CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Hey there, sunshine. You okay?”
Tensing at the unexpected sound of a feminine voice, I glanced up from where I’d been resting (hiding) my face in my arms.
Gemma was standing across from me on the other side of the bar, concern shining from her eyes.
That’s right. Derek had asked her to babysit.
Another wave of anger rolled over me, so sudden and potent that it nearly took my breath away. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to smother it. After all, Gemma didn’t have any real say over Derek’s actions. He was just using her extra bed to… to…
Stop thinking about it.
I made myself focus on what Gemma had asked. Was I okay?
No. Not even close.
Instead of answering, though, I asked Gemma a question of my own. “Does Derek do this a lot?”
She frowned. “What’s that, hon?”
I flinched at the variation of his nickname for me before taking a deep breath through my nose and making myself elaborate. “Take girls upstairs to… you know…” I didn’t clarify, but judging by the sudden grimace twisting her mouth, Gemma knew well enough what I was asking.
“You heard that, huh?”
I stared. Wasn’t it obvious?
Gemma sighed, leaning her elbows on the bar top and allowing her head to rest in her hands. “Not for a while. It’s mostly just been Blair the past few months, but he definitely went through a… wild stage, so to speak, a few years back.”
My mouth felt suddenly dry. And though I knew logically I had no business feeling hurt by it, there the feeling sat, heavy and aching in my belly, regardless.
“So what’s your story?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Derek may take girls upstairs from time to time, but he’s never walked in with one before. And I haven’t seen you around before, so… how do you know him?”
“I…” How did I explain? I supposed I could say I was his roommate of sorts. Perhaps I would even have risked categorizing him as a friend before tonight, but now... “Derek’s helping me,” I finally decided on.
Gemma raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s… different.”
I frowned at the blatant disbelief in her voice. On one hand, I felt affronted on Derek’s behalf. On the other hand, well… she wasn’t wrong. Squashing the (ridiculous) urge to defend him, I decided to focus on what else she had said. “He’s really never come in here with anyone before?”
Gemma shrugged. “Not that I can recall, and I can’t say I blame him. It wasn’t exactly easy for him to make, or even keep, friends after the fire.”
I froze, my insides chilling at the word “fire”.
“The… fire?” I repeated, trying my hardest to ignore the sudden feeling of foreboding in my stomach.
It was Gemma’s turn to stare. A frown tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she pushed off the bar top, standing back up to her full height as she examined me. Her eyes searched mine like she was trying to discern if I was really as clueless as I sounded.
I was.
She must have realized it, too, because she released me from her gaze with a heavy sigh. “You’re really not from around here, are you?” she asked, sounding immeasurably tired.
I shook my head slowly back and forth. “I’m really not,” I confirmed quietly.
“Gemma! I’ll take another beer.”
I started at the sudden interruption, but Gemma just groaned. “Give me a minute,” she said, throwing on a smile and serving an antsy customer. A few others rushed the bar, and she ended up whipping up a half-dozen drinks before returning.
I tried not to look like I was sitting on the edge of my seat when she finally made her way back over to me, but the word “fire” was stuck in the forefront of my mind, hanging ominously over my thoughts.
She placed a glass of water in front of me, unasked. “Thank you,” I offered softly before taking a sip. I licked my lips. “The fire?” I pressed hesitantly.
Gemma frowned, a little dip forming between her eyebrows, and for a second, I didn't think she was going to elaborate, but then she started talking, and a minute later I almost wished she hadn’t. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised Derek didn’t tell you,” she hedged. “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, there was a fire. A house fire.”
My stomach twisted. “Derek’s house?” His cabin did look pretty modern for being in the middle of nowhere.
Gemma nodded. “His parents’ house, anyway. It damn near burned to the ground before firefighters were able to snuff it out. The flames destroyed everything. By the grace of God, Derek wasn’t home when it happened, but his mother and father were. Even some neighbors – a lady and her kid – were over. They all perished. There weren’t even whole bodies left when it was all said and done, just burnt remains.”
I felt sick and prayed that Gemma couldn’t see the sudden trembling of my hands. Staring unseeingly at the bar top, I squeezed them tightly around my glass of water in an effort to stop the shaking.
