Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
It hasn't stopped me from snapping my head in the direction of every roar of a motorcycle or imagining the sound echoing around my house in the late hours of the night. I have no idea what exactly I want from Owen Clark, but it sure as hell isn't his ability to infiltrate my dreams and thoughts of him while I'm awake.
I've got no business spending my time wondering if he's found another bar to sit and scowl at, or if he found some other woman who reacted to him the way he needed in order to take action himself.
When I'm feeling strong, I know it's not normal for a man to act the way he does, but in my sleep and during moments of weakness, I long for that difference. I ache for him to take me away from this bone-deep boredom I feel, knowing it has nothing to do with Tennessee. I've been bored for most of my life. I want a little adventure in my life. I must be clinically insane for Owen to come to mind every time I ask myself what I'd rather be doing.
My mood shifts once again when I struggle to pull the overly full bag of trash from the can, barely managing to get it free before practically bending over backward. I tie the ends and replace the bag before carrying it through the door to the exit in the back.
I use the brick right outside to prop the door open, wishing, not for the first time, that Tommy would install better lighting back here. I practically have to use the sense of feel to get the lock off the trash can bin. Every bin in this part of Tennessee has one in order to keep the bears from pilfering through the trash. I feel madness creeping in as I consider the rustle in the woods that meets my ears as Owen coming to thrill me again, when there's a greater chance it's one of the fucking bears around here seeing an opportunity to pull the trash bag from my hand, rather than waiting in the darkness to see if they can get to it after I leave.
With a heightened sense of urgency, I manage to get the bin open and the bag inside, locking it back hastily. Just as I turn to go back inside, a car pulls up behind the bar, its headlights blinding me. I lift my arm in an attempt to try and see who would be coming around the back side of the bar.
The lights are quickly dimmed, but it takes several long seconds before the brightness fades from my vision.
I feel frozen in place, a hint of fear and something akin to disappointment because I know it isn't Owen. All I've ever seen him on is his motorcycle. He doesn't seem like the type of man who would lock himself away in anything that would be safe. The man is dangerous all the way around.
The back door of the bar swings open, and I watch as Tommy escorts a crying woman from the bar. Makeup smudges her face, mascara trailing down her reddened cheeks. Tommy looks damn near enraged as they approach the waiting car.
Tommy doesn't notice me until he opens the back door to the car and the driver who had to have noticed me the second he pulled up speaks to him. Tommy lifts his gaze to me, but it doesn't stop him from helping the woman into the back seat. When the door closes, he moves to lean over the passenger side door to speak with the driver before the car backs out and drives away.
Instead of walking toward me or offering me any sort of explanation for what I just witnessed, Tommy stares a hole through me for several very long seconds before turning and walking back into the bar without a word.
Unease settles inside of me as I head back into the bar, finding the narrow hallway completely empty. Tommy must've gone back into his office. I dart my eyes in that direction, wondering what the best course of action would be. Do I even have a right to ask him what the hell all that was? To see if that woman was okay? Is this one of those see-something, say-something situations?
The small handbell that Edith keeps on the counter for customers rings, pulling my focus back to my job.
Jersey holds up his empty beer bottle when I walk back into the main part of the bar, and I grab him a fresh one from the fridge on my way. I give him an easy smile, but he doesn't smile back.
"What's wrong?" I ask as I take the empty bottle and toss it into the freshly empty trash can, wincing when it thuds against the bottom.