by Carrie Elks
Halfway Hidden
By
Carrie Elks
Halfway Hidden by Carrie Elks
Published by Mayhem Publishing Copyright © 2013 Carrie Elks
All rights reserved
Amazon Kindle Edition
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Content Warning: This story contains scenes of an explicit, erotic or violent nature and is intended for adults 18+. Story includes graphic language and sexual situations.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Want to get an email when my next book is released?
Chapter One
It was busy for a Tuesday night. Not Friday busy, but full enough. The end of the week saw workers from the local mines getting their paychecks and drinking them up the wall. By Tuesdays, customers were usually down to a trickle. Maybe this week they’d all been saving their pennies, hiding enough away from their wives so they could escape to the only drinking hole in town. Whatever the reason, Rachel was happy the bar was packed. She was glad to have a distraction from her thoughts. It beat having time to dwell on the past.
The old-timers at the corner table were nursing their beers and people-watching, while a group of younger men gathered around the pool table, placing their dollar bills on the side. Rachel had been working here for over a year, and in that time she’d seen the faces change; some married, others had babies and their beer money was needed to buy diapers or pay the rent. They were fast replaced by fresh-faced boys when they turned twenty-one and could legally drink. Working in the mines may have paid good money, but the dark, manual labor aged them faster than the desert sun.
Her boss, Buddy, usually worked nights until ten before driving home with the takings, leaving Rachel to finish the evening and clean up. Most nights it was past one thirty before she could climb the steep stairs to the apartment above the bar, dragging her weary legs beneath her. Tonight he’d stayed later and was sitting on a stool he’d pulled around from the other side of the bar. His elbows were resting on the counter as he watched Rachel washing the dirty glasses.
She moved away from the sink and loosened the stiff muscles in her back. Her heels ached from standing on them all day. The soles of her shoes had worn down so much it felt like she was standing in her bare feet.
“You doing all right?” His voice was worn and thin, much like his body. Somehow he always managed to make her smile. He’d given her a job and a roof over her head when nobody else would. For that, she’d always be grateful.
“I’m good. Why don’t you get on home? I’m sure Marianne’s wondering where you are.” It was nearly ten thirty, and she knew Buddy’s wife would be worried. Ever since his last heart attack, Marianne had treated him like a sickly child, fussing over him until it drove him crazy. As she stacked the last clean glass in the drying rack, Rachel recalled the haunted look on Marianne’s face when she described the way she’d found him on the bathroom floor, a bruise spreading across his forehead where he’d banged it on the sink. There was no way any of them wanted to go through that again.
“I’ll cash out and leave you some change for tomorrow.” Buddy twisted on his stool until the register was in front of him. “Looks like we had a good night.” A good night’s takings for Buddy’s was a bad night elsewhere, but somehow they made enough to keep things going. Buddy had owned the bar for thirty years and it had nearly paid its way, leaving enough for him and Marianne to live a modest life. Rachel didn’t get much of a wage, but the roof over her head and a safe place to stay was enough for now. She’d worry about her future when she’d forgotten about her past.
A loud roar of laughter from the pool table caught her attention, and she whipped her head around to see young Jace standing with the cue above his head. His hips swayed in a gyrating victory dance as he celebrated his win. A few of the guys were patting him on the back, hollering with congratulations, while others slinked away, their faces falling when they realized their beer money for the week had gone up in smoke. A week of self-induced abstinence wouldn’t sit well with the losers.
There wasn’t a whole lot to do in Hillbrook apart from working, sleeping, eating, and drinking, and having to stay away for a few days would definitely piss them off. Rachel kept her eye on them, not wanting any trouble. It had only taken a few weeks of working there to decide who was bad news and who wasn’t. Luckily, the worst of them were carousing elsewhere tonight.
“Hey, Rachel, bring me another beer?” Jace called out, his eager eyes seeking her out. He reminded her of a stray dog, desperate to please, hungry for whatever attention he could get. “And maybe a little kiss as well?”
“Shut the hell up, Daniels.” Richie, a foreman from the mine, rubbed Jace’s mop of hair. “You know she don’t go for boys.”
“She don’t go for men, neither,” another voice butted in, and it took Rachel a moment to recognize it. The deep timbre belonged to a crew member who’d asked her out more times than she cared to remember. “Rachel’s a good girl.”
She suppressed a grimace, knowing how wrong he was. Grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, she let the glass bottle cool her palm as she popped the cap. She had to take a deep, calming breath before she walked around the bar and out into the main area, trying to stroll so her butt didn’t sway. She could feel every eye in the room watching her like she was a piece of meat. She hated being the center of attention; maybe that was why she tried to keep herself covered up with jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. By the time she got to the pool table and handed Jace his beer, her face was already flushed with the embarrassment of a girl who preferred to fly under the radar.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Jace pulled her to him, his arm curling around her waist. He kissed her forehead with surprisingly soft lips. Rachel pulled back before he could do anything else; his touch on her skin burned. Without a glance behind her, she shot straight back to the bar, welcoming the protective barrier between herself and the rest of the world.
