A howl from the end of the bar disrupts the loop. “Molly! Where’s the love, babe?” Diesel, leather vest over tie-dye, already three drinks in and not about to let the world forget it.
“If it’s about the tabs,” I say, eyes on the register, “take it up with God.”
“She’s in a mood today,” Diesel stage-whispers to Tank, who hasn’t moved from his position at the corner stool except to flex his forearms and threaten the espresso machine by proximity alone.
“I’m in a mood to work today and not to deal with your bullshit,” I snap, slamming a pint down hard enough to make the foam jump. “Drink it or don’t.”
Tank’s low grunt rumbles from a stool. “Easy.”
“Iameasy,” I lie through my teeth.
Riley slips in beside me, dropping a stack of empty glasses. “You’re the opposite of easy.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.” I’m already scanning the mirror over the bar, catching a quick flash of my face — cheeks flushed, hair coming undone, eyes with that tight, glassy shine they get when I’m trying too hard not to feel anything.
My gaze flicks, quick and involuntary, through the bar window facing the lot.
Sunlight hits the garage roof. Evan’s up there with a nail gun and a pry bar, shirt tossed somewhere out of sight, skin slick with sweat. His shoulders flex every time he leans. His forearms tense when he hauls shingles free. He’s focused, jaw tight, moving like work is a language he was born speaking.
A throb starts low in my stomach.
I grab a glass too hard. It clinks angrily against the rack.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“What?” Riley asks.
“Nothing.”
Another glance.
Riley follows my gaze. “You want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
She grins, not fooled. “You know what. Or rather, who.”
Before I can fire back, a customer edges up. “Two burgers, fries, and whatever he’s drinking.” He jerks his thumb at Tank.
Tank doesn’t look up. “Black coffee.”
The guy frowns. “Coffee? From a pint glass?”
“I’m tired. I like coffee. A lot of coffee. A pint’s worth, in fact. You got a problem?”
Tank lifts his eyes. One stare and the guy flinches as if he got hit.
“Black coffee,” I repeat, deadpan, and start ringing it in.
Riley bumps my shoulder lightly. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
Riley bumps my arm. “Seriously, you’re all murdery.”
“That’s my natural state.” My lips twitch, then flatten.
Riley snorts and takes off.
