She hesitated, then hugged me quick and hard.“You’re a good boss, Ace.”
I nodded, unsure what to say.She handed me the key to the bar before she climbed into her car, started the engine, and backed out.Headlights swept across the gravel, fading as she turned toward the road.The night swallowed her taillights.
I stood for a while, hands in pockets, listening to the crickets and distant hum of traffic.Then I turned back inside.The few stragglers had gotten to their feet and shuffled their way outside.
The bar felt hollow.Empty bottles and crumpled napkins littered the tables.I locked the door, flipped the sign to Closed, and went through the motions -- sweeping, stacking chairs, cleaning the counter.The rhythm soothed me, simple and predictable.The jukebox stayed silent.Only the hum of the coolers filled the air.
I counted the till, sorted bills, stacked coins, and locked the cash away.A steady night.Nothing more.My reflection in the mirror looked older, tired, jaw rough from stubble.A face marked by years and shadows behind the eyes.
The staffing problem loomed large now.Jenna had held this place together.Without her, I’d need help fast.I’d start making calls in the morning.For now, I wanted sleep.
I killed the lights, leaving only the glow of the neon sign outside.The door locked behind me, a solidclickmarking my exit.Cool air met my face as I crossed the lot to my truck.Stars burned bright overhead, and the road home stretched long and empty.I drove on instinct, mind already circling schedules and names.
RunningThe Spokedemanded everything I had.Short-staffed or not, I’d find a way to keep the place alive.
I always did.
Chapter Two
Marci
The Honda’s engine ticked while heat faded, each sharp sound far too loud in the afternoon quiet.I sat behind the wheel, hands locked around the steering wheel, knuckles white, and counted my breaths the way I’d trained myself to do whenever panic climbed my throat.One.Two.Three.The parking lot stretched empty before me except for a single pickup truck near the building’s entrance, and I’d already checked every mirror twice to make sure no one had followed me here.
The Broken Spokehunched low under the Oklahoma sky, weathered boards faded from sun and storms, neon sign quiet during daylight hours.The whole place looked tired and rough around the edges, the kind of bar where broken people carried wounds behind their eyes, where forgetting felt easier than healing.
I peeled my fingers from the steering wheel, joints stiff from the grip.Shaking returned, small at first, then stronger once my focus locked on the tremor.Two years of this -- two years since I’d walked away from everything I knew, carrying only a backpack and clothes from a life better left behind.I learned to hide the tremor.Learned to keep my hands busy, to move like I belonged anywhere, even on days when my balance barely held.
AHelp Wantedsign waited in the window, same place I saw yesterday during a slow drive through town.I had bartended, waitressed, cleaned houses, taken any job paying cash, asking no questions.Those jobs kept me fed and moving forward.My ribs remembered hunger.My heart remembered the way loss hollowed me out.
I drew a breath rough enough to scrape my throat and reached for the door handle.One step at a time.Survive first.Trust later.
I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror.Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup except a touch of lip gloss I’d worried off an hour ago.I looked tired.I looked like someone who’d been running for too long.But I also looked ordinary, forgettable, and the point settled heavy in my chest.
The door handle felt slick under my palm as I pushed the door open.Heat washed over me in an instant, thick afternoon warmth turning every breath into work.I locked the car -- muscle memory by now, even though nothing inside held any value -- and started across the parking lot.
Each step carried a quiet prayer for a place where I could disappear, earn enough to survive, and not draw attention.Ordinary helped.Forgettable kept doors from slamming in my face.I clung to both, even when my heart begged for something more.
Gravel crunched under my sneakers.I kept my gaze moving, scanning the tree line beyond the building, the road I’d just come from, the shadows under the eaves where someone could wait unseen.Old habits.Survival instincts kept me alive this long.I couldn’t let go of those instincts, no matter how hard I tried to believe safety waited here for me.
The hinges announced my entrance in a drawn-outcreak, a sharp warning dragging tension through my shoulders.Inside, the bar sat dim and cool, the smell of old beer and wood polish settling over me like a memory I didn’t know I needed.My eyes took a moment to adjust, shapes forming slowly from the gloom.Tables and chairs.A long bar, bottles lined up behind the counter.A jukebox quiet in the corner, waiting for someone brave enough to wake the music.
A small part of me wanted to collapse into the comfort promised by that familiar scene.A larger part stayed on guard, ready for danger around every shadow.Hope and fear fought under my skin, and neither side won.
And a man.
He straightened from a crouch beside a stack of crates, turning toward me in an unhurried movement conveying complete awareness of his surroundings.Tall -- easily over six feet.Broad through the shoulders from real labor, not hours in a gym.Dark hair needing a cut, hazel eyes finding mine and holding my gaze through an intensity strong enough to steal a breath from my lungs.
“We’re closed.”His voice was deep, measured.It didn’t need to be raised to command attention.
“I saw the sign.TheHelp Wantedsign.I was hoping to talk to someone about the position.”
He studied me for a long moment, and I forced myself not to fidget under his gaze.I’d gotten good at standing still, at appearing calm even when my pulse was hammering.He set down the clipboard he’d been holding and walked closer, his movements economical, controlled.
“What’s your name?”he asked.
“Marci.Marci Robbins.”
“I’m Ace.I manage this place.”He leaned against the bar, arms crossing over his chest.“You have experience?”
