The one that makes my stomach clench every time I glance over.
Two men. Not the same ones from last night, but close enough.
Same energy. Same way of sitting—too alert, too aware.
Eyes that catalog exits and weapons and threats.
Los Coyotes.
I know it like I know my own heartbeat.
They've been here for an hour, nursing beers that are probably warm by now.
Not eating. Not playing pool. Just watching. Watching me.
"Bailey! Another round when you get a chance!" Tom calls.
I grab two Coors from the cooler, the bottles so cold they hurt my hands.
My fingers are already stiff from gripping handlebars last night, and the cold makes it worse.
"Here you go, sugar." I set them down with a smile that's all performance. "Y'all need anything else?"
"Just your company." Tom grins, and I know this game.
He's harmless, mostly.
Just lonely and drunk and old enough to remember when flirting like this was acceptable. "You're sweet, but I got other customers." I touch his shoulder briefly—the kind of casual contact that earns tips. "Holler if you need me."
"Will do, sweetheart." I pocket the ten he slides across the felt.
That's six bucks for two beers. Not bad. Brings my shift total to eighty-three dollars.
Add that to my one-twelve, I've got one-ninety-five.
Still not enough for rent and gas and food, but closer.
If I can make another hundred tonight, I'll be okay.
Maybe.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I ignore it.
It's been buzzing all afternoon—stopped for a whileafter my shift started, but picked up again twenty minutes ago.
Constant vibration against my hip like a wasp trying to escape.
I don't need to look to know who it is.
Elfe. Mom. Maybe even Dad, though he never calls.
Something's wrong, obviously, but I can't deal with it right now.
I can barely deal with anything right now.
The door opens, bringing in dust and heat and the smell of diesel.
I tense automatically, hand going to the knife strapped to my thigh under my jeans, before I can stop myself, but it's just another trucker.
