Ember
The neon "Hollow Tap" sign flickered like it had a stutter and a drinking problem—which, honestly, made it the most honest thing in Sweet Mercy.
I popped my gum as I leaned over the bar, wiping down a sticky patch someone's spilled margarita had left behind. It was Friday, half the town was already tipsy, and I hadn't even taken off my bra yet. That's how I knew the night was just getting started.
"Two bourbons, Ember. And smile this time. You scare the newcomers."
I looked up to see Adonis Vega leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, tattoos peeking from under the sleeves of his tight black tee.
God help me.
Not literally—I'm not on speaking terms with Him.
Adonis Vega wasn't just my boss. He was a sin on legs. Six foot forever, tanned skin, silver rings on his fingers, and a voice that could make a prayer sound like a proposition. Also? Piercings. Plural. I didn't know where they all were, but I had theories. Very… specific theories.
"I smile," I said, sliding the bourbons across the counter. "Just not for free."
He didn't laugh. He never did. Instead, his eyes dragged over me like a match searching for something flammable. And I burned easy when he looked at me like that.
"You're trouble," he said.
"You hired me."
"Regret it weekly."
"But never daily." I winked and turned before I did something stupid—like ask if he needed help closing tonight. Shirtless.
The crowd rolled in slow, a mix of farmers and gossipmongers, old timers and town flirts. I kept the drinks coming, lips glossed, legs crossed, hips swinging just enough to earn bigger tips and bigger stares.
The Hollow Tap had a rhythm—one I'd learned to master. You didn't survive as the preacher's daughter in this town without learning how to make people look at you and regret it.
The bar door swung open again and Beatrix Vale walked in, clutching her phone like it had personally betrayed her.
"Tequila," she muttered. "The fast kind."
I slid her a glass. "Rough night?"
She nodded, slid into a stool, and hissed, "I accidentally sexted the sheriff."
My eyebrows hit my hairline. "Ioannis?"
She groaned. "I was trying to text my ex. Instead I sent, and I quote, 'miss your mouth on me.'"
"Oof." I poured her another. "He's gonna interrogate you for public endangerment."
"Already did. With his eyes."
Not five minutes later, Alena Carter strolled in, heels clicking, curls bouncing, face flushed like she'd just had a minor crisis or a major orgasm.
"Y'all," she said. "Tell me if this is insane: apparently I made a sex pact with Dax Wilder and forgot."
Beatrix choked on her shot. I blinked. "Wait, wait. The Dax Wilder?"
Alena threw her hands in the air. "We were nineteen. We pinky promised. Thirty or bust. I'm thirty next week."
I leaned on the bar, deadpan. "So he's here to collect?"
She nodded. "With dimples and a smug-ass grin."
Beatrix let out a low whistle. "You're doomed."
I smirked. "Welcome to the club."
We clinked glasses, the three of us, laughing too loudly, drinking too much, and not giving a damn.
Because whatever sins we'd committed—lust, lies, accidentally texting a cop—we weren't sorry.
Not even a little.