Page 16 of Hemlock

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.

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