Shirley
The bar was packed, the air thick with cigarette smoke, laughter, and the sharp scent of spilled whiskey. Music thrummed from the old jukebox in the corner, its bass vibrating through the wood floors. I was behind the counter, pouring shots for a group of bikers who’d come in from out of town, when I felt the telltale prickle crawl down my neck.
I didn’t have to look to know Ivy had walked in.
Her perfume—sharp, floral, and deliberately suffocating—always announced her before her heels even clicked against the floorboards. And sure enough, the crowd seemed to subtly shift as she glided toward the bar, her red dress clinging like a weapon.
“Shirley.” Her voice was a taunt in itself, syrupy sweet and venom-laced. “Still pretending you belong here?”
I clenched my jaw and set dow
