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“Sure thing, hon.” Mandy places a comforting hand on my shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that doubles as an unspoken pact between us.
I watch her weave through the tables, queen of her surroundings. Mandy is good at her job. And in this place, where shadows loom long and dark, we’re all the kin we’ve got.
“Let ‘em talk,” I murmur to myself, focusing on the row of bottles before me, each one a silent ally in my nightly battle. “Words are just words.”
Another round of drinks ordered, another display of bravado from the men who think they own the world, or at least this tiny corner of it. I mix and pour, finding solace in the rhythm, in the certainty of actions and reactions.
“Here’s to you, Jane,” Ricky calls out, raising his glass in a mock salute.
“To me,” I answer, tipping an imaginary hat with a flourish of my hand.
But inside, there’s a fire blazing, a defiance that keeps me standing tall when lesser spirits might crumble. I am fierce, unyielding, my resolve forged in the crucible of their disdain.
As the night wanes and the crowd thins, Mandy catches my eye from across the room, her expression telling me it’s almost time to close up shop. Almost time to shed the role of bartender and become just Jane again. Jane who dreams of more than the confines of this life.
“Last call,” I announce, my voice steady as the first streaks of dawn threaten the horizon outside. “Drink up, ladies and gentlemen.”
And as the final patrons stagger out into the coming day, I take stock of the battlefield—stained glasses, sticky floors, the lingering echoes of raucous laughter and I know that despite everything, I’ll be back behind this bar when evening falls. It’s not just a job, it’s who I am.
“Good job tonight,” Mandy says softly, helping me to lock the doors.
“Survived another one,” I respond, the hint of a genuine smile playing on my lips.
Together, we step out into the cool morning air, ready to face whatever comes our way.
CHAPTER 2
JANE
The neon sign flickers above the bar, a stuttering beacon in the dusky evening. I push through the heavy, wooden door, the hinges groaning like tired bones.
“Hey, Janie! How ‘bout a smile for us tonight?” hollers one of the regulars, Dale, a toothless grin splitting his weathered face as he slaps down a grimy dollar bill.
I force my lips into a semblance of a smile, pouring whiskey like it’s penance, feeling the weight of their stares.
“Keep your shirt on, Dale,” I say, sliding the glass his way, my voice threaded with mock sweetness. “Wouldn’t want you to get too excited,” I add under my breath, my hands steady but the burn in my chest flaring bright and hot.
The door creaks again, and a gust of cooler air sweeps through the haze. He saunters in, a silhouette cut from the night—Texas “Tex” Blackwood. The dim light catches on the edges of his rugged frame, carving him out of the darkness. He’s all broad shoulders wrapped in black leather, and when he steps into the light, those intense blue eyes sweep the room.
“Evenin’, Tex,” murmurs Sam from the end of the bar, his voice tinged with respect that borders on envy.
“Sam,” Tex acknowledges with a nod, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble before a storm. He perches on a stool at the far end of the bar.
My heart does a traitorous little skip, even as I tell myself it’s just the change in pace, nothing more. I’m wary of men, especially ones that come wrapped in mystery and motorcycle leather. But there’s something about him, something that makes me want to unravel his story thread by thread.
“Whiskey, neat,” he says, his gaze finding mine across the room. It’s a look that feels like a challenge, like a promise, and I can’t help but answer it as I stride over to take his order.
“Comin’ right up,” I reply, reaching for the good bottle because something tells me he’s not the type to stomach the cheap stuff. As I pour, I catch the flicker of appreciation in his eyes, and my pulse dances to a rhythm I thought I’d long since forgotten.
“What brings you back into town?” I ask, leaning against the bar, my arms crossed protectively over my chest.
“Passing through,” he answers, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
“Make sure it stays that way,” I warn, half-joking, half-serious. In this town, nothing good ever comes from sticking around too long.
“Wouldn’t dream of overstaying my welcome,” he assures me, his voice smooth as the whiskey he sips.
There’s a hum in the air, electric and alive, and I know Tex Blackwood is trouble. The kind that’s hard to resist, the kind that leaves a mark. But I’ve got enough scars, and I’m not looking for any new ones.