“That… that’s awful,” I said, forcing myself to speak around the lump of tears trapped in my throat.
“Yeah. That’s not all either.”
My eyes darted back up to hers. “What do you mean?”
“Well, no one knows what started the fire. Police have officially labeled it an accident, but, well… you know small towns.” Not really. “Nasty rumors abound. A lot of people think it was arson. And you can imagine the prime suspect.”
“What?” I was aghast. “But surely you don’t mean… Derek?”
Gemma shrugged. “He was a troubled youth,” she said, like that explained why nasty townsfolk with nothing better to do would start rumors that the man who’d essentially saved my life had ruthlessly taken his own parents’.
“Is that what you think?” I demanded hotly, unable to stop myself from defending him this time.
Gemma laughed at me, and for the first time in my life (well, for the first time since I could remember anything, anyway) I contemplated committing real violence. “Relax, sweetie,” she said, attempting to sooth my frazzled nerves. “Of course I don’t think that. Nobody truly reasonable does.”
I slowly allowed my tense muscles to relax, the only sign remaining of my sudden fury the hotness of my cheeks.
“You’re adorable, you know that?” Gemma insisted, but a second later, her grin was falling off her face. She sighed. “The kid was only fifteen when it happened.”
It took me a second to compute that “that kid” was Derek, because nothing about his tall stature, thick muscles, or serious demeanor screamed “kid” now. When I did realize she was still talking about Derek, though, I felt the nausea return at full force.
Only fifteen.
I hurriedly took a gulp of the water in front of me, swallowing hard, trying to quell the unrest in my belly. Fifteen. That’s how old Derek had been when he’d lost his parents to a house fire. Just a kid, and his life was changed irrevocably. And to have people looking at you – treating you – like you were the one responsible…
I recalled the way I’d carelessly asked why no one ever visited, why there were no pictures of his family on his walls.
What had I done?
Guilt settled in my belly like a boat dropping anchor. I felt sick.
“Wisp? Is that you?”
Tensing at the sound of my name coming from the mouth of someone other than Derek – somber Derek who’d lost his entire world at the tender age of fifteen – I turned, only relaxing when I spotted Officer Abernathy standing behind me. He was out of uniform, but I still recognized him – the disheveled blond hair and watery eyes.
Unbelievable grateful to have something – someone – to distract me from the guilt sitting heavy in my stomach, I latched onto the opportunity the universe had presented before me with both hands. “Hi. It’s Ash, right?”
His eyes lit up like someone had just handed him a hundred-dollar bill rather than some person he could barely call an acquaintance having remembered his name.
“Yeah, that’s right.” His eyes swept me up and down. “You’re looking good. Get things figured out since I saw you last?”
I glanced down at my attire. I was just in the capris, navy shirt, and tennis shoes I’d gotten from Wal-Mart. I wasn’t wearing any makeup, and my hair fell unkempt over my shoulders – hardly anything fancy.
I guess it was still an improvement from the last time he’d seen me, though, drowning in one of Derek’s shirts, hair a wild mess, and a bruise the size of a walnut on my right temple.
“Um… yes, I think so.” What was it I had told him again?
“Great!” He sounded like it really was great, too. Like he’d been worried or something.
“You guys know each other?” Gemma asked skeptically.
We both glanced her way at the question. Truthfully, I’d nearly forgotten about her with the sudden appearance of Ash. She sounded understandably confused, but any answer I may have had wavered when I saw her strangely twisted expression. Luckily, Ash took the reins. “Sort of. I met Wisp outside of The Tavern a couple Sundays ago.” His eyes swung back my way. “You here with anyone tonight?”
That’s right, I had told him I’d been waiting for someone.
My first instinct to his question was to say “yes”.
But you aren’t really here with anyone, are you? A nasty voice in the back of my head whispered. Derek’s upstairs. With Blair.
I bit down hard on the soft flesh of my bottom lip, my gaze drifting down to my lap. “Not really,” I admitted.
When I looked back up, it was to see Gemma’s eyebrows raised to practically her hairline. Thankfully, though, she didn’t comment.
