Summoning every drop of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling grotesquely.

“Four drafts: Bud, Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because why not,” I added mirthlessly.

“Thanks, darlin’,” the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful of my ass.

I flinched and drew back from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to the harassment.

“Can I get you guys anything else?”

It was less a question, and more a growl.

“One other thing.”

He dropped his menu on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.

“Step onto that.”

I was used to this by now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

“We’ll take one of you,” he grinned.

“You can’t have one of me.”

“But darlin’, you’re on the menu!”

They broke into riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.

It was pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago… People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.

“Looks like we’re fresh out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for not playing along.

To hell with ‘em.

To hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.

I hated working this ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

If it wasn’t bikers, it was rednecks.

If it wasn’t rednecks, it was thugs.

If it wasn’t thugs…

A shiver went up my spine. I didn’t like to think about that.

Old Greg owned this place, and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather. His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

At least that was no longer a problem. I’d turned eighteen pouring drinks.

When it was slow and I was cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:

Getting the hell out of Riverton.

That was the name of this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

Riverton Bar, in Riverton… On Riverton Avenue.

Remember when I said people aren’t original?

That applies to the friendly ones, too.

Dropping the drink tray off at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons – several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.

Satisfied, I began taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and we were still out of half our rum…

While I checked things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see that.

Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester of the group.

Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

“You forgot something,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. What was it?”

He sat an empty shot glass on the counter.

I glanced at it, then back up to him.

“I wasn’t kidding. I really don’t remember. What was it again?”

His eye twitched, but he backed off a little.

“Crown.”

“Oh, right,” I nodded, reaching for the liquor bottle. “Fireball shots for everyone, and another Crown for you.” If he’d have been any less of a total creep, I would have snuck him a second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn’t becoming for a bartender to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I’d been managing pretty well all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it, which made things run way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on a simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I’d lose my train of focus.

“Here you go,” I placed it back down on the counter for him.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, walking away.

But he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t like it.

I sighed inwardly, turning to my other patrons. They’d been trying to ignore the raucous bikers, but even they could sense the unsettling tension in the room that had developed around the group.

And there was the way they looked at me…

Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught the big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I’d never been a very lucky girl…