Chapter 3 #2
His attention flicked down before he could stop it.
I sighed into my soda. “But in the dark, you can barely see the stretch marks.”
That did it. The confidence drained right out of him. He picked up the beer he’d bought and backed away like I’d handed him a contagious disease.
“Right.”
I gave him a cheerful wave. “Have a great night!”
He disappeared into the crowd.
The bartender laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Well.”
I smiled into my drink. “Well, what?”
He leaned one hand on the bar. “You handle yourself just fine.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Spent six years in labs with men who thought they were smarter than me.”
He pointed toward the kitchen window. “I’ll put that order in.”
My stomach growled loud enough for both of us to hear. He paused, looked down at my midsection, and laughed again.
“Long day?”
I looked through the front window at my truck.
Steam crept faintly from under the hood.
Bandit glared through the windshield like he was already planning the lawsuit.
My whole life sat packed under tarps in the back, tied down with bungee cords and optimism.
I was in a new state, heading toward a new job, with no clue what waited for me except rent, fieldwork, and the very real possibility that my truck might die before I made it there.
“Long week.”
The bartender poured another soda and slid it over. “Food’s coming.”
I wrapped both hands around the cold glass and, for the first time all day, stopped moving.
When the burger arrived, I inhaled it with the focus and intensity of a woman returning from war.
No dignity. No slowing down. Just grease, salt, meat, bread, and the primal restoration of calories entering a body that had been running on gas station coffee and spite.
The fries vanished right behind it. I tucked two strips of bacon into the wax paper and tore off part of the burger patty for Bandit, because the little bastard had endured the ride and deserved tribute.
The bartender came by with the check. I slid my card over and asked for a fresh cup of water.
“For the cat?” he asked.
I looked up. “How’d you know?”
He smirked. “You saved bacon.”
Fair.
He disappeared with my card. I packed the scraps into a to-go box and was gathering my bag when another voice slid in beside me.
“Leaving already?”
I turned.
Different guy. Not Carhartt. This one looked cleaner, which somehow made him worse.
Tan skin. Pressed shirt. Nice watch. Hands too smooth, nails too neat, like he worked indoors and paid other people to lift things.
But his eyes had a flatness to them that made my skin pay attention.
Cold. Measured. Like smiling was just a behavior he’d learned by watching normal people.
I gave him my second polite smile of the evening, which was already two more than my social budget allowed. “Long drive.”
His gaze dropped to my left hand.
No ring.
“You traveling alone?”
I lifted that same hand. “Meeting my husband.”
His eyes narrowed. “No ring?”
“Field work,” I said easily. “Didn’t want to lose it.”
The bartender returned with my water, my card, and my receipt. His gaze lingered on the man beside me. Not friendly. Not alarmed either. Just aware. I signed quickly, added a tip I could barely afford because witnesses deserved compensation, and grabbed my bag.
“Safe trip,” the bartender muttered.
I headed for the bathroom first. I needed a minute, needed to breathe, needed to not think about strange men in strange bars and the mathematical probability of things going wrong when you were a woman alone with a dying truck and a phone battery hovering near useless.
In the bathroom, I checked my reflection again.
Still dusty. Still tired. Still alive. Good enough.
I rinsed my hands, adjusted my ponytail, and told myself I was being paranoid, which was a very common thing women told themselves right before discovering they had been exactly the correct amount of paranoid.
When I opened the bathroom door, he was there.
Waiting.
Leaning against the hallway wall like this was casual, like men casually positioned themselves outside bathrooms to continue conversations women had already ended. The corridor felt narrower than it had five minutes ago. Quieter too, though the music still pushed through the walls in muffled waves.
My grip tightened on the food bag. “What’s your deal?”
He pushed off the wall. Smile still there. Still wrong. “I thought maybe you wanted company.”
“No.”
I moved left. He moved left.
A cold line slid down my spine.
“I’m was just here to eat and leave,” I said.
His eyes moved over me slowly, not admiring.
Assessing. Possessive in a way that made my skin want to detach from my bones.
I hated that look. Hated how familiar it was in different packaging.
The professor’s polished entitlement. Carhartt’s drunk offense.
This man’s quiet calculation. Different wrappers, same rotten center.
A group of women rounded the corner laughing, bright and loud and perfectly timed.
I slipped around them and headed straight back to the bar, fast but not running. Calm on the outside. Every nerve in my body lit up on the inside.
