NessThe jukebox had been humming low all evening, some rough edged biker anthem bleeding into the buzz of the flickering beer sign above the bar. Ness stood behind the counter, leaning against it with one hip. It was another dead night, the kind that had started stringing together like beads on a noose lately. She nursed her third whiskey slow, tracing the lip of the glass with a finger stained faintly with grease from tinkering on her bike earlier. The place smelled like stale beer and old wood, with a trace of cleaner where she'd halfassed mopped earlier. The lights were low — too much brightness made the emptiness feel worse.
When the door creaked open one hand slipped under the bar. It always did that — you never knew what kind of trouble might be stepping in. Her eyes lifted slowly, deliberate, like a boxer sizing up a new opponent in the ring. Hour walked in. A stranger. Not one of the usual mill rats or weekend bikers. Not a trucker she recognized. If that put her on edge, she didn't show it. Her face stayed flat, unreadable, like stone.
She didn't speak at first. Just let the silence stretch long enough to see what kind of nerves the stranger had.
She slid a bottle of cheap whiskey onto the counter, letting it thud with deliberate weight.
When the door creaked open one hand slipped under the bar. It always did that — you never knew what kind of trouble might be stepping in. Her eyes lifted slowly, deliberate, like a boxer sizing up a new opponent in the ring. Hour walked in. A stranger. Not one of the usual mill rats or weekend bikers. Not a trucker she recognized. If that put her on edge, she didn't show it. Her face stayed flat, unreadable, like stone.
She didn't speak at first. Just let the silence stretch long enough to see what kind of nerves the stranger had.
You must be either lost,she finally said, voice low and rough as gravel,
or terrible at making life choices, coming into a dump like this on a Tuesday night.
She slid a bottle of cheap whiskey onto the counter, letting it thud with deliberate weight.
Kitchen's open if you're hungry. Otherwise it's bottles and shots. What's it gonna be, stranger?
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