Chapter 1

Ok, ready to go? Let’s roll.

I picked a tight red halter top that showed off my midriff, pairing it with my favorite cut-off jean shorts and matching red underwear. The whole look gave off a budget Jessica Simpson vibe, and I absolutely loved it.
Sure, it was a little bold, but I wasn’t dressing for anyone else. Let the guys stare if they wanted; that was all they were getting. I knew some would take the outfit as an invitation, but they were wrong.

My goal wasn’t to turn heads or start anything; I just wanted men to buy me some drinks and food at the bar. Sure, some guys might have read more into it, but I wasn’t interested in any of that. I knew some would take the outfit as an invitation, but they were wrong. I wasn’t looking to impress or hook up.

Once I was dressed, I shoved my feet into a pair of brown high-heeled ankle boots and headed out the door. From my apartment on the edge of town, it was usually a twenty-minute drive to my favorite bar, but I made it in fifteen.

The bar, O’Malley’s, wasn’t much to look at, just a big, one-room shack slapped together with corrugated metal, always too hot in the summer and drafty in the winter. The floor creaked with every step, and the jukebox only worked when it felt like it. There were a few battered tables scattered between the bar and the stage, most of them carved with initials and crude hearts from people who probably never made it out of town. But it was still my favorite place.

Maybe because it was ours. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions, didn’t judge. Just handed you a drink and let you disappear into the noise.

In the back, through an always-half-open door, a wooden dock stretched out over the water like a forgotten promise. As a teenager, that dock had been our secret sanctuary. We’d sneak beers from someone’s older brother or pour cheap vodka into water bottles, daring each other to drink until the stars blurred. We’d sit with our legs dangling over the edge, giggling about how real our fake IDs looked, imagining futures that seemed just within reach.

The sky used to feel endless out there, open, soft, like it held something beautiful if you stared long enough. We believed in things then.
Believed the world had room for us.

Now, that same sky felt like it was pressing down, too close, too quiet.
The stars didn’t shimmer like they used to. Maybe they were the same. Maybe I was just different.

I moved away ten years ago, thinking I’d left this place behind for good.
But now that I’m back, O’Malley’s feels almost exactly the same. The walls are still dented, the jukebox still skips on track six, and the dock out back still creaks underfoot. The crowd has changed, more strangers, older faces, fewer people I recognize, but somehow that doesn’t matter. There’s a comfort in the familiarity, like slipping into a favorite old jacket that still fits just right. Even with the years and the distance, I still love it here. O’Malley’s isn’t just a bar—it’s a piece of me.

I had lost everything: my husband, my home, and the life I thought I’d built for good. A real estate deal went south fast, draining our savings and leaving me holding the mess. He bailed when things got ugly, and just like that, I was alone. I got fired from my job last month, and since then, every day had been a blur of rejection emails and mounting bills. Rent was due in a week, and I didn’t have a single dollar to my name. I was broke, desperate, and running out of time. Pride didn’t matter anymore; I needed money, fast.

Fortunately, I still had my looks, so men were quick to buy me drinks and occasionally dinner. Some of them clearly had other intentions, hoping their generosity would lead somewhere. But I wasn’t interested. I’d had enough of men and their expectations. The charm, the games, the disappointments, I was done with all of it. Let them look, let them flirt. That was as far as it was going.

The band launched into a classic rock anthem, all screaming guitars and shout-along lyrics urging everyone to slam shots and live it up. A crowd gathered near the stage to soak up the energy, while others, like me, lingered at the edges, drinking our troubles into silence.

I watched some men playing pool for a while, leaning against the wall with my beer, pretending not to care while secretly studying every shot. Eventually, one of them waved me over, and on a reckless impulse, I joined in. I was terrible, missing easy shots, scratching the cue ball, barely holding the stick right, but I laughed through it. The men didn’t seem to mind; they all rushed to offer advice, each one more eager than the last. A few were genuinely helpful, showing me how to line up shots and adjust my grip. But some were just a little too eager, their hands lingering a moment too long, their smiles a little too suggestive. Still, it felt good to be noticed, even if I knew exactly what kind of attention I was getting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. I turned to see a tall man in a red T-shirt and jeans cheering me on.