When she got back to the bar, the relief that washed over her was immediate. She felt safe there, behind four feet of brick and wood. She didn’t do waitress service often, particularly on nights she was working alone, but when she did, she was reminded of how far she had to go.
Until she became the woman she used to be.
Before David.
Buddy locked up the cash box, chewing on his pencil as he tallied up the night’s takings. He looked about ready to call it a night. “Make sure you get rid of these yahoos before one,” he reminded her. “I’ve asked Richie to hang around ‘til closing time, just in case.”
“I’ll be fine,” Rachel reassured him. She exhaled softly, relieved he was listening to her for once. “You’ve got all the money anyway. I can’t see anybody coming to rob me tonight.”
“You got your gun?”
She nodded. “In my purse.” She’d never had to use it, but it was there, nonetheless. Her small handgun was one of the few things which gave her enough comfort to sleep at night. It wasn’t that she was scared as much as wary. In her first week at Buddy’s, she plotted four different
escape routes from the bar.
Just in case she needed to make a quick getaway. In case he ever found her.
“Well, I’ll see ya ‘round lunch time tomorrow.” Buddy glanced to the old dial phone on the wall. “Gimme a holler if you need me.”
“Will, do, but I still wish we could get a cordless phone. You know, in case I’ve fallen and can’t get up.” Rachel winked. Buddy knew she was kidding with him. The reality was, though, that Hillbrook’s archaic communication lines was one of the reasons she’d chosen to stay.
“Take care, Bud. It’s wicked cold out there.” Her words made Buddy smile. Her turn of phrase and long vowels marked her as an outsider, and they never failed to tickle him. Tonight was no different. His lips remained upturned as he walked out of the bar and into the cold winter evening, his heavy feet shuffling across the floor.
It was hard not to worry about Buddy, and she knew the old dog fretted about her. It was like they were made for each other, their father-daughter relationship helping them both to feel a little more grounded. From the day he gave her the job, she knew at least one person in town was on her side. And it was a good feeling. Like she wasn’t on her own anymore.
The rush of the evening started to wane, with the men leaving to grab some sleep before their early morning start. The old-timers went first, their mugs finally empty save for a little froth, having neither the cash nor the bladder control to buy more than a half pint a night. Rachel used the quiet time to wash up the bar, using bleach and then a fresh damp cloth to wipe along the counter. Somebody put money in the jukebox—she’d bet a dollar it was Jace, feeling flush with victory and dollars. Springsteen’s deep, gritty voice filled the room, and a few of the younger men joined in. Rachel hummed as she cleaned, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder to keep it away from the wet counters, letting her hips sashay behind the protection of the bar.
“Can I get a drink?” The voice startled her and she froze for a moment, glancing up at the mirror lining the wall behind the bar. The stranger stared back at her, his face reflected in the glass. Their eyes met and she dropped her cloth, the fabric square falling to the wooden floor. She took a deep breath, trying to still her racing heart before turning around with a smile painted on her lips.
“Sure, what can I get you?”
It was as if he’d appeared out of nowhere. A ghost walking through walls.
“What beers you got?” Like hers, the stranger’s voice seemed out of place. It was an accent that unnerved her to the bone. She hadn’t heard it for more than a year, save coming out of her own mouth. All she had to do was close her eyes, and it was like she was back in Boston.
“You want draft or bottle?” Her lips were dry as hell, and she snaked her tongue out to moisten them. The stranger kept his gaze glued to her face as he considered the options, fingers tapping gently on the bar. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his thick hair showing no signs of grey. His face remained unlined, though peppered with light stubble, the dark-blond scruff shadowing his jaw. He was good looking too, in that rugged, tough way that some guys were. Even sitting on the bar stool, she could tell he was a big man: tall and built. The thick muscles of his chest fought with the fabric of his t-shirt to make themselves known, and the muscles were winning. It felt like the temperature had risen by forty degrees. She pulled at the neckline of her sweater to fan her skin.
“I’ll stick with a bottle.” His eyes shifted around the room as he spoke.
“We’ve got Bud, Coors, Miller, or Michelob.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No local brew?” His gaze travelled over her shoulder to the cooler behind. As he scanned the shelves, she wondered if he didn’t believe her first answer.
“There’s a microbrewery in the next town over, but we only stock their draft. The boys tell me the Amber Ale is good.” She motioned over at the pump handles. “You want to give it a try?”
He shook his head, bringing his gaze firmly back to her eyes. “I prefer bottled.”
She shrugged, trying not to flinch away from his stare. “Your choice.”
He tipped his head to the side, a grin threatening to pull at his lips. “I’ll take a Bud.”
She reached down to the fridge and grabbed a bottle, turning to the opener screwed to the wall.
