One week later.
To say that this wasn’t Roxie’s kind of place would have been an understatement. The moment she’d stepped into the dimly lit dive bar, she’d wondered what the hell she’d let Mitch talk her into this time around.
Tucked in another corner of the city, she wondered how Mitch knew about it. The bar smelled like beer and broken dreams, which would have been ideal considering how she felt, but the flickering neon lights and the tables that had mysterious sticky patches and scratches she wasn’t willing to investigate gave the place a more sinister look.
Roxie clutched her purse and phone to her chest. She wasn’t judging, but the crowd, which consisted mostly of old, tired-looking men and women with too much makeup and too few clothes, made her feel uneasy.
The noise level in
