Unclaimed Vows

Chapter 5: The Devil’s Tap (Nyx)

NYX

By 7:00 PM, the Texas sun had finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of crimson, burnt orange, and deep indigo. The oppressive heat of the day was giving way to a cool desert breeze that stirred the dust along the floor of my porch.

I was bone-tired. My hands were stained with dark potting soil from setting up my nursery beds, and my muscles ached from hauling heavy boxes at the clinic all morning. But despite the physical exhaustion, a restless energy hummed under my skin. I didn't want to go back to the quiet, empty cottage just yet, staring at four walls and letting my thoughts drag me back to Chicago.

I needed to be around people. I needed a cold drink, an ice-cube-heavy glass of bourbon, and twenty minutes to just exist as a nameless face in a crowd.

After a quick shower to scrub the dirt from my skin, I pulled on a soft, pale cream sundress with delicate floral prints that hit just above my knees, paired with my worn leather ankle boots. I left my hair down, letting the wet dark brown waves air-dry over my shoulders, and headed out.

Mabel had mentioned a place on the southern edge of town when I paid for my lunch. “If you want a real drink and not diner coffee, head past the grain silos to The Devil’s Tap,” she’d said, though she’d added a subtle squint. “Just don’t go looking to cause trouble down there.”

I pulled the SUV into the gravel lot of a sprawling, low-slung building made of dark timber and corrugated steel. Neon signs flickered through the heavy glass windows—Lone Star, Coors, and a glowing red emblem of a winged skull riding a motorcycle wheel. The parking lot was packed, not with family sedans or farm pickups, but with rows of gleaming, heavy-framed Harley Davidson motorcycles, their polished chrome catching the crimson glare of the neon signs.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second with my hand on the gear shift.

It’s just a local pub, I told myself. You’re twenty-six, you’re an independent doctor, and you can handle a beer.

I shut off the engine, locked the doors, and walked up the low wooden steps.

The moment I pushed open the heavy oak door, the heavy atmosphere of the place hit me like a physical wall. The air was cool, smelling heavily of stale beer, expensive bourbon, leather, engine oil, and sweet tobacco smoke. Heavy rock music, dirty guitar riffs and a thumping bass reverberated through the pub.

And then I stepped fully inside, and the subtle shift in the room was immediate.

The Devil’s Tap wasn’t a cozy neighborhood tavern. It was a biker bar that was raw, dark, and utterly dominated by men built like brick walls. Broad shoulders wrapped in black leather vests-cuts-covered in embroidered patches, heavy denim, and thick tattoos creeping up their necks, down their arms and across knuckles. Women in fitted leather jackets, short skirts in high heels or boots and they sat on the laps of men with beards and sharp, watchful eyes.

My pale floral sundress practically glowed in the dim, amber-lit room.

I felt instantly, wildly out of place. It was like stepping into a lion's den wearing a dress made of raw steak. Several heads turned at the bar, dark eyes tracking my path as the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me.

My pulse spiked, hammering against my ribs, but I forced my chin up. I hadn't fled two thousand miles from a cheating ex-fiancé, overbearing father, and backstabbing stepsister just to shrink back into the shadows the second a few rugged men looked my way. I kept my posture straight, my steps deliberate, and headed straight for the long, polished mahogany bar running along the far wall.

I slid onto a tall wooden stool near the end of the counter, placing my hands squarely on the worn wood.

"Evening," a gruff bartender said, wiping down the surface in front of me with a rag. He had a graying beard and a thick scar running through his left eyebrow. He eyed my sundress, then my face, his expression unreadable. "What can I get for you, little lady?"

"Neat bourbon," I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. "Whatever your top shelf is."

The bartender raised an eyebrow, a slight, approving smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Top shelf bourbon. Coming right up."

As he turned toward the wall of liquor bottles, I let out a slow, quiet breath, trying to ignore the prickle of eyes burning into the back of my neck from the far corner of the room. I took a quick look at my surroundings through the dark mirror behind the liquor shelf, adjusting to the heavy, electric pulse of the bar.

I was far away from Chicago’s sterile cocktail lounges. This place was wild, untamed, and dangerous, and for better or worse, I had just walked right into the center of it.