“I prefer to open it myself.” The stranger pulled his keys out from his bag. A bottle opener was attached to the ring, along with a pile of other keys. Rachel raised her eyebrows before leaning over and handing him the unopened bottle. This was a new one on her.
“Don’t you trust me?” Her voice rose up a little at the end. Jeez, was she flirting with this guy?
“Don’t take it personal, sweetheart. I don’t trust anybody.” Though his words were serious, there was a lightness to his tone. She could feel her lips drying up again. Was it normal for a heart to beat that fast?
“I bet you never drink draft.”
“Depends where I am.” He passed her the cap, their skin glancing briefly as he transferred the metal disc into her hand. She closed her fingers around it, the jagged metal edges biting into her palm. Moistening her lips again, she tried not to stare at his mouth and the small scar leading from the corner to his jaw. She really wanted to ask him how he got it.
Every scar told a story; life had taught her that. If she traced it with her fingers, she wondered if she’d be able to read him like a blind man reading braille, the raised skin telling secrets his lips never could. When he tried to sleep at night, did his scar burn as much as hers?
She turned away, throwing the cap into the trash can beneath the bar, swallowing away the bitter taste of her memories.
“Shit, I needed that.” His voice was low and mellow, his beer already half gone. If Rachel had drunk that much in one go, she’d be weaving all over the bar by now. The way she was feeling, maybe it would have been a good idea.
“You new in town?” She leaned on the counter, resting her chin on her hand.
The stranger looked at her through dark green eyes and placed the bottle down in front of him. His lips were damp with beer, foam clinging to them like jetsam to a wave. He licked it away with a swipe of his tongue.
“I’ve got some business in Addison. I took a wrong turn back on the highway and ended up here.” Running a large finger around the rim of his bottle, he glanced up at her. “The weather isn’t looking too hot, so I thought I’d take a break.”
She wondered what kind of business he had in the next town over.
“Is it looking like snow?” A native Bostonian, she was used to the cold weather. It made her laugh every time snow ground things to a halt.
“Cold enough to.” He took another mouthful. “I guess we’ll see.”
“I’m Rachel, by the way.” She offered her hand to him, and he shook it fiercely. Her cheeks burned when they touched.
“Murphy.”
She assumed it was his surname, but his short words and his large body made her afraid to ask. He seemed closed off, filled with muscle and adrenaline. Energy radiated from him, washing over her skin, making her feel edgy and out of sorts. She wasn’t sure if she liked the sensation.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Murphy.” She was reluctant to pull her hand away, liking the way his fist warmed her skin. For a moment she stood still, her eyes fixed on his, and gave her body up to the strange feelings shooting through it.
“I’m fixing for one last drink, honey,” Jace called from farther up the bar. “Can you make it a pint this time?” Unlike Murphy, Jace drank both bottle and draft, often choosing the microbrew when he had the cash. His win tonight had obviously oiled his wallet.
Rachel pulled her hand back and twisted to grab a fresh glass. Tipping it forty-five degrees beneath the tap, she pulled the handle on the bar until the beer started to flow. It had taken her a while to learn the right way to pour, but now she was an expert, always managing to get around half an inch of foam at the top of the glass.
Jace took the proffered beer and handed Rachel the
exact change. His fingers curled around hers and she had to pull back, trying not to notice when he smiled at her in his crooked, half-hopeful way. She shook her head, as much in amusement as denial, and walked back to Murphy. Sometimes, she wondered if Jace would ever get the hint.
Murphy continued to tap against the bar with his large fingertips, even though the music had stopped. For a long moment she wanted to hop over the counter, feed some coins into the jukebox, and get the big guy to dance with her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really let herself go.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked, sounding mildly curious.
“Jace?” she clarified, her voice incredulous. “Hell, no. I’m not a cradle robber.”
Murphy raised his brow. “He can’t be much different in age to you. How old are you anyway?”
Rachel laughed, catching his eye again. A half-smile was pulling at his lips, and he was leaning forward, like he really wanted to know. “Didn’t your momma teach you it was rude to ask that sort of question?”
“Come on. You can’t be any older than twenty-five.” Murphy winked at her.
“I’m twenty-eight, and Jace is twenty-one. It isn’t happening.”
Glancing sideways in Jace’s direction, Rachel thought it wouldn’t happen even if he was older. He’d lived in Hillbrook all his life, gone to school with the same boys he worked with, and knew the first names of pretty much everybody who lived in the town. He thought of Rachel as a “purty” lady with a strange accent, a nice simple girl like the ones who worked in the mine offices.
But she was anything but simple. Sometimes she looked at those girls, ones with nice names like Becky and Laura, and could feel her chest contract with jealousy. She wished she could sit in the diner with her legs swinging and her nail polish chipping, flirting with the boys in the booth across from her. Like the guys from the mines, the girls aged fast—hair whitened and teeth yellowed by a mixture of poor nutrition and plump babies. But there were worse things in life than growing old alongside a man who thought the world of you. Rachel knew that from experience.
