Chapter 2: Breaking the Ice
The scent of lavender was gone, replaced by something darker, richer, and infinitely more anxious. The Devil’s Pour smelled of decades of spilled beer, polished oak, and the ghost of a thousand cigarettes clinging to the velvet drapes. Neon signs—a flickering siren, a cracked martini glass—cast a sickly, undulating glow over everything. Judy stood behind the scarred bar counter, her fingers gripping the edge like it was the rail of a ship in a storm.
She’d worn black, as instructed. A simple sweater and trousers that felt like a costume. Her hair was up, a practical bun that already felt too tight.
“This is the well.” Rick’s voice was all business, a low rasp close to her ear. He pointed to the rows of bottles. “Vodka, gin, rum, tequila, whiskey. Call brands are up here. You don’t need to know them today. If someone asks for something fancy, you point to me.” He moved with an efficient, predatory grace around the confined space, his size making the bar feel suddenly small. “Beer taps: pale ale, lager, stout. Pull fast, steady. A half-head is fine. Nobody here is a fucking connoisseur.”
She nodded, her throat tight. The few early customers—a grizzled man in a corner nursing a whiskey, two women laughing over white wine—seemed like characters from another planet.
“Most important rule,” Rick said, turning to face her fully. His hazel eyes were hard, unreadable in the dim light. “You don’t take shit. Someone gets handsy, someone calls you a name, you don’t smile and look down. You look them in the eye and you tell them to stop. Loud. You freeze them out. Got it?”
“Got it,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Yes.”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze tracing her face. “You can do this. Just don’t think about it too much.”
For the first two hours, she didn’t have time to think. The lunch crowd for the wine festival was thirstier than she’d imagined. Her world narrowed to the clink of glass, the hiss of the tap, the damp chill of a spill wiping across her sleeve. Her hands learned the shape of a pint glass, the heft of a bottle. Rick moved around her, a steady, silent presence, fixing the cocktails she fumbled, his fingers brushing hers as he took over. Each touch was a tiny jolt. He didn’t acknowledge them.
She was pouring a lager, her tongue between her teeth in concentration, when a new voice cut through the low hum of the bar.
“Well, well. Ricky finally hired some scenery.”
The voice was smooth, like good bourbon, and just as potent. Judy looked up.
The man sliding onto a barstool was handsome in a sharp, expensive way. Sandy hair, a tailored blazer over a dark tee, a watch that probably cost more than her car. He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were appraising, scanning her from bun to waist.
“Marcus,” Rick said from the other end of the bar. His tone was flat. A warning.
“Mac to my friends,” the man said, still looking at Judy. “And you are?”
“Judy.” She pushed the pint across to him.
“Judy,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “You’re new. You hiding from the law, Judy? Or did Rick just pluck you from a library?”
Her face warmed. It was too close to the truth. “Just helping out.”
“I bet you are.” Mac took a long sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “So, Judy. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re an artist. A student of… human nature.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or maybe you’re just looking for a little trouble.”
The line was so stale, so straight from the pages of the bad novels she sometimes hid behind better ones, that she almost laughed. Instead, she looked down, wiping the already-clean bar with a towel. “Just pouring drinks.”
“I’d like to pour you a drink sometime.” He reached out, his fingers aiming to brush the back of her hand where it rested on the bar.
She flinched back.
“Mac.” Rick was suddenly there, materializing beside her like a shadow. His presence was a wall of heat and tension. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the single syllable cracked through the air.
“What?” Mac held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just being friendly. Welcoming the new talent. You said you needed a warm body. I was just appreciating the warmth.” His grin was all teeth.
“You’re done.” Rick’s hand came down, not on Mac, but on the bar beside Judy’s hip. His arm blocked her in, a casual barricade of muscle and ink. The possessive gesture was so instinctive, so stark, it stole the air from her lungs. She could smell him—soap, whiskey, that dark spice—and feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Mac’s smile flickered. “Oh, come on, Ricky. Don’t be a hog. We had a deal.”
“The deal’s off.” Rick’s voice dropped, low and vicious, meant only for Mac and her. “She’s not on the menu tonight. Or any other night.”
Not on the menu. The words hit her like a physical blow. They were crude, reductionist. They turned her from a person into a thing to be consumed. And Rick had said them. Rick, who stood so close she could see the pulse in his temple.
Mac leaned back, a cold, calculating light entering his eyes. He looked from Rick’s stony face to Judy’s bewildered one, and his smirk returned, nastier now. “Ah. I see. You already sampled the goods. That was fast, even for you.” He took another sip of his beer. “Fine. You win. The hundred bucks is yours. Though, judging by the look on her face, I’d say you forgot to tell her about our little wager.”
The noise of the bar seemed to recede, replaced by a high-pitched whine in Judy’s ears. The wager. The bet. The warm body.
She turned her head slowly, looking up at Rick’s profile. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped. He hadn’t denied it. He hadn’t even looked at her. His gaze was locked on Mac, pure, unfilterated venom.
All the stories in her books, all the fantasies of dangerous men and dramatic encounters, collapsed into this moment. This wasn't a dark promise. It was a transaction. She was the favor, the warm body, the bet.
The wildfire that had flashed through her veins at his touch a moment ago now turned to ash. A cold, clear stillness settled over her. She pulled away from the heat of his arm.
“A hundred dollars?” Her voice was quiet, but it didn’t shake. It cut through the tension between the two men.
Rick finally looked at her. The anger in his eyes shifted, faltered, replaced by something else—a dawning alarm.
Mac chuckled. “For who could get the new girl to go home with them first. Standard stuff. Ricky here usually wins. But like I said, seems he cheated. Started early. Not sporting, Ricky.”
Judy placed both hands on the bar. She focused on the feeling of the cool, damp wood under her palms. She looked at Mac, meeting his amused gaze directly, just as Rick had told her to do with people who gave her shit.
“I’m not a prize,” she said, her words precise and sharp as glass. “And I’m not a bet.”
Then she turned to Rick. The vulnerability he’d seen in her, the innocence he’d watched from across his bar, was gone. In its place was a will of tempered steel, cold and disappointed. “My shift ends at four,” she stated, as if reading a rule from a manual. “It’s three forty-seven. I’ll finish my time.”
She moved away from him, from both of them, to the other end of the bar where a customer was waiting. Her hands didn’t shake as she pulled the beer. Her smile was a polite, empty curve. She was a kindergarten teacher managing a meltdown. She was the wall the crayons couldn’t breach.
For the next thirteen minutes, she worked in perfect, silent efficiency. She felt Rick’s stare like a physical weight, but she never glanced his way. Mac eventually left, his laughter a fading echo.
At exactly four o’clock, she untied the black apron and folded it neatly on the shelf below the register. She took her purse from under the bar.
Rick was waiting by the staff door, blocking her exit. “Judy.”
She stopped, but didn’t look up at him. She looked at a point on his chest, at the dark fabric of his shirt.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said, his voice rough.
“Then what was it like?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes. Her own were dark pools, reflecting the flickering neon but giving nothing back.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The guardedness was back, the shutters slamming down over whatever he might have said.
She nodded, as if he’d answered. She slipped past him, out into the sharp, clean air of the alley, leaving the scent of oak and anger and something that felt suspiciously like shame behind her. The door swung shut, cutting off the hum of the bar, leaving only the sound of her own footsteps on the wet pavement, steady and away.