A bar.
Bar in the middle of nowhere.Literally that was its name.
I slowed, staring through the windshield at the crooked hand-painted sign swinging above the entrance. The parking lot was all dirt and gravel, scattered with pickup trucks, motorcycles, and a few rusted-out cars that looked like they’d been abandoned by men named Earl. The place had no business existing out here, which meant of course it did. Humanity had a remarkable ability to place alcohol wherever common sense started thinning out.
“No,” I said, though I was already turning in.
The smell hit when I parked: grease, beer, cigarette smoke, hot dust, and bad choices steeped together until they becameatmosphere. My stomach twisted, and not only from hunger. The last bar I’d walked into had rearranged my life in one ugly night. Everett, the ring, the blonde, the whole public humiliation served with cheap beer and fluorescent neon.
At least no ghosts were waiting for me here.
I killed the engine. Silence dropped hard, followed by the sharp ticking of hot metal cooling under the hood. That was not comforting. Bandit looked offended by the entire experience, which was fair because so was I. I rolled the windows down farther, poured fresh water into his bowl, and pointed at him through the crate door.
“Be good.”
He hissed.
“Fair.”
I locked the doors anyway, as if that would stop him if he truly decided to choose violence.
Inside, cold air hit my face, and for one glorious second I considered marrying the building. The place was dim and cooler than outside, crowded enough to feel safer but not so packed I had to press through bodies. Music rolled low through old speakers. Pool balls cracked in the back. Men laughed too loudly. Boots scraped over wood. Glasses clinked. Somewhere behind the kitchen door, something fried in oil that had probably seen several presidential administrations.
I went straight to the bathroom.
The mirror was spotted, the sink stained, and the paper towel dispenser required aggression, but there was running water and a lock on the door. Luxury. I washed my hands, splashed cold water on my face, rinsed road dust from my mouth, and spat into the sink with no dignity whatsoever. I ran wet fingers through my hair, tried fluffing it, gave up, then swiped on lip gloss because apparently my survival instincts included cosmetic delusion.
I looked less like roadkill.
Barely.
Back at the bar, I took the far corner seat. Quiet. Out of the way. Strategically positioned near the bartender, within sight of the door, and far enough from the pool table to avoid whatever masculine tragedy was unfolding over there. I wanted food, caffeine, maybe thirty minutes of air-conditioning, and no human interaction beyond payment processing.
That lasted three seconds.
A guy in a Carhartt jacket slid up beside me with the confidence of a man who had never once questioned whether his presence was welcome. Big belt buckle. Too much cologne. Hair slicked back like he was auditioning to sell trucks on local television. He leaned an elbow on the bar and smiled as if I’d been waiting all day for the privilege.
“Lemme buy you a beer.”
I looked at him. “I’m good, thanks.”
His smile held, but something behind it sharpened. “What, you don’t drink?”
“I’m driving.” I turned to the bartender. “Diet Coke, please.”
The bartender nodded and reached for a glass.
Carhartt stayed put. Too close. Not touching, but close enough that his elbow nearly brushed mine, which meant he was either bad at spatial awareness or very good at ignoring it. I already knew which one my money was on.
He leaned in. “Long drive?”
I gave him a polite smile, the kind women learn before we learn algebra. “Yep.”
No elaboration. No invitation. No conversational runway.
The bartender dropped my soda in front of me. Bless him. Carhartt waved him down before he walked away.
“Put a beer on me.”
