Page 59 of Hemlock

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?"

Chapter 30

Zara

It shouldn’t be taking me so long to pack and move on, but I'm well aware of why I'm dragging my feet.

He's the reason I haven't just thrown the last of my shit into a box and stuffed it into the small pull-behind rented trailer I went into town and got earlier today.

It's late, the sun having gone down many hours ago. The visit from Tommy yesterday seems like a distant memory, as if it happened longer ago than it really did.

It means it feels like weeks rather than two days since I saw Hemlock.

The anger has faded and it has left me wishing things were different and wondering what choices I could've made that would've left me in his path.

Was quitting the bar the right choice?

Should I have stuck around a little longer?

Is he constantly thinking of me the way I am thinking of him?

I know the answer to that. I've deduced from the half-assed conversation I had with him that he was focused on Tommy and that man's wrongdoings, and I was just a means to an end for him. He probably thought I knew more than I did. When he realized that Tommy hadn't told me anything, I became useless to him. I feel like garbage tossed out of a car window late at night when no one would be around to see the crime being committed.

I look around at the room, empty of everything but the couch I plan to sleep on tonight before leaving town in the morning. If I hadn't wanted to start completely over like I did when I left Kentucky a few months ago, I wouldn't have even needed the tiny U-Haul trailer. I could've easily put all of my worldly belongings in the backseat and trunk of my car. The minimal amount of possessions would be the goal of some people, but, for me, it feels like a failure, like I've lived this entire life and don't have a damn thing to show for it.

It's no wonder I'm not enough for Hemlock or Owen or whatever the fuck his name is.

I growl in irritation. This isn't about me! I don't know why I keep reverting back and letting my mind convince me that this is my problem. I didn't create this situation. This was done to me.

I pull in a deep, irritated breath because I can't keep seeing myself as the damn victim either.

I consider getting some serious fucking therapy wherever I land, because internalizing all of this shit has the ability to make me crazy.

The roar of a motorcycle makes me stop mid-fold of a towel. I swear the damn thing stops right in front of my house before the engine cuts out, but it has to be wishful thinking. I hate that it's hope rather than fear that tries to seep its way inside of me. I don't need him here. I don't want him here, but that doesn't stop disappointment from pooling in my gut when the doorbell doesn't ring.

I continue to fold the towels I'm packing, leaving one out for my shower tonight, before packing the other three into a prepared box. Four towels. I have only four towels. If I let myself analyze that a little too hard, I know I need two. One is for current use while the other is in the wash, meaning I have double what I'll ever need.

It's pitiful.

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