“Well, then can I buy you a drink?”
I stiffened. “I… I don't know…” I hedged.
Ash’s smile faltered. “Why not? You are old enough, aren’t you? Or should I make it a Sprite?” he asked – joked.
But it wasn’t a joke. Not to me. Was I old enough to drink? Even if I was, it wasn’t like I had an ID to prove it. And even if Gemma didn’t ask for one, I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to accept Ash’s offer. He seemed nice enough and everything, it was just…
Something in me didn’t trust him. Not entirely, anyway. I didn’t trust anyone.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. I trusted Derek. Just Derek. As inexplicable (absurd) as it was.
Luckily, Gemma seemed to pick up on my discomfort.
“Actually Ash, I was just going to ask Wisp here if she wanted to help me out behind the bar, since I’m a waitress down and all.”
I blinked, looking up at her. “Really?” I asked. I suspected she was just offering to get me out of the strange situation I had found myself in. Whether as a favor to me or Derek, I didn't know. I hadn’t forgotten that he’d charged her with babysitting duty, after all.
Gemma grinned. “Yeah, come on back here.” She lifted the hatch. “I’ll show you the ropes. You can even keep whatever tips you make.”
I perked up at that. If I did a decent job, maybe I could earn enough to pay back Derek at least some of what I owed him. After all, despite his unsavory… hobbies, I did owe him a lot. “Okay, sure.”
I allowed Gemma to usher me back behind the bar.
“Well, in that case, I’d be honored to be your first customer,” Ash piped up, sliding a bill across the bar top. “I’ll take a gin and tonic. You can keep the change.”
I couldn’t stop a heated flush from creeping up my neck when I saw it was a crisp twenty. Even I knew that was an outrageous tip.
Gemma rolled her eyes, but she didn’t bother to hide an amused grin pulling at her mouth. She took the bill and slid it into my back pocket. “Come on, angel face, I’ll teach you how to make that gin and tonic – it’s Ash’s favorite drink.”
I frowned. “But shouldn’t I put that twenty in the register or something?” I asked, following her.
Gemma positively cackled. “Don’t worry about it, sweet cheeks. That blush will more than make back the three bucks that gin costs by the end of the night.”
While I tried – and mostly failed – to get said blush under control, Gemma spent a few minutes teaching me how to make a gin and tonic, which I faithfully delivered to Ash.
He took a sip before flashing me a bright grin. “Perfect.”
I had an uncomfortable feeling he wasn’t talking about the drink.
Gemma was pulled away by a throng of customers after that. She put me on beer duty, which basically entailed pulling bottles of the stuff out of the fridge and delivering them to whomever had ordered it or occasionally filling glass mugs to the brim with whatever brew Gemma had on tap.
It was a little nerve-wracking at first, taking orders from strangers, but after fifteen minutes had passed, I was getting the hang of it. Gemma only had four brands of beer in stock so it wasn’t hard to retrieve them, and whenever anyone ordered something besides beer, I just relayed that information to Gemma.
A pair of octogenarians on one end of the bar kept calling me over, asking me personal – and progressively more intrusive – questions that, of course, I had no idea the answer to.
“I haven’t seen you around here before, where are you from?”
“What brings you to Pine Ridge?”
“Are you old enough to be working here?”
“Are you religious? I’m sure St. Mary’s – it’s the Methodist church on the corner of Elm Street – would be glad to have you.”
Instead of letting it bother me, I had fun making up progressively more inane answers:
“I’m from Olympia.”
“I came because I was offered a job at the local Wal-Mart.”
“What is age but society’s attempt to categorize and control us?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. While I believe in the spiritual realm, organized religion gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
After that doozy of an answer, they hadn’t bothered me again.
I was on my way back from delivering the second round of Bud Lights to the group of guys playing darts in the corner of the bar when one of the men wearing fancy business suits and sitting around a table near the windows called me over. “Hey, girl!”
I frowned, confused for a moment whether or not he was talking to me. He certainly wasn’t looking at me, just gesturing vaguely in my direction. I took a hesitant step towards him – the tall one in the Oxxford suit. “Yes?”
