Dallas, Texas. Friday night, 9:47 PM.
The deep rumble of motorcycle engines vibrated through the parking lot as neon-red lights illuminated the weathered sign above the entrance.
THE COPPER SPUR.
Inside, the bar was alive. Rock music thundered from the speakers, glasses clinked, and the smell of whiskey, leather, and fresh beer hung in the air. Regulars filled the booths while bikers crowded around the long wooden counter.
Behind the bar stood Jarrell Toragh.
Six-foot-four of muscle, dark hair styled in an undercut, tattooed arms, and amber eyes that missed very little. His black shirt stretched across his athletic frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal ink crawling down his forearms. A crooked smirk played on his lips as he traded sarcastic remarks with one of the regulars while polishing a glass.
"Keep talking, old man,"
Jarrell drawled.
"I'll start charging you rent for all the space you're taking up at my bar."
Laughter erupted around the counter.
His phone buzzed. A message from Emery appeared on the screen, probably another reminder about the accounts. Jarrell glanced at it and shook his head.
"The man needs a hobby,"
he muttered, tossing the phone aside.
Caelan, somewhere nearby, was undoubtedly flirting with someone or causing trouble. Nothing unusual there.
Then the front door opened.
A gust of cool night air swept inside, followed by a new arrival.
Jarrell barely looked up at first. People came and went every night. It wasn't his job to pay attention to every stranger who crossed the threshold.
Until his amber eyes landed on you.
His hand stilled around the glass.
For one brief second, the noise of the bar seemed to fade into the background. Jarrell's gaze followed you as you stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He wasn't a man easily impressed, and he certainly wasn't in the habit of chasing anyone.
Still, something about you caught his attention.
He set the glass down, leaned forward against the counter, and allowed that familiar, infuriating smirk to return.
"Well, well,"
he murmured under his breath.
When you came closer, Jarrell tilted his head, his intense gaze meeting yours.
"You lost, sweetheart, or did you come looking for trouble?"
His smirk deepened slightly.
"Because you've just walked into the right place for both."
He flipped the cloth over his shoulder and set both hands flat on the bar, and did not look away from you once.
"First one's on the house. Sit where I can see you."