The question hit harder than expected.I forced myself to think of an answer anyway.“Probably swinging a hammer somewhere, still wondering why nothing ever stuck.”
“Yeah.”He nodded.“That’s what I figured.”
Then he stepped into the fading light and disappeared.
Silence filled the space he left.Despite the fact I wore the patch, I stayed out of club politics unless they asked for my opinion.
The clock read six forty-five.Fifteen minutes to open.I rinsed the glasses, checked my reflection.Dark hair overdue for a cut, hazel eyes dulled by long nights, jaw shadowed by two days of neglect.Good enough.I flipped the sign and waited for the noise to start.
By nine,The Broken Spokepulsed in full swing.Boots struck wood, laughter sliced through the bass pounding from the jukebox.Heat thickened the air -- beer and sweat mingling as a ghost of cigarette smoke curled in from the patio.Locals, bikers, and college kids crowded shoulder to shoulder.I moved behind the bar on autopilot, my hands working while my mind stayed alert.Watch the corners, the drunks, and the ones who linger too long.
Jenna wove through tables, her tray balanced high, hair pulled back, expression calm.Knuckles, Stringer, and a Prospect I hadn’t bothered remembering yet occupied the corner booth.They kept to themselves but missed nothing.Raptor territory extended through every inch ofThe Spoke, a silent warning outsiders rarely ignored.
I poured drafts, slid bottles, counted bills.The trick came down to knowing which trouble would fade and which demanded a hand.Pool table arguments usually burned out fast.Jealous boyfriends didn’t.
The jukebox switched to something modern and forgettable.The college crowd whooped.I let the song play.Money spent the same no matter what they danced to.
A man in a Stetson nursed his beer near the end of the bar.I slid him a fresh one before he asked.He nodded and left a five.“Keep the change.”
I picked up the bill and moved on, adding to the register, then wiping the counter.Noise climbed high enough I read lips more than voices.Someone yelled for tequila.Someone else wanted food.I poured the shots, pointed toward the vending machine.Routine held -- until the shift came.
Every bartender recognized the instant when the room’s energy went sour.A drunk stumbled from the bar, weaving through bodies, knocking into a woman in a black dress.A drink arced through the air and splashed across her chest.She gasped.The man beside her -- boyfriend, husband, whatever -- went rigid.His fists clenched, eyes hard.
“The hell’s your problem?”he barked.
The drunk blinked, swaying.“Sorry, man.Didn’t see her.”
“You didn’t see her?”Another step closer.“You blind?”
The woman tried to calm him.“Baby, let it go.It was an accident.”
He ignored her.“Look at her.Dress is ruined.”
The drunk lifted both hands.“I’ll buy her another.”
“You’ll do more than that.”
The crowd hushed.I left the bar, moving slow, unhurried.Fast movement would only spark fire.I stepped between them, voice low.“Problem?”
The boyfriend turned, eyes narrowing as he sized me up.He measured the distance, my stance, my build.I stood easy, hands loose, but every muscle ready.
“He spilled his drink on my girl,” he said.
I looked at the drunk.“True?”
“Didn’t mean to.”His voice slurred.“Accident.”
The woman used a napkin to dab her dress, cheeks pink.“I’m fine.Really.”
The boyfriend opened his mouth, but I cut in.“Next round’s on the house.”
He blinked.“What?”
“Next round.For both of you.”I faced the drunk.“You’re done.I’ll call a cab.”
The drunk nodded hard enough to almost fall again.“Yeah.Sorry.”
The boyfriend hesitated, jaw tight, but the fight drained from his shoulders.His girl touched his arm.“Come on, baby.Let’s just get another drink.”
