* * *
I showed up fifteen minutes early wearing the plainest clothes I owned.Faded jeans washed so many times the denim felt soft as skin, a dark gray T-shirt hanging loose enough to hide my shape, and the same sneakers from earlier.No jewelry except a cheap watch for keeping track of time.I pulled my hair back again, tight enough to make my scalp ache, and skipped makeup entirely aside from a swipe of lip balm.
The goal was invisibility.Forgettable.A woman men’s gazes slid past without slowing, the sort who blended into the background and stayed there.I learned that lesson the hard way, learned beauty could turn dangerous fast, and could draw the wrong kind of attention.So I made myself plain.Made myself small.Safety required sacrifice.
The parking lot held more vehicles now than the afternoon had -- pickup trucks mostly, a handful of motorcycles, a sedan limping through another year.I locked my Honda and walked toward the entrance, stomach knotting from nerves unrelated to the job and entirely tied to being seen, being noticed, being remembered.
The door swung open before I reached the entry.Ace stood there, outlined by the dim interior light, and for a second, I froze.He simply nodded and pulled the door wider.
“Good.You’re early.”He stepped back to let me enter.“Come on.I’ll show you around before it gets crazy.”
Inside, the bar had transformed from the empty space I’d seen earlier.Lights were on now, though kept deliberately low.A few early customers had already claimed seats -- two men at the bar nursing beers, a couple at a corner table sharing a basket of what smelled like fried food.
“Register’s here.”Ace moved behind the bar.He was all business now, his voice brisk as he showed me the touchscreen system.“Pretty straightforward.Drinks are categorized by type.You ring it up, take payment, make change.Cash goes in the drawer, cards run through here.Got it?”
“Got it.”
He led me into the stock room next, a cramped space carrying the scent of cardboard and old concrete.Kegs lined one wall, cases of beer and liquor stacked on metal shelving.“Everything’s labeled.If we run out of something during your shift, it’s your job to restock.Don’t wait until we’re empty -- keep an eye on inventory and stay ahead of it.”
I nodded, memorizing the layout.My mind cataloged details automatically -- the back door and its crash bar, the narrow aisle between shelves, the light switch just inside the entrance.Places to disappear if I needed to.Ways out if things went wrong.
“You’ll be working mostly behind the bar tonight,” Ace continued, leading me back out.“Taking orders, pouring drinks, keeping the customers happy.I’ll be around if you need help, but I want to see how you handle yourself.”
“Understood.”
A man approached from the far end of the bar -- massive, easily six and a half feet tall, shaved head, and shoulders so broad they could barely fit through doorways.He wore a black T-shirt with “SECURITY” in white letters across the chest.
“This is Wildcard.”Ace gestured toward him.“He’s our bouncer.Anything gets out of hand, you get him.Don’t try to handle trouble yourself.”
Wildcard gave me a slow once-over, his expression offering no clue to his thoughts.“You know how to pour a beer without it being all foam?”
“I know how.”
“Good enough.”He moved past us toward the door as the first real wave of evening customers started filtering in.
The transformation happened fast.Within thirty minutes,The Broken Spokeoverflowed in bodies, noise, and constant movement.The jukebox came to life, a country song I didn’t recognize, although half the bar seemed to know every word by heart.Voices rose and fell in waves, laughter cutting through the music.Thecrackof pool cues hitting balls echoed from the back room, sharp and rhythmic.
I moved behind the bar on instinct, the muscle memory of a hundred different establishments guiding my hands.Beer taps hissed as I pulled drafts, foam controlled by the angle of the glass.Bottles opened under quick twists.Mixed drinks came together through muscle memory from too many nights behind too many bars -- vodka tonic, rum and Coke, whiskey neat, margarita on the rocks.
The customers matched exactly what I expected.Working men for the most part, rough hands, loud voices.A few women scattered among them, some beside partners, some alone at the bar.They ordered without meeting my eyes, which suited me perfectly.I took their money, counted change, kept drinks moving.
Heat built as bodies crowded closer.The smell of sweat, beer, perfume, and a faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to leather jackets rolled through every inch of the room.My T-shirt stuck to my back despite air conditioning struggling against the mass of people.Still, I kept moving, kept working, settling into a rhythm inside the chaos.
A man at the end of the bar waved me over.I approached, keeping the counter between us.
“Need another round, sweetheart.”His words were already slurred.“Four Buds and some shots of Jack.”
“Coming up.”
I pulled the beers first, setting them on a tray.The bottle of Jack Daniel’s was on the speed rail, easy to reach.I poured four shots and carried the drinks to his group of friends.
“Thanks, darling.”One of them reached for his beer.His hand brushed mine and I pulled back automatically, faster than I should have.But he didn’t seem to notice, already turning back to his conversation.
I returned to the bar, my heart beating too fast.Calm down.It was nothing.Just an accident.I scrubbed the counter harder than necessary, letting the repetition steady my breathing and calm my pulse.
Then the glass shattered.
The sound cut through everything else -- music, voices, laughter -- like a gunshot.My body reacted before my mind could catch up, every muscle locking rigid as my hands froze mid-motion.The towel I’d been holding dropped to the floor.Time did something strange, stretching and compressing simultaneously, and for one horrible second I was somewhere else, hearing different glass break in a different room, hearing his voice raised in anger.