The bartender looked up when I dropped onto the stool. “That fast?”
“Diet Coke.”
He studied my face, then poured without comment.
My phone buzzed. Three percent battery.
Perfect. Impeccable comedic timing from the universe.
I looked at the bartender. “Can I charge this here for a few minutes?”
He hesitated. “We don’t usually.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Clean Hands was gone. Or hiding. Hard to tell. “I’d appreciate it.”
The bartender sighed and held out his hand. “One time.”
Relief softened something in my chest. “Thank you.”
He pointed at me. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“My lips are sealed.”
I left the phone behind the bar and took my soda.
I didn’t want to sit inside anymore, not with Clean Hands somewhere in the room and Carhartt probably nursing his injured masculinity by the dartboard.
I also didn’t want to walk to my truck yet, where the parking lot was already dimming into shadow.
I needed people. Noise. Witnesses—a crowd I could disappear into before slipping away to the truck.
Out back, the patio opened into a completely different world.
String lights hung overhead, glowing warm against the desert dusk.
A live band played in the corner, guitars humming low and sweet through the dry air.
People danced near the makeshift stage. Drinks caught the light.
Laughter rolled across the patio, softer than inside, less predatory.
The heat had loosened its grip, and the first hint of evening cool touched the back of my neck.
A table full of women caught my eye.
They were beautiful, but not in the glossy, fragile way magazines tried to sell as the only option.
These women looked real. Sun-browned, tattooed, sharp-eyed, relaxed in their bodies.
Turquoise rings. Silver cuffs. Layered necklaces.
Boots dusty. Hair loose. Laughter easy. Confidence not performed for the room, just worn like skin.
One of them lifted her chin at me. “You alone?”
I paused.
The woman smiled, warm and direct. Not fake. Not pitying. “Come sit.”
My eyes dropped to the bracelets stacked on her wrist, the metalwork catching firelight in intricate patterns. “Those are beautiful.”
“My friend makes them.” She pointed to the woman beside her.
That woman looked like art carved into human form.
Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Silver rings from knuckle to wrist. Exotic in a way I couldn’t place and probably shouldn’t try to categorize, because scientists were supposed to know better than reducing a whole person to aesthetics. Still, she was stunning.
I stepped closer. “Thanks.”
The first woman slid over, making room. “I’m Regan.”
“Amber,” said the woman beside her, lifting her glass.
“Skye,” another added, softer but watchful.
“Evie,” said a blonde with a dry little smile.
“Tina,” the last one smiled.
The most beautiful raven haired woman studied me for half a second longer, like she was deciding whether I qualified for entry, then said, “Savannah.”
Regan leaned in, her expression changing when she saw whatever was still on my face from the hallway. “You’re good here.”
I gave a shaky laugh. “What does that mean?”
Amber smirked. “Means nobody’s stupid enough to mess with women sitting at this table.”
“Why?”
Evie raised a brow. “Protection.”
I blinked. “Like guns?”
The whole table broke into laughter.
Regan wiped under one eye. “Something like that.”
The joke went right over my head, but the warmth did not. Amber pushed a margarita toward me.
“Drink.”
“I’ve got five hours left to drive.”
“Then one won’t kill you.”
Regan tilted her head. “Where you headed?”
“Santa Fe.”
That earned a look. Quick. Shared. Gone almost before I caught it.
I frowned. “What?”
Regan smiled too smoothly. “Nothing.”
Amber lifted her drink. “Cute town.”
That was not convincing. “Where are you all from?”
“Outside town,” Regan said. “Further into the desert.”
I nodded, accepting the margarita because apparently this was the portion of the night where I trusted beautiful strangers with vague answers. “New job.”
Their attention sharpened.
“Doing what?” Regan asked.
“Environmental science. Water contamination, land impact, field analysis. Very glamorous if you enjoy dirt, spreadsheets, and explaining to men why runoff does, in fact, run off.”
Amber whistled. “Smart girl.”
“Depends who you ask.”
Regan leaned in. “Give me your phone.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“You might need me.”
“It’s charging inside.”
“Then remember this,” she said, pointing at me with all the authority of a woman used to being obeyed. “When you get into town, go to the coffee shop on Main and ask for Regan. I don’t work there but they know me.”
I stared at her. “What are you, the mayor?”
“Unofficially.”