A tiny, half-forgotten dive on the edge of nowhere, it’s the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress and somehow still keeps people coming back. The floors are sticky. The lights are dim. And there’s a jukebox in the corner that no one touches but everyone respects. It plays whatever the hell it wants, and somehow, every song hits. No one knows who, or what, decides the playlist. Eve told me people used to guess. Now they just let it happen. Because if you try to mess with it, or dare to use it as intended, petty shit starts happening.
Milk sours. Credit cards stop working. Your ex texts you, “I miss us.”
No one’s made that mistake twice.
Tonight, “The Separation of Church and Skate” by NOFX tears through the speakers. It makes me want to smash things—preferably the patriarchy, but I’ll settle for a coaster.
What kind of bar unironically plays NOFX at this hour?
I glance around, waiting for someone to complain.
No one does.
Instead, the 75-year-old drunks nod along like they’ve been skating backyard pools since ‘83. Everyone—from the pot farmers to the Stevie Nicks-lookin’ gram-Wiccans—is weirdly into it. Whether the enjoyment is required or genuine is unclear.
While Eve and Thane flirt quietly at the end of the table, I indulge the curiosity gnawing at my brain.
Ezra Aster is an enigma, and the town’s conspiracy theorists eat that shit up.
Is he a disgraced cult leader in hiding?
An exiled Russian ballet dancer who moonlights as an elite assassin?
A shadow monster with a book addiction?
Lorewood has theories.
My personal favorite came from a guy who smelled like Skoal and Natty Ice: The reanimated corpse of D.B. Cooper, resurrected solely to sell rare books and ruin local men’s lives.
And honestly?I want to believe.
I tell myself he can’t be that bad. He owns a bookshop, not a sex club. Though honestly, that might somehow be less intimidating.
When I meet Thane tomorrow, I wonder if Mr. Aster will be there. He seems like the kind of man who’d chew lightbulbs before engaging in small talk, so if he knows I’m coming, I doubt he’ll show.
Still, I can’t ignore the pull I felt when Eve said his name.
Maybe I’ve just read too many stories to trust myself with reality anymore.
When I glance at my friend, I’m unsurprised to find Eve perched in Thane’s lap, kissing him like she’s trying to steal his soul. I could leave them to it, but she’s had more than a few drinks, and I want to make sure she gets home safely—wherever “home” ends up being tonight.
While I wait, I pull out my phone, hesitating as my thumb hovers over Safari. Against my better judgment, I give in and type “Ezra Aster Lorewood” into the search bar. My screen floods with historical records and census data spanning centuries. His name must have been popular back in the day to get so many hits.
Weirdly, there’s nothing recent on him. No social media, no phone number, and much to my disappointment, no pictures.
With a sigh, I glance at Eve, now very much straddling Thane on a barstool, and decide to read until she’s ready to leave.
Even though I prefer fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, I read everything.
But tonight my Kindle holds something filthier—a spicy monster fantasy, complete with massive, animal-skulled beasts with brides as sweet-faced as they are savage.
I love a good dark romance, but occasionally a girl needs to be worshipped, wrecked, and rewritten by a void-spawned nightmare with a praise kink.
Am I addicted?
Maybe.
But if a towering beast with glowing eyes and a voice like the end of the world ever shows up to drag me into the abyss, I’m not asking questions.
