But still, I stood there, watching, gripping the gun for a long time, waiting for a monster to melt out of the trees.
I decided a change of scenery might help me with my hallucinations. The house felt far too empty, the woods far too full. I wasn’t one to scare easily, and I would be able to defend myself if the occasion called for it, but I needed space from my laptop.
From the words on it.
The book I was becoming proud of and scared of right at the same time.
So, I soaked in the bath—washing off my filth, not pulling the blinds that gave me views of the forest and the forest views of me. I wanted to show it I wasn’t scared of it. Show myself too.
But I didn’t linger in the bath.
I told myself it was because I was anxious for the whisky and whatever awaited me at Deacon’s bar.
We hadn’t spoken since the altercation here last week. To be fair, I hadn’t even bothered to text or call him with an apology. Because I wasn’t exactly sorry. He wasn’t stupid, I hadn’t hidden who I was. He was a bartender, even if it was in a tiny town on the edge of a forest. He knew people. He’d seen things. Naïve, he was not.
It was going to be interesting to see whether he was one to hold a grudge. To hold on to that anger that had surprised me and scared me, just a little, because he had hidden that. A violent type of fury that didn’t care whether I was a woman or not an ex-Navy Seal or whatever it was. All he had saw—in that moment, at least—was someone who he wanted to hurt.
It was a cause to wonder, was there something there? Had I hit a nerve? Did women with the upper hand anger him to blackout? Rejection?
Sure, I didn’t really think he was pouring whiskys by day and butchering women on his days off, though that would make for a story.
He didn’t really fit the profile. Attractive to the point of sexy. Muscled. Strong. Sure of himself.
But I had been wrong before.
Just not about something that may or may not get me murdered by a bartender-turned-serial killer if I was right.
Nevertheless, I blow-dried my hair, put on leather pants so tight they looked sprayed on, stiletto boots, a cashmere sweater—black too—a strong winged liner, and a heavy coat.
It had snowed last night. Not enough to settle, but enough to promise a bitter winter and make the air take a bite out of you as soon as you stepped outside.
I liked that.
My car did not.
Driving back from Saint’s house this morning was not a fun time. He had not been happy I had flat-out refused his ride and suggested I needed a new car. I was inclined to agree, just not out loud.
It did survive the trip into town, which I was thankful for.
Now, I just hoped I survived the trip into the bar.
Chapter 13
“He liked watching her work. She got lost in it. So lost she didn’t notice he was there, right there, watching her. Imagining how her skin would open. What her screams might sound like bouncing off the trees. No one would hear them. Except him. It would be time. Soon. He hated himself for it all. But not enough to stop.”
It was busier than I’d seen it in early afternoon. I scrunched my nose, trying to think of what day it was. A weekend? Was that why more people seemed to be on the streets, smiling at me, greeting me, and generally acting horrifying.
I tended to forget the days of the week, since it didn’t matter what day it was. I didn’t have set days to write. No nine to five.
Thank god.
It might’ve killed me.
As it was, I routinely missed meetings, conferences, and any kind of date until I hired a competent assistant who resembled a drill sergeant. That was who was taking care of all of my affairs in New York. He knew how much I hated checking in with anyone, hence me only having received a handful of emails about important things. Which was why I paid him so much and planned on giving him any organs he ever needed.
I frowned at the chair I considered “mine” right at the bar and the person sitting in it. Sure, I’d only been in this town for over a month, but I felt a claim to that stool.
If I was honest, I felt a claim to this place in general.
This bar was not like the rest of the town. Not decorated with kitschy souvenirs, warm, welcoming. It was dark, dingy, patroned by the addicted and the damned.
Which was why I liked it so damn much.
Now, the lights were brighter. Music was more cheerful. Laughter and happiness peppered through the air. There were waitresses. I had never glimpsed a young, perky-breasted waitress here before. But here they were, carrying trays of beer and fried food.
I almost wanted to turn around and stomp back out. But there weren’t any other dive bars in the area. Plus, I didn’t feel like going home to the empty house full of ghosts and unwritten manuscripts.
And if I didn’t go home, I might find myself scratching my car even further by driving toward Saint’s house. It made sense that the mere act of visiting the man damaged things.
So, I scowled and dragged myself onto the only seat at the end of the bar. The sun streaming in through the windows shone right on my freaking face. I didn’t come here for Vitamin D.
I came to escape the sun and all vitamins.
Deacon’s eyes darted toward me as he took the top off a beer. They narrowed, but didn’t turn straight-up murderous. Which might’ve been because he’d cooled off sufficiently. Or because there were too many witnesses.
Whatever it was, he didn’t drop everything and come to serve me. Which pissed me right off. But I respected it.
The time waiting gave me a chance to inspect the bar. It was like it had changed completely. A glance at my phone told me it was the weekend, which made sense. These wholesome people obviously only let themselves day drink on socially approved parts of the week.
I was careful not to make eye contact with anyone and give off an impression I came to a bar to socialize.
Though I wasn’t successful.
The man that came up to me wasn’t bad-looking. He was young. Fake tanned. Muscled in a way that made me suspect he abused steroids. His white shirt was one size too tight. Ditto with the jeans. He was either here for the holiday—hadn’t it just been Thanksgiving?—or he lived here and I had been blessed enough not to encounter him thus far.
“Are you Magnolia Grace?” he asked, smiling, holding his beer in that confident casual way that all men like this seemed to.
I gritted my teeth. Of all the lines he could’ve come up with? I was tempted to lie, say no, turn in my seat, and hopefully force him away. But I’d never deny being who I was. The mere fact he knew me by my face was annoying but a testament to my success. To the way I marketed myself. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it?
“Yes, I am,” I replied. I made sure to make my voice terse, annoyed, my face devoid of a friendly smile, eyes empty of warmth.
It didn’t dissuade this man. Of course it didn’t. “Wow, I heard you’d moved here but I thought Charlie had just lost his mind.”
That wasn’t out of the question.
I didn’t offer anything to this statement.
“I’m Troy,” he offered.
“Of course you are.”
His smile dimmed, ever so slightly. “My mom, she loves your books.”
I didn’t smile. “Be sure to tell her this story then.” I didn’t keep the snipe from my voice.