The bartender sighed and held out his hand. “One time.”
Relief softened something in my chest. “Thank you.”
He pointed at me. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“My lips are sealed.”
I left the phone behind the bar and took my soda. I didn’t want to sit inside anymore, not with Clean Hands somewhere in the room and Carhartt probably nursing his injured masculinity by the dartboard. I also didn’t want to walk to my truck yet, where the parking lot was already dimming into shadow.
I needed people. Noise. Witnesses—a crowd I could disappear into before slipping away to the truck.
Out back, the patio opened into a completely different world. String lights hung overhead, glowing warm against the desert dusk. A live band played in the corner, guitars humming low and sweet through the dry air. People danced near the makeshift stage. Drinks caught the light. Laughter rolled across the patio, softer than inside, less predatory. The heat had loosened its grip, and the first hint of evening cool touched the back of my neck.
A table full of women caught my eye.
They were beautiful, but not in the glossy, fragile way magazines tried to sell as the only option. These women looked real. Sun-browned, tattooed, sharp-eyed, relaxed in their bodies. Turquoise rings. Silver cuffs. Layered necklaces. Boots dusty.Hair loose. Laughter easy. Confidence not performed for the room, just worn like skin.
One of them lifted her chin at me. “You alone?”
I paused.
The woman smiled, warm and direct. Not fake. Not pitying. “Come sit.”
My eyes dropped to the bracelets stacked on her wrist, the metalwork catching firelight in intricate patterns. “Those are beautiful.”
“My friend makes them.” She pointed to the woman beside her.
That woman looked like art carved into human form. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Silver rings from knuckle to wrist. Exotic in a way I couldn’t place and probably shouldn’t try to categorize, because scientists were supposed to know better than reducing a whole person to aesthetics. Still, she was stunning.
I stepped closer. “Thanks.”
The first woman slid over, making room. “I’m Regan.”
“Amber,” said the woman beside her, lifting her glass.
“Skye,” another added, softer but watchful.
“Evie,” said a blonde with a dry little smile.
“Tina,” the last one smiled.
The most beautiful raven haired woman studied me for half a second longer, like she was deciding whether I qualified for entry, then said, “Savannah.”
Regan leaned in, her expression changing when she saw whatever was still on my face from the hallway. “You’re good here.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “What does that mean?”
Amber smirked. “Means nobody’s stupid enough to mess with women sitting at this table.”
“Why?”
Evie raised a brow. “Protection.”
I blinked. “Like guns?”
The whole table broke into laughter.
Regan wiped under one eye. “Something like that.”
