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CHAPTER 1

DECKER

“You look worse for wear tonight, man I kno you feel”

The couy—I think his name is Evan—perches on the other side of the bar in his fancy suit and presumes to know me? He knows fuck all about how I feel He’s just one of the countless patrons who shuffles into a ist will talk thes, but I’m neither a therapist nor a friend

I blink and relax my jaw Christ, I need to chill out With a deep breath, I wipe down the workspace behind the bar and attempt to be civil “Just tired”

Evan’s a nice guy, perhaps a little too chatty, but he tips like a high-roller I’m certain he bats for the ho here, he’s never hit on me

“Want another?” I lift lass

He pulls up so on his phone and considers his ansith a furrowed brow

For a Saturday night, the bar is quieter than it should be I’ve worked here since it opened six h to know that fifty-percent occupancy isn’t going to pay the pre to wonder if Blue Dixie has what it takes to survive Manhattan’s boo converted into craft breweries and artsy hipster bars, while Blue Dixie clings to a chars in the South

This place can burn to the ground for all I care Except I need this job I have tootables, collecting trash, so in this pathetic job ain

“I’ll have one lass towardhome to a lonely apartment, you know?”

I do know, but if that was an invitation to go houy

His dark stubble is thicker than usual, the creases around his eyes deeper Given his exorbitant tips and high-dollar suits, he’s rolling in s, because at the end of the day, the size of the bank account doesn’t matter Life shits on everyone

An old bearded ly lost in his ooes

I turn to refill Evan’s top-shelf whiskey and collide with Shelby’s bony body She reaches up to touch rowl The owner of Blue Dixie struggles with simple concepts like business ethics and personal space