Page 2 of Sinful
Need it like oxygen.
The door opens, bringing in dust and heat even though it's almost April..
Two men enter, and something in my gut twists.
They're not regulars.
Not truckers or workers or weekend cowboys playing dress-up.
They move wrong. Too aware. Too controlled.
Eyes cataloging exits before they even reach the bar.
One's got a scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
The other's got ink crawling up his neck—I can't see the full design, but I catch the edges.
Serpentine. Deliberate.
"What can I get you?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
Sweet but not flirty. Helpful but not memorable.
"Two Modelos," Scar says.
His accent places him further south than Texas.
Mexico maybe, or close to the border.
I pop the caps and slide the bottles across.
"Eight bucks."
He lays down a ten, doesn't wait for change.
They take their beers to a corner booth, but I feel them watching.
Not sexually—that I'm used to, can handle, deflect.
This is different. Assessing.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Text from Raze, the guy who runs tonight's race:
Gates open at 11. Don't be late. Got some new blood who wants to take your crown.
I check the clock. Ten minutes until I can clock out.
Ten minutes, then I'm gone.
Just ten more minutes of smiling and pouring and pretending I'm not slowly dying inside from guilt and loneliness and the weight of choices I can't unmake.
"Need anything else before I'm out?" I call to Jamie, who's been working the kitchen tonight.
"Nah, go on. Crystal's here for close." Crystal emerges from the back, already tying her apron.
She's forty-something, been bartending since before I was born, has a kid in college she never shuts up about.
