I'm not used to women talking to me like this.
Usually they're falling all over themselves to please me, especially when they find out I'm connected to the club.
"Look, I didn't mean to overstep," I say, softening my approach. "Just don't like seeing a woman hurt."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or doubt.
Like she's not used to someone being genuinely concerned.
It's gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a careful, neutral expression.
"Well, thanks for your concern, but I can handle myself." She glances at the clock on the wall. "I'm closing up in ten minutes."
I take the hint and start to turn away, figuring I've struck out completely, when she adds, "I usually go next door for a drink after my shift. If you want to join me, that's your business."
I look back at her, trying to read her expression, but her face gives nothing away. "Next door, huh?"
"Yeah, it’s nothing fancy, but they pour a decent whiskey." She turns away, moving to another table, effectively dismissing me.
I find myself standing there like an idiot, watching her walk away. Whatever I expected when I approached her, it wasn't this.
Not this strange mix of ice and invitation.
I check my phone again.
I should head back to Joslynn's.
Mom's sent three more messages with more baby pictures.
My sister will give me hell if I'm late, but fuck I need some time to myself while I’m up here too.
I type out a quick reply:
Got caught up. Be there in a couple hours.
I throw some cash down on the table and leave Kelsey a handsome tip before disappearing next door.
The bar is exactly what you'd expect it to be next door, a total dive.
Wood paneling that hasn't been updated since the '70s, neon beer signs casting a blue-red glow over everything, and a jukebox that's playing country music just loud enough to make conversation difficult but not impossible.
After about twenty minutes and mid-way into my first drink, I spot her.
She's changed out of her work shirt into a simple black tank top that shows off arms that are surprisingly toned.
Her hair's still up in that messy bun, but she's washed her face, the makeup gone.
The bruise around her eye looks worse without the cover-up, a splash of purple and yellow heightened against her pale skin.
She walks right up to the bar and orders a whiskey neat. “Thanks, Sammy,” she tells the bartender.
Once she gets her drink, she makes her way over to me and takes the seat beside me.
"Didn't think I’d actually show, did you?" She laughs, not looking at me.
"Guess you’re full of surprises." I signal the bartender. "I’ll have another."
The bartender, a burly guy with a beard that could house a family of birds, slides another whiskey in front of me.