on the other night.
Half an hour goes by with her just sitting there, her eyes wandering all over the room as if she needs to commit every piece of decor to memory.
Annoyed that Wilkinson hasn't come out of the back room to see her, I stand and approach, taking the seat next to her.
She gives me a quick smile when I look at her, but she doesn't speak.
I can see the nervousness that takes over her body as her hands start to tremble and she fidgets with her bottle of water.
"Buy you a drink?" I ask, remembering that Zara mentioned her being old enough for alcohol consumption, but she was right, up close, the girl looks much younger. She looks like she should be waiting for a school bus rather than sitting at a bar in clothes too small for the weather outside.
"I have a water but thank you." What woman doesn't want a free drink?
Maybe I scare her just like I scare almost every other woman that I approach. This one isn't looking for a thrill. There isn't an ounce of adventure shining in her eyes as she swallows and looks in the opposite direction of me.
She should be scared of me. Hell, she should be scared of any man she meets in a place like this.
I continue to sit next to her, continue to look her over checking for bruises and scars, anything that might indicate she's experienced some shit, but her skin looks perfect, unmarred. I know looks can be deceiving. In sex trafficking, some women are kept in pristine condition. Some customers want to be the ones to mar their victims.
Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl and a growl of disgust erupts from my throat, drawing her attention.
"If you want to spend time with me," she manages before she swallows, her gaze locked on my chin rather than my eyes, "you have to schedule it."
Bingo. At a minimum, she's part of a prostitution ring.
I nod and it seems to give her a little more confidence as she flips her hair over her shoulder and manages to smile.
I'd bet all my savings that she's brand new at this, and other than what Wilkinson made her do the other night, it's likely she's never had a paying client before. She's brand new,and as much as I want to talk her out of what she's doing, there are reasons women end up making this kind of choice and none of them are good. This woman, however, isn't my focus, and as new as she is, she won't have any answers.
Wilkinson has stayed under the radar for years, and he has done so by keeping his mouth shut and not talking about what it is he does to earn his real money.
"What would a night with you cost me?" I ask, needing to at least find out the things she does know.
She shrugs. "I'm not really good at math."
I honestly can't tell if this is part of the role she's playing or if she's so out of touch with her life right now that she's letting someone else control every aspect of it.
"How do I schedule some of your time?"
Her smile grows wider, but her hands are still trembling when she reaches into the tiniest purse I've ever seen and produces a business card. The only thing on the card is a QR code, and a huff leaves my lips as I look down at it.
"You just have to scan that with your phone camera and--"
"I know how QR codes work."
"I don't make the rules," she says with a simple shrug. "It was nice meeting you. Maybe we'll see each other again."
I stare down at the card as she gets up and moves to go sit beside Jersey. I watch her pull the same innocent and shaking act with him, second-guessing just how innocent this girl may be. One thing I do know, or at least what I can tell right now, is that although she's made some poor choices in her life, she's here working of her own volition. I'd wager that she isn't being forced, but that she's just in a position where she doesn't see any other choice for herself. There are so many similarities between sex trafficking and prostitution that it makes my skin crawl, but that can't be my focus right now.
If Tommy Wilkinson is running a prostitution ring out of his bar, then we still have to clear that shit out. We need to keep our area free from as much criminal activity as possible. We don't need a criminal element whispering about what we're doing or recognizing our faces while we're working.
I look down at my watch, knowing what's coming doesn't stop me from startling when the front door is kicked open so hard it smacks with an echo against the wall.
"That was unnecessary," I say, knowing Ace can hear every word that has come out of my mouth since I entered the bar.
The conversation with the woman was all they needed to storm into this place. Their arrival tells me that Tommy Wilkinson had arrived and was in the back since I got here.
"Sick fuck," a cop says as he pushes my head down onto the bar top.
After I'm cuffed, I watch as he grabs the card with the QR code on it and shoves it into his pocket. He'll either give it over to Ace or he'll keep it. I pray he does the former because the latter means we have an even bigger problem to deal with.
I'm standing to the side as the other officers place the other customers in handcuffs. I know they're doing it for their own safety. Hell, I was stabbed just a few days ago without provocation. There's no telling how dangerous anyone in here could be.
Jersey glares at me, much like he always does, when he's urged to stand and placed in cuffs, but it's Wilkinson being pulled from the back in cuffs that draws all my attention. I want to lunge at the man, to demand he tell me where the hell Zara is, but I keep my mouth shut, reminding myself the cops have a job to do.
It doesn't stop me from picturing my knife digging into the officer's skin when he roughly shoves me toward the door. Outside, he slams me against a patrol unit.
"You motherfucker," I growl.
"Shut the fuck up," he snaps back before opening the back door of the cruiser and doing that cop thing where he presses down on my head as he forces me into the backseat.
I've seen and done some terrible shit in my life. I've had some experiences that nearly the entire population of the world will never have, but this is a new one for me. I've never been handcuffed nor arrested, and I don't like the way it feels, knowing my life could've easily taken this turn had I not learned to use those demons inside of me differently.
The passenger side door opens and Jersey is shoved inside, and his presence here ruins fucking everything. I was supposed to be taken away by myself, making it look like I was arrested. With him here, it means I might just get the full arrest experience.
A cop, different from the one that slammed me against the car, climbs into the driver's seat, pulling away from the bar without any fanfare.
I fully expect him to drive into town and take us to the police station for booking, but he takes the same fucking path I would take to the house, pulling up outside where my bike, already having been transported back to the house after I climbed off it in the parking lot hours ago.
I swear if this cop pulls me out of this back seat with that other man sitting there, blowing my cover, all the while disclosing where we live… But before I can even get the thought formed, Jersey lifts his hands in front of him, a wide smile on his face as he rubs his wrists where the cuffs used to be.
He grins in my direction as he holds up a handcuff key.
I know he can read the weeks of what the fucks on my face.
"Need a hand?"