Chapter one
The Beginning
Neon beer signs buzzed like angry wasps, and the wood of the bar top was so lacquered with spilled whiskey and cigarette burns it glistened, even under the mortuary gloom of dead lightbulbs. The usual crowd was there—drifters, day laborers, college kids looking to flirt with self-destruction—but every eye at least glanced up when Damron St. James walked through the door.
He wore his patch, a black leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, which said "ex-military" or "ex-con," take your pick. The bartender was new, or at least new to him. Female, thirties if he had to guess, with her hair in a practical ponytail and a blouse that had survived exactly one pass through an iron before surrendering to the night. She wiped glasses with clinical efficiency, eyes sharp and unafraid.
He liked that. He liked her. He took a seat at the far end, where he could watch the door, and the bartender drifted over. Up close, she was even better. Smelled faintly of cheap soap and limes. She set the glass down and eyed his patch.
“You with the Scythes?” she asked, voice crisp and low.
He nodded, not bothering with charm. “Whiskey, neat. Your best, which around here probably means not the stuff in the plastic jug.”
That got a smirk. “You want the top shelf, you pay up front.” She poured it smooth, steady, the bottle catching just enough neon to show she hadn’t lied—this was the good stuff.
He took the glass, ran his thumb along the rim. “How long you been behind the stick?”
She didn’t flinch. “Long enough.”
He sipped and let the burn smooth out his thoughts. “Long enough for what?”
She leaned in, close enough to show him the scar on her right hand—puckered and white, from a burn or maybe a bike wreck. “Long enough to know I should keep an eye on you.”
He grinned, all teeth and calculation. “You’re smarter than most.”
She leveled him with a look. “I’m a quick study. That’ll be eight bucks.”
He slid a ten across the wood. “Keep the change.”
She made the bill disappear, but her eyes lingered. “You got a name?”
He tapped his patch. “St. James.”
“Like the apostle,” she said.
He snorted. “If the apostle ran guns and liked his whiskey neat.”
She smiled, genuine this time, and moved to the far end to refill a regular’s beer. He watched her work, the efficiency, the rhythm. Every time she looked up, she caught him staring. Neither of them looked away.
The bar drifted toward last call, the drunks thinning out. He nursed his third whiskey and watched her tidy up, working the rag along the taps with a violence that said she had biggerthings to take out on the world. The old timer staggered out, followed by a couple of wannabe rebels. Just him and her now.
He finished his glass, waited for her to come back.
She did, leaning on the bar with both hands, knuckles white. “You planning to sit there all night, or just waiting for the right time to rob the place?”
He shrugged. “Depends. You planning to stop me?”
She straightened, rolled her shoulders like a boxer before a match. “I can take care of myself.”
He believed her. He liked her even more. He stood up, slow and deliberate. “You lock up soon?”
She nodded. “You going to help me, or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
He stepped around the bar, stopping a foot from her. She didn’t move back. They stood like that, close enough to smell each other’s sweat and adrenaline. He could feel the heat off her skin, the hard line of her jaw, the way her brown eyes dared him to try something. He took the dare and kissed her hard. She kissed him back, harder. Her hand curled in the collar of his jacket, pulling him in, her tongue sharp as broken glass. She tasted like whiskey and stubbornness. He pressed her against the beer cooler, his thigh wedged between hers, and her nails dug into the back of his neck. She bit his lip, and he grunted, liking the pain, matching it with a hand around her waist. The rag she’d been holding dropped to the floor. She pulled away, breath ragged.
“You always this forward?” she panted.
He grinned, wiped the blood from his mouth. “You always this game?”
