Chapter 1
Murphy’s was the kind of place where the sticky floors whispered secrets you’d rather not know and the dim lighting masked the fact that most patrons were one bad decision away from regretting the night. I slid onto my usual stool with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no clue what he was doing but insisted on doing it anyway. Jill, the bartender, caught my eye with a look that suggested I was either going to win a Nobel Prize that night or get thrown out before last call. Spoiler alert: it was usually the latter.
“I’ll take a whiskey sour,” I said, like I was ordering a coffee and not about to embark on a verbal joust that could very well end with me wiping my dignity off the bar. Jill raised an eyebrow, a deadly weapon in a world that celebrated sarcasm the way most bars celebrated cheap beer. “Whiskey sour? You aiming to make it through the night, or just auditioning for a tragic romance movie?”
“Hey,” I replied, leaning in with what I imagined was devil-may-care charm, but probably looked more like confusion mixed with desperation. “I like to keep things classic.”
“Classic means boring,” Jill shot back, shaking a glass like she was conducting the symphony of my impending humiliation. Meanwhile, Mike, my best friend and tonight’s designated eyewitness, grinned from his corner like he was watching a slow-motion trainwreck with popcorn.
I was pretty sure I didn’t order this competition but figured I might as well play along. “Maybe I just want a drink that tastes like regret and questionable choices,” I said, raising my glass. Jill smirked, the kind of smirk that said, ‘You’re going to be here a while.’ And judging by the night ahead, she was probably right.
