You Own My Heart (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake 4)

1

Every bar was the same. Didn’t matter if it was a high-end joint in the city, a pub in a strip mall, or a strip club on the wrong side of town. There was always that one guy. This one had been eyeballing Honey Harrison for the past two hours, waiting for the right moment to ask the question. By now, she was used to them and wondered which one it would be.

Where you from?

What’s with the tattoos?

You got a boyfriend?

“So, what’s your story?”

Ah. She grinned to herself. A new take on Where you from? Honey rimmed the glass in front of her with sugar, added two limes, and then plopped the impressive cocktail on the tray in front of her. “That’s last call.”

She gave a nod to the waitress before turning to the man sitting at her bar. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and the Coach House was winding down. The band had packed up their gear and were enjoying a few well-earned brews, while most of the customers were waiting on cabs or heading out into the snowy November night.

“I don’t have a story,” she replied. No biting rejoinder or sarcastic answer. He seemed nice enough, and, well, she was tired. The guy was a regular and came in every Wednesday night with a bunch of his pals for the beer, the band, and a few rounds of pool. Tonight, he’d come solo, most likely because of the holiday, and he’d been nursing a large draft for most of the night. He seemed nice enough, but Honey wasn’t interested. And if she was? It wouldn’t work. Nice and Honey didn’t fit. She needed an edge.

That was if she was looking—which she wasn’t—not really. Not in Crystal Lake, anyway. This town was full of nice people, genuinely nice people. And that went against everything she’d learned in her nearly twenty-five years on earth. In her experience, if someone was nice to you, they wanted something.

“Everyone has a story.” He smiled, looking hopeful. It was a nice smile. A vanilla smile. The guy had good teeth. She’d give him that.

“Look, Ben,” she began.

“It’s Glen.”

“What?” Now she was distracted.

“My name is Glen.” Again with the vanilla smile. “But hey, Ben…Glen… I can see why you’d get them confused.” He winked. “My wife used to do that all the time.”

“Wife?” she said sharply. That was a line she didn’t cross.

Glen’s face fell. “No. I mean, I’m not married anymore.”

“So you’re divorced.”

“No. Not yet.” He was stumbling over his words.

“You’re still married, then.”

“I guess. Separated. On my way to divorce.” Glen looked down, so she didn’t outright dismiss him.