Whiskey Nights

The bar smelled like spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and broken promises.

Alli wiped down the counter, though it didn’t need it. The rag moved in circles out of habit more than necessity, a poor distraction from the man who’d just walked in. Johnny.

Same stool. Same black shirt clinging to his arms. Same eyes that burned when they landed on her.

He wasn’t like the rest of the regulars. He didn’t stumble in drunk, didn’t try to sweet talk her for a free pour. Johnny sat in silence. Smoldering. Watching. And when he spoke? He made it sound like a dare.

Alli had just turned eighteen. A fresh graduate with big dreams and no direction, stuck pouring cheap drinks at a bar that didn’t even have a name worth remembering. Locals called it “The Hollow,” fitting for a place where people came to forget.

“Alli,” her boss barked from the back, “restock that well before close.”

“On it,” she called, tossing the rag aside and ducking behind the bar.

When she popped back up, Johnny was waiting, perched on his usual stool like a shadow come to life.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice low, rough like sandpaper and smoke.

Alli blinked. “Not really.”

“You’re scrubbing that counter like it owes you money.”

She shrugged, trying to play it cool, but her stomach flipped anyway. “You want the usual?”

He gave a lazy nod.

As she poured his drink—whiskey, neat—she felt his eyes tracing her. Not lewd, not disrespectful. Just… deliberate. Like he was studying her. Like he already knew what she tasted like and missed it.

She slid the glass toward him. “Where’s Layla?”

Johnny’s jaw flexed. “At home. Playing house.”

Alli hesitated. “With her husband?”

“Where else would she be?”

Everyone in town knew about Johnny and Layla. She was married—had been for years. Her husband worked in construction, often out of town, leaving Layla to wander and make her own kind of trouble. Tall. Polished. Older. She wore lipstick like a weapon and didn’t care who she cut with it.

It wasn’t a secret. Hell, it was practically tradition around here—small-town scandal. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous. Especially for someone like Alli.

“She doesn’t care you come here?” Alli asked, voice quiet.

“She doesn’t ask,” he replied, sipping his drink. “And I don’t lie.”

His gaze pinned her in place. “You care?”

Alli’s heart thudded. “I’m just asking.”

His smirk was slow, wicked. “Sure you are.”

She turned to grab another bottle, mostly so she wouldn’t have to look at him. Because when she did, it felt like gravity tilted. And Johnny didn’t just pull—he devoured.

“Alli,” he said, voice smooth as smoke.

She turned, met his eyes.

“Be careful with questions like that,” he murmured. “You start asking, you might not like the answers.”

Heat crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but then Layla walked in.

White tank, tight jeans, hair curled just right. Her heels clacked against the bar floor like a warning. She didn’t look at Alli. Only Johnny. She moved straight to him and leaned in like she owned him.

Alli saw it. The way Johnny stiffened, jaw locked. He let her kiss his cheek, but his hand never moved. His body didn’t lean into hers.

And his eyes?

They were still on Alli.