Page 6 of Hemlock

How is Tommy Wilkinson keeping this place open with only a handful of customers at any given time? If Ace's speculations are correct, then this place is a front for more nefarious business and the customer count doesn't even matter.

Noticing me, she halts the paring knife in her grip. "Need another beer?"

What I need is to be left the fuck alone.

My scowl deepens, but instead of bothering me further, she holds her smile and continues to cut the limes on her tray.

I watch her fingers work, noticing how unevenly she makes the cuts. Knife skills are one of my specialties, making it clear that although she's working as a bartender now, it hasn't always been what she does. She'd be more efficient if that were the case.

Watching her calms that raging part inside of me inexplicably, and I drill my eyes to the side of her face, wondering what it means. A sense of calm only comes when I'm feeding those demons inside of me, but she isn't whimpering under the tip of my blade. She is merely existing ten or so feet from me.

I hate her for it. The calm makes me feel out of control rather than making me feel stable like it would for most people.

My thumb picks at the label on my beer, a habit that might seem like a nervous reaction for those around who might be attuned to certain behaviors, but it's the only thing keeping me grounded—the rolling of the paper as it falls apart under my attention.

When she cuts into another lime and the juice squirts into her face, her laughter circles me like billowing smoke from a campfire. I know, just like the scent of ash would stick to my clothes in nature, I'm going to end up leaving this bar tonight, taking that chuckle with me.

It's another reason for me to hate her.

I hate happy people. The smiling, the laughing, the wanting everyone around them to be happy, and formulating ways to make that happen when someone doesn't react the way they expect them to. It's sickening to me.

It's the main reason I left New Mexico the first chance I got.

It's when she turns to grab a hand towel that the mask slips a little. That perfect top lip of hers curls in disgust, and it makes me wonder just how different we really are. Maybe she's got demons too, and she's just better at hiding them than I am.

That smile of hers is back in place once the towel is pulled away, but when I look just a little harder, I can see some of the shadows left behind in her eyes.

Or maybe I'm just wanting to find some darkness in her because it would make my job easier.

Is it a guilty conscience putting that gloom in her look? Does she know things she wishes she didn't? Is she stuck between a rock and a hard place? Is she a victim of this place?

Or is she part of the machine that's trafficking women?

Can she be both?

Would that even matter to me at the end of the day?

I trace a calloused finger over the top line of my lip as I continue to watch her, wondering just how to approach this situation, since sneaking around isn't looking possible. I hate the idea of getting close to anyone. Although using someone doesn't bother me, I'd much rather it be on my terms with a higher possibility of controlling the situation.

Ace said I'd have to think on my feet, and as far as I can see right now, maybe getting close to her is the only way. It's the quickest way to find out if she's a part of what's going on here.

Tommy Wilkinson wouldn't allow me to get close to one of his toys, would he?

Although I've all but made up my mind about what needs to be done, I just can't seem to pull the trigger.

I open my mouth a half dozen times to speak to her, but small talk and flirting are so fucking far out of my wheelhouse that my pulse changes in a way I hate more than the chaos that's normally swirling around in my head.

It keeps me silent. It keeps me watching her like a creep who's more likely going to end up being escorted out of here with a warning never to return than a phone number and the chance to use her to figure out why this place would end up on Nathan Adair's list.

There's always a chance that there's nothing criminal going on here at all, but Ace advised that ICE wants the surrounding thirty-five to forty miles around our base camp to be as free from the criminal element as possible. I, along with others involved with this new organization, have a list of places, some on Nathan's list and others we've been made aware of through snitches, that need to be eliminated before we can get to the real business of shutting down as many domestic sex trafficking rings as we can.

With these places cleared, we can breathe a little better and operate with as little suspicion as possible.

I jolt, hating that I let myself get lost in my head enough that the slap of the beer bottle on the bar top causes me to startle.

I didn't ask for another beer, but instead of growling at her, which is my first instinct, I give her a nod and slide the half-empty, warm one I've been mutilating the label on across to her.

As far as smiles go, hers is really pretty—straight, white teeth, proving that at least her early life must've had someone who at least cared about her appearance in it. In my time with Cerberus, we came across so many people who had bad lives as children. They were neglected, and that sometimes made them easier to take and abuse. We also came into contact with very important people who were also in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up victimized.

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