Layla’s POV
The Last Call smelled like lemon cleaner and old beer. It felt strange being back behind my own bar. For weeks I had stayed close to the clubhouse after the blast. Rico used to sit near the front door with his leg stretched out, watching everyone like a guard dog. Now one of the new recruits, Cole, stood by the wall with his arms crossed, pretending to check his phone but really watching the street.
“You good?” he asked me.
“I’m fine,” I said, pouring whiskey into a glass.
The place was quiet. Afternoon light came through the front windows, dust floating in it. Neon signs buzzed low. The jukebox played country music soft, like it didn’t want trouble either. Chloe hadn’t come. She said she was “busy.” I knew what that meant. So I worked alone.
I cut limes. Wiped counters.
