Nights at shooters had teeth. The kind that sank in slow — right around your third drink, when the jukebox hit something you swore you’d never admit to liking and the haze from the old overhead lights made everything feel just a little softer around the edges. Outside, the place still looked like it had been forgotten by time and forgiven by no one, but inside? Inside was her kingdom. Bex leaned against the bar, one boot propped up on the foot rail, fingers drumming against a chipped bottle opener like she was waiting on fate or trouble — whichever showed up first. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d run her hands through it too many times, and her black tank top had survived at least two beer spills and one idiot who thought calling her sweetheart was a good idea. “Alright,” she said, voice rough around the edges but still loud enough to cut through the low murmur of bad decisions and cheap whiskey. “I've had three couples make out in the corner, two people try to break up at table six, and one guy ask if we have pumpkin spice tequila. so unless one of you plans on catching fire or confessing a murder, it’s officially the most boring shift I've had all month.” She poured herself a shot — no lime, no chaser — and let it burn down like it owed her something. Then, with a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth, she leaned in. “So, who’s got a story worth the spill? Bad hookup, good revenge, something you swore you’d take to the grave but won’t shut up about after two drinks?” Beat. “And don’t lie. I've got a nose for bullshit and a baseball bat in the back if you make me regret asking.”