“Fetch me another bourbon, would you?”
I frowned at the careless way he ordered me around, the pretentiousness practically rolling off him. Regardless, I carefully took the empty glass he held out to me. “Sure.”
Gemma wasn’t behind the bar when I returned. I glanced around the room, but I didn’t see her. Mr. Oxxford didn’t seem like the type who was used to waiting so I hesitantly scanned the bottles Gemma had stocked on the shelves. Spotting the one labeled bourbon, I fetched a clean glass before filling it half-way with the amber liquor. I also added a handful of ice before hesitantly making my way back over to the man’s table.
“Here you go, sir.”
Still wrapped up in whatever he and his friends were talking about, he didn’t look at me as he took the glass. Nor did he bother saying “thank you”.
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes at his impeccable manners, I had nearly turned to leave when he took a sip of the drink… and promptly spit it back out, bourbon spraying out of his mouth and landing in the form of spittle on the table in front of him.
His buddies laughed.
I froze.
“What is this shit?” he demanded sharply, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief he had tucked away in his pocket – because apparently, that was still a thing.
“Um… your drink?” I answered hesitantly, my mouth working on autopilot.
His buddies’ snickers grew louder.
“Yes, I’m well aware it’s my drink,” he groused. “But why the hell is there ice in it? Did I order it on the rocks?” He slammed the glass back down onto the table, and more bourbon splashed onto the wooden surface.
I felt my cheeks flush hotly as I realized that he, in fact, had not ordered his drink with ice. I’d just thought that it was standard to add it.
Apparently not.
I hardly thought a bit of ice warranted his extreme reaction, but I didn’t want Gemma to lose a customer because of a mistake I’d made either – as simple as it was.
“I’m sorry,” I said, reluctantly apologizing before taking a step forward and reaching for the glass. “Here, let me get you a new one.”
Before I could grab it, though, Oxxford reached forward and snatched my wrist, fingers wrapping around my limb with an iron grip. “Now, just a minute…” he trailed off, having finally turned to look at me. He appeared truly startled for a second before his expression smoothed.
I fidgeted as he stared, his dark eyes gleaming calculatingly. “What?” I asked, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt.
He smiled, and I was a little thrown by the whiteness of his teeth – the color looked almost as artificial as the expression itself. “You know what? Forget it. Everyone makes mistakes.”
I frowned. “Really?” I asked skeptically, experiencing some whiplash at his sudden change of heart. Oxxford’s ability to change moods rivaled another man’s I knew.
Of course, I would have believed in his sincerity a bit more if he had let go of my wrist.
I subtly tried to pull it out of his grasp, but his fingers tightened around my limb like immovable, fleshy shackles. “Sure. After all,” he paused, eyeing me up and down, “I’m sure you can find some… other way to make it up to me.”
…What?
Surely he didn’t mean…
I nervously licked my lips, trying to ignore the way his eyes darted to my mouth at the movement. I tugged a bit more insistently at my arm. “What are you talking about?” I asked tightly.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Oxxford asked, ignoring my obvious discomfort altogether.
“Wisp,” I muttered reluctantly, turning to peek at the bar, but Gemma was still missing.
“Wisp?” He repeated incredulously before laughing – the sound of it was loud and grating in my ears. “Your parents hippies or something?”
Impossibly, my face reddened further. “I don't know,” I mumbled, but he either didn’t hear me, or he didn’t care.
“Sounds like a stripper name to me,” one of his friends – the one in the Armani suit – suggested lewdly, going so far as to wiggle his eyebrows at me.
There was more laughter.
But none of it came from me. I was far from amused. In fact, I was the exact opposite of amused. Mortified, embarrassed, stuck would have all been better descriptors. Trapped was even better. As trapped as the panic I could feel lodged in my chest.
“Nah, she’s way too sweet-looking,” another disagreed. I didn’t recognize the brand of suit he wore. The material looked less expensive than what his buddies were wearing, and the fit was a bit off in the shoulders. He had probably gotten it off the rack somewhere. (How did I know this?)
