Page 42 of Hemlock

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?

Chapter 21

Hemlock

It has to be Jericho in my head that has me questioning everything I convinced myself to believe, but there's no arguing the facts.

I got to the bar just in time to see Zara lead that young woman to the back of the bar. She chatted with her first, smiling as if she was trying to convince the woman that whatever she was facing in the back would turn out okay.

My skin is still crawling like a million ants are shuffling over it when she spots me.

Somehow, caught in her line of sight, more doubt sets in, certain corners of my mind trying to convince me that there has to be a valid reason she would send a young woman back there to face God-knows-what at the hands of Tommy Wilkinson. There isn't always something nefarious about a young woman in a bar. Some would argue that lots of young women go into bars either looking for a good time or some trouble to get into.

I see her eyes dart in the direction of the hall before she hangs up her apron and makes her way in this direction.

My raging pulse begins to calm with every step she takes toward me, to the point that it beats a normal rhythm once she's right in front of me.

There are more people in the bar than normal, but I knew that the second I followed Tommy from his house a few miles up the mountain half an hour ago. For being nothing but a seedy bar owner, he sure does have enough money for a private gate and enough security cameras to put a big box retail store to shame. That's why it's weird that he doesn't have anything in the form of security here at the bar. Hell, he doesn't even have an alarm system to notify the police if someone kicks in the front door.

When her hand runs over my shoulder, I know I should've listened to that voice in my head telling me to stay away from her, the one who knows she's nothing but trouble.

I should've tied her to a chair that very first night I came in here and demanded she tell me what she knows. I have no doubt she would've easily disclosed any and all information she had. Now, everything is beyond fucked.

I catch sight of Jersey, the asshole who always whispers to her when I'm near, looking over his shoulder from the bar, and I want to rip his fucking eyes from his sockets with the way he frowns at the sight of her touching me. From the information I've gathered, the man is fucking married with kids at home. He shouldn't even be in here right now.

"I lied to you," she says over the din of folks getting ready to celebrate the New Year. "And I think I need to confess."

She dips her head before I can look into her eyes and attempt to try and guess at what she's going to tell me.

Jericho's "I told you so" echoes around in my head. Then, her other hand sweeps up my chest, and I'm locked in her gaze, nothing but the sounds of my slow pulse in my ears.

I should hear nothing but sirens, a volley of alarms telling me to get her out of here and take her to a place where there will be no witnesses when I have to do what I do best.

Having a connection to a trafficking ring and saying nothing, especially as a woman, is, as far as I'm concerned, lower than low. I know just from the time I've spent with her that she has more freedom than anyone who would be coerced into doing something illegal. If she's been lying...

"At first it was true," she says, her words barely loud enough for me to hear. "I just wanted to have a little fun, but I think I started to like you a little."

I blink down at her, waiting for her to tell me about her involvement, but it never comes. Instead, she chances a peek up at me, her teeth digging into her lower lip as she waits for my response.

I imagine myself kissing her, feeling the softness of her lips pressed against mine. I picture allowing myself to suck that lower lip into my mouth until she whimpers with need.

"What?" I manage instead.

"I like you."

"You like me?"

I attempt to take a step back, knowing I'm not hearing her right. Where's the lie? The confession I was certain was coming.

She clings to me for the briefest of seconds before her hands disentangle from my clothing, falling to her sides.

"I know." She huffs, throwing her hands up in frustration when I simply stare at her. "It's not very after-divorce hoe-phase of me, but there it is. I have feelings for you. I can't help it."

I open my mouth to speak but she shakes her head.

"I know what you're going to say," she says, her next words coming out in a deeper tone as if she's trying to capture my voice. "This can't happen, Zara. We were only meant to be fucking."

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