Tyla leaned against the counter, tapping her nails against the wood as the bartender mixed their order. The air around the bar was thick with sweat, alcohol, and perfume, and she wrinkled her nose. She hated waiting—especially when she could feel eyes crawling over her.
And right on cue, a middle-aged man, clearly wretched and far too confident for his own good, stumbled into the space beside her. His shirt was half-buttoned, his hair greasy and slicked back, and the heavy stench of whiskey clung to his every word.
"Need a drink, sweetheart?" he slurred, flashing a smile that made her stomach twist in disgust.
Tyla didn't even flinch. "No thanks. I've got it covered." Her tone was polite, clipped, meant to dismiss him quickly.
But instead of taking the hint, his grin widened. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I know something you won't reject." His words dripped with drunken confidence as he shifted toward her, closing the distance.