I didn’t have much time to ponder where my sudden knowledge of men’s suits came from, though, because a second later, Oxxford was pulling me forward, my hip banging clumsily against the corner of the table as he dragged me into his lap.
“What are you doing?” I demanded – squeaked, more like, as I tried to get my suddenly racing heart under control.
“I think you know,” he said, grabbing my other wrist with his free hand and holding me in place, my back to his chest in his lap.
“Let go of me,” I grit out between clenched teeth, desperately trying to keep the panic I could feel rising in my chest at bay as I attempted to squirm away.
“Just relax,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear before he had the nerve to actually run his teeth along the shell of it.
I jammed my elbow into his side, digging the sharp joint as hard as I could into his ribs in retaliation. Oxxford grunted in surprise, but his grip around my wrists didn’t loosen.
“I said to let go of me,” I repeated, injecting as much authority in my voice as possible.
He snorted in amusement. “Someone likes it rough,” he teased.
My stomach churned at the hideous cliché.
One of his buddies laughed, but the other – the one in the cheap suit – finally started to look uncomfortable. “Ah, come on, man. Let her go.”
“Relax, I’m not hurting her,” Oxxford assured his friend.
My sore wrists begged to differ.
Speaking of, he wrestled my caught wrists behind me, trapping them between our bodies with one hand before wrapping his free arm around my waist, effectively pinning me into place. With my arms stuck at my sides, I had no chance of elbowing him again. “I’m just teaching this chick a lesson. She needs to learn her place in the world.” His mouth brushed against my ear again. “FYI, it’s in the lap of a sugar daddy.”
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, the crap spewing from his mouth was so ridiculous.
But any urge I had to laugh disappeared when I felt him press a dry kiss against the side of my neck. “Stop it!” I demanded sharply, craning my neck to the side in an effort to both get as far away from him as possible and glance back at the bar. But Gemma still wasn’t back, and no one else seemed to notice what was happening. Even Ash was distracted, talking to some middle-aged woman at the bar.
A cold ribbon of fear curled in my stomach.
I jerked when I felt a hand suddenly playing with the hem of my shirt. Clammy fingers pressed against the softness of my belly before curling around my hipbone and dipping into the waistband of my jeans. “Come on, now. Don’t be that way, honey.”
I stiffened, my thoughts stuttering to a stop as I processed Derek’s nickname for me coming out of this jerk’s mouth. Anger finally overtook the fear within me, and acting purely on instinct, I threw my head backwards as hard as I could.
Crunch.
“Fuck!” Oxxford spat, simultaneously standing and shoving me forward in shock.
I managed to get my hands out in front of me in time to catch my fall, but my knees still collided harshly with the hardwood floor. I was vaguely aware of the sound of Oxxford’s chair toppling to the ground.
Desperately trying to keep the volatile mix of anger, fear, and hurt contained, I looked up, only to be met with the sight of everyone in the bar staring – at me.
Which, of course, would have been a lot more helpful, say, five minutes ago.
I didn’t have time to be embarrassed, though, because in the next second, Oxxford was sweeping his arm across the table, his drink and his buddies’ crashing to the ground and glass shattering everywhere.
“You bitch!” he spat, prowling forward and roughly hauling me up from the ground by my bicep. His grip on my arm was harsh – bruising, even – as he pulled me forward, forcing me on my tip-toes. I was nose-to-nose with the tyrant and couldn’t stop a spark of satisfaction from igniting in me at the sight of dark red – nearly black – blood gushing from his nostrils.
“Hey!” Ash – bless him – yelled from across the bar, finally gathering his bearings enough to interfere. He rushed across the room in hurried strides. “What do you think you’re doing? Let go of her.”
Mr. Oxxford didn’t seem overly intimidated, his grip around my arm only tightening. “What are you going to do about it, cowboy? Huh?”
Ash gaped for a second, like he was used to people blindly following his orders and he didn't know what to do now that someone wasn’t. His hands began instinctively searching his waist – probably for a gun holster or a pair of handcuffs he didn’t have. “I… I’ll…”
But I never got the chance to hear what he was going to do. Because a new voice, a familiar voice – much darker and gritty in its intensity – rang out from behind him. “I’ll fucking kill you.”