By the time I push through the doors to The Noble Fir, the place is already alive — music humming, voices rising, the air thick with beer and wood and leather. The familiar chaos settles in my chest and over my heart like a psychotic weighted blanket, and my body relaxes a fraction. Not because I’m okay, but because at least I know how to function here.
I hang my bag behind the bar, pour myself a shot of whiskey, down it, and then line up the clean glasses like they’re soldiers.
If I keep moving, I don’t have to think. Don’t have to feel.
Riley’s already setting up tables. She looks up, spots my face, and her smile flickers. “Hey, is everything alright? You’re here early.”
“I’m fine,” I say, cutting in too fast. Instead of looking at her, I keep my eyes down and reach for the tap handles. Maybe if she can’t see my eyes, she can’t see the lie.
Tank is at the end of the bar, looming like a wall with a beard and a history of childhood trauma. Mayhem is mid-story to Reaper, hands flying like he’s conducting an orchestra of chaos. Everything is abnormally normal.
Except me.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Tank grunts. “And a black coffee.”
“On it.” My voice comes out steady. My hands aren’t.
The bottle clinks against the glass. Too hard. I pour anyway, willing my fingers not to shake. I slide it across the counter, and Tank’s eyes narrow — barely a movement, but he sees everything.
“You sick?” he says, like it’s an accusation. It’s not possible for him to express genuine emotion, concern, or care; everything happens in shades of disgruntlement. And right now, he’s at a Florence Nightingale level.
“No.” I wipe the bar in a straight line. Then another. “Just tired.”
“That so?”
“What else would it be? And what do you even care?”
“I didn’t say I cared, Molly. Only asked a damn question.”
“And I gave you a damn answer. Now, can you let me work in peace?”
“Only if you promise to let me do the same. Didn’t ask for no damn life story from you. Or an attitude. If you stab someone, go for Mayhem. He’d enjoy it.”
I should laugh. I manage a thin exhale that sounds like a wheeze from a dying chihuahua.
Then the front door opens again, and the bell chimes, and my body goes rigid like a dog hearing a squirrel on the roof.
Claire enters. She moves through the room like she owns it — because she does, in her own way. Not patched, but nobody mistakes her for background. She takes one look at me and angles straight for the bar.
I put on my face. The bartender face. Thenothing touches meface.
“Hey,” she says, casual.
“Hey.” I reach for a glass that doesn’t need polishing and start polishing it anyway.
Claire’s gaze tracks my hands. “You’re gonna rub a hole through that.”
“Busy getting ready for a busy day.”
“It’s a Tuesday and we haven’t even opened yet.”
“People drink on Tuesday mornings.”
Claire leans her forearms on the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume — clean, expensive, dangerous. “Molly, you need to talk to me.”
My throat tightens. I keep polishing. “Talk to you about what?”
“You don’t seem well. What’s wrong?” she says, and her tone is gentle, which somehow makes it worse.
