Chapter 1: Whiskey and White Knuckles
The Rusty Mug smelled of yesterday’s spilled lager and today’s fried onions, a greasy, yeasty perfume soaked into its very bones. Matty leaned against the well-polished mahogany, a damp cloth hanging from his belt like a gunslinger’s holster. His eyes, a faded blue beneath tired lids, tracked the slow Friday night crawl. They always ended up on Casey.
She was a splash of color against the pub’s brown palette. Her dark hair was piled in a messy bun, strands escaping to curl at her damp neck as she pulled a pint. Her laugh cut through the murmur of the place—bright, unselfconscious. It did something funny to Matty’s chest, a tightening he refused to name.
His gaze slid left, to the corner booth. Ethan was there again. Of course he was.
The kid sat with the entitled sprawl of someone who’d never been told no. Athletic build, expensive-looking shirt unbuttoned one too many. His smile was all white teeth and calculation. He’d been talking to Casey for twenty minutes. She was wiping the same patch of bar in front of him, smiling at his stories. Matty’s jaw tightened.
“Another round, Casey, love?” Ethan’s voice carried, too loud, too familiar.
“You’ve had your round, Ethan. And the next one.” Matty’s words came out flat, not even a glance in their direction. He focused on stacking clean whiskey glasses, the clink too sharp.
Casey threw him a quick, puzzled look. “Matty, it’s fine. He’s just—”
“He’s just finishing his drink and letting you do your job,” Matty finished. He finally looked over. Saw Ethan’s smirk, the challenge in his eyes. Saw the way Casey’s brow furrowed, caught between politeness and her boss’s unexplained mood.
Ethan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, boss man. No need to get territorial.” He leaned forward on the bar, closer to Casey. “Just enjoying the excellent service.”
Matty’s knuckles whitened around the glass in his hand. He forced himself to breathe, to look away. The jukebox in the corner wheezed out a slow, sad country song. The neon ‘Kegs & Eggs’ sign flickered, buzzing like an angry insect.
Later, clearing empties from the booths, Matty watched them again. Casey had delivered a bowl of chips to Ethan’s table. She was leaning one hand on the sticky wood, laughing at something he’d said. And Ethan’s hand… it was on the bench seat beside her. His fingers were walking, slowly, deliberately, up the vinyl towards her thigh.
It was a predator’s move. Calculated. Testing.
Casey, still laughing, shifted her weight. She didn’t seem to notice the creeping fingers. Or she was choosing to ignore it, hoping it would stop. Matty knew that dance. He’d seen it before. The polite smile, the subtle retreat, the fear of making a scene.
Something hot and dark unfurled in his gut.
He was moving before he decided to, the tray of dirty glasses abandoned on a nearby table. His footsteps were silent on the worn floor. He came up behind Casey, his shadow falling over both of them.
The laughter died in her throat. Ethan’s fingers froze, then retracted, slipping casually into his own lap.
“Casey,” Matty said, his voice low but carrying a new, rough edge. “Walkaway’s keg line is pissing beer. I can’t get it to seal. Need you in the cellar to hold the flashlight.”
It was a lie. A transparent, stupid lie. The cellar was the last place he’d send her alone with a problem.
Her dark eyes searched his face, confused. “The… the cellar? Now? But I’ve got—”
“Now,” he said, the word leaving no room. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Ethan, holding the kid’s smug gaze until it finally flickered away.
Casey hesitated, then gave a small, apologetic shrug to Ethan. “Duty calls. Enjoy your chips.”
She moved past Matty, the scent of her perfume—something vanilla and clean—cutting through the stale bar air. He waited until he heard the cellar door click shut behind her.
Then he turned fully to the booth. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the bar. The friendly pub manager was gone. In his place was something older, harder.
“You’re done,” Matty said quietly.
Ethan had the gall to look amused. “Done? Done with what? Having a pint? Chatting up your barmaid?”
“With her. You’re done with her.” Matty planted his hands on the table, leaning in. The wood creaked. “I see you in here, with that look. She’s not a game. She’s not a score.”
“What’s it to you?” Ethan’s bravado was thin, cracking at the edges under Matty’s steady, cold stare. “She’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to handle slime like you.” Matty straightened up. “Settle your tab. Don’t come back.”
Ethan snorted, a weak sound. “You can’t ban me. I haven’t done anything.”
Matty’s smile was thin, humorless. “This is my place. The floorboards are sticky with my sweat. That ceiling’s brown from my years of breathing. I decide who drinks here. And you… you’re making the air taste bad.”
He picked up Ethan’s half-finished bowl of chips. Looked at it. Looked back at Ethan. Without a word, he tipped the bowl, letting the greasy fries slide onto the table in a crumpled heap.
“Tab’s at the bar. Pay it. Leave.”
He walked away, not waiting for a reply. His heart was a dull hammer against his ribs. He felt old. He felt stupid. He’d just made a scene over a feeling he had no right to, defending a woman who hadn’t asked for it.
The cellar door swung open and Casey emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. “Fixed it,” she said brightly. “Was just a loose coupling. You must’ve missed it.” She looked past him, to the empty booth, the mess on the table. “Where’d Ethan go?”
“Had to leave.” Matty busied himself with the till, not meeting her eyes.
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. A tiny, sharp pain lodged under Matty’s breastbone. “He was kinda funny.”
“He was kinda something,” Matty muttered. He risked a glance at her. She was frowning at the abandoned chips, then shrugged, beginning to clear them away. Oblivious. Totally, blessedly oblivious to the danger that had been sidling up to her, and to the quiet storm it had unleashed in him.
For now, she was safe. The kid was gone. But as Matty watched the empty doorway where Ethan had vanished into the night, he knew it wasn’t over. Guys like that, they didn’t take rejection well. They especially didn’t take it from a thinning, thirty-year-old pub manager with a soft spot he couldn’t afford.
The night air outside was cool. Somewhere out there, Ethan was maybe telling his mates about the psycho landlord. Matty poured himself a single finger of whiskey, the good stuff he kept under the counter. He didn’t drink it. Just held the glass, watching the door, waiting for last call, and dreading what the next shift might bring through it.