As I fumbled with the cue stick, one of the men playing pool came over to give me some pointers. He leaned in close, his voice low as he showed me how to line up the shot. “Like this,” he said, adjusting my hands on the cue.
His fingers brushed against my skin, and before I could pull away, he “accidentally” grazed my breast. I stiffened but forced a smile, knowing exactly what game he was playing, and making a mental note to keep my distance.

The man in the red T-shirt looked at me with a kind of raw hunger in his eyes, the kind of gaze men get when their fantasies start to bleed into reality.
It wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t new.

After I’d had enough of their grabbing and flirting, it became clear they weren’t interested in buying me drinks—they wanted something else entirely: sex.

I walked over to the man in the red t-shirt. My beer was empty, and the hunger twisting in my stomach was impossible to ignore. He looked up and gave me a warm, easy smile.

“Rough game out there?” he asked, nodding toward the pool table.

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Terrible. I’m pretty sure I made every mistake possible.”

He laughed, a low, genuine sound. “Well, you kept it interesting. Most people give up after the first few shots.”

I smiled, feeling the tension ease just a bit. “Guess I like a challenge.”

He leaned a little closer, his eyes catching the dim bar light. “I like a woman who doesn’t back down.”

I caught the flicker in his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” he said, voice dropping just a notch. “Especially when she looks like she’s got a little fire.”

I glanced down at my tight red halter top and then back up at him. “Fire, huh? You’re either brave or crazy to say that.”

“Maybe a little of both,” he said with a grin. “But don’t worry, I’m good at handling flames.”

I bit my lip, pretending to consider his words. “Maybe you should prove it. Start with a drink?”

His smile widened. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

During our conversation during the next ten minutes, I laughed, light and easy, and let my fingers brush his arm, just enough for him to feel the soft heat of my palm against his sun-warmed skin. “You’re so funny,” I said, teasing, but not entirely dismissive.

Dylan chuckled with me, a low, rumbling sound, and signaled for another beer on my behalf. I accepted it without hesitation. Some women insist on paying their own way, and more power to them, but my mother always told me never to turn down free booze. Especially not from a man who looked like Dylan.

Of course, she was a small-town Nebraska prostitute and drunk with a long-standing relationship with the local sheriff’s office and had the very unflattering title as the neighborhood whore. Her advice wasn’t what you’d call orthodox, but it stuck.

After another two beers, and some snacks, his gaze dropped, lingering at my chest as I drew in a slow breath and let it out, deliberate and unhurried. His eyes devoured the rise and fall, but it didn’t faze me. I was used to it.

Since the day I first grew breasts, men had been looking at me like that, hungry, fixated, their imaginations doing the heavy lifting. And if it wasn’t my chest, it was my ass, stoking the same carnal dreams, the same depraved endings painted in sweat and noise and fluids best left unnamed.

He stared at me with a storm of lust in his eyes, the way men sometimes did when their inner fantasies took control.

I laughed and touched his arm lightly just enough to let him feel the soft warmth of my palm against his tan skin. “You’re silly,” I said.

Dylan and I laughed together, and he ordered me another beer, which I accepted without complaint. Some women might demand they pay for their own, but my mother had always taught me never to turn down free alcohol, especially not from a looker like Dylan.

But, of course, she was a local prostitute and drunk from a small town in Nebraska.

His eyes lingered on my chest as I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
His hungry gaze did not bother me. From the time I had developed breasts, men had been leering at me.

If it wasn’t my chest it was my butt they drooled over, dreaming of filthy acts and messy wet endings.

I laughed and touched his arm again, this time squeezing the muscle of his forearm for a split second. “Would you prefer I hang out around a younger perv, like the ones at the pool table?”

“I would not complain one bit,” he said.

I looked over to the men playing pool
“It would be fun, but I don’t think it would pay my rent,” I said with a flicker of a smile.

“It would if they paid for your time,” he said, laughing.

I took another long pull on my beer, and the cheap brew ran through me to fuel my growing buzz.

“I’ll probably leave soon too,” I said. “I’ve got to look for a job tomorrow.”
“No, come on. I mean the night is still young,” He said. “We could have a few more.”