He poured two fingers of bourbon without being asked and slid it across to me like we were already in on the same joke. “Well, Sin. I’m Dani. And if you keep smiling at me like that, you’re gonna start a riot.”
I raised the glass in salute. “That’s kind of the goal.”
“Where you from?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the bar, chin resting in his hand.
“L.A. But don’t worry—I left my influencer bullshit at the border.”
“I can tell,” he said, giving me a slow once-over. “You don’t look like Botox and smoothies. You look like whiskey and bad decisions.”
“Guilty,” I said, dragging my bottom lip between my teeth. “But at least I make them look good.”
That got a laugh out of him—real, throaty, and edged with interest. He grabbed a napkin and scribbled something down before sliding it over. A number. A crude sketch of a devil’s tail.
“In case you wanna make one later.”
“I’m more of a ‘make them now, regret them later’ kind of guy,” I chuckled, tucking the napkin into my back pocket without breaking eye contact.
“You playing pool tonight, or just breaking hearts?”
“Both. Probably in that order.”
He tilted his head. “You know, I’ve worked here for six years and I’ve never seen someone walk in like they already owned the place.”
“That’s because no one elsedid.” I grabbed my drink and flashed him a wink. “Until now.”
He shook his head, smiling. “God help this town.”
“God’s got nothing to do with it, sweetheart.”
I downed the first drink, chased it with a second, and let the heat crawl down my throat like gasoline.
By the third, I felt it—Thatclick. A shift like lightning finding its ground. Within twenty minutes, I’d taken over the place and was everyone’s new best friend.
Some guy with a buzzcut and a skull tattoo on his neck swaggered up and challenged me to pool. I played left-handedjust to make it interesting—took his money, his pride, and blew him a kiss as he stomped off, muttering.
Two girls waved me over from a sticky booth in the corner, all glitter eyeliner and fake nails. I slid in between them like I belonged. One fed me a lime from her tequila shot. The other licked salt off my hand and dared me to make it disappear. I kissed the first one—wet, messy, grinning—and got her number in lipstick on my forearm.
The bar was heat, bodies and music playing like a sermon. Shots. Laughter. Smoke curled through the air like incense to a forgotten god. I was the altar. The sacrifice. And the fire.
Sinclair Soul: the storm their parents warned them about.
I danced with a girl in ripped fishnets and combat boots to a cover ofPaint It Black.She tasted like cherry vodka and bad intentions. I spun her hard, dipped her low, caught her by the hips like we were the only two people in a world made of neon and sweat.
Some guy offered me a bump in the bathroom. I declined, grinning widely. “Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m still halfway to rock bottom—don’t wanna rush the landing.”
Dani gave me another round on the house and a wink that promised far more if I stayed till the end of the night. I bit my lip, holding in a groan, and blew him a kiss that he caught in his hand and held to his heart. The girls propping up the bar cheered and jeered in equal measure.
I was in my element. Raw. Real. Radiating the kind of danger people couldn’t look away from. It was the kind of night I never wanted to end. I felt untouchable.
The door opened, and everything changed. He walked in like heownedthe fucking air. Tall. Composed. No swagger—justpresence. Like the room had been waiting for him and didn’t know it until now.
His shirt was midnight blue, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open just enough to suggest he didn’t care what you saw. Slate-gray trousers. A coat draped over his shoulder, not for warmth, but for statement. Like he knew how to command a room without ever needing to raise his voice.
He wasn’t trying to belong. He stood out like you couldn’t help but notice him. The noise dulled. Conversations stuttered. Even the jukebox seemed to quiet as he walked. A low-pressure system with legs.
He moved to the bar like gravity was biased toward him, the crowd parting instinctively. He didn’t shove or weave. He simply arrived—at the bar, in my world—and ordered with a voice that cut clean through the haze.
“Scotch. Neat.”
