The Rusty Anchor was a dive bar that wore its grunge like a badge of honor. Tucked on the edge of town, its neon sign flickered half-heartedly, casting a dim red glow over the cracked pavement outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke, while a classic rock anthem wailed from a jukebox that had seen better decades. The place was a haven for misfits and wanderers, and tonight, Emy was one of them.
She pushed through the heavy door, the creak of its hinges blending with the gritty riff of a Led Zeppelin track. Her leather jacket hung loose over her shoulders, the black material scuffed from years of wear, and her boots thudded against the sticky floor with purpose. Emy was a mechanic, her hands still smudged with grease from a long day wrestling with a stubborn carburetor. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands framing her sharp, angular face. She didn’t come here to impress anyone—she just wanted a cold drink and a moment to forget the ache in her shoulders.
Behind the bar, Cna commanded the space like a queen on her throne. Her auburn hair was tied up in a high bun, a few wild tendrils escaping to brush against her neck. A tight black tank top hugged her athletic frame, the fabric straining just enough to draw attention to the curve of her shoulders and the dip of her collarbone. She moved with a predator’s grace, slinging drinks and tossing out quips to the regulars with a smirk that could cut glass. Her hazel eyes scanned the room, always reading, always calculating, and they landed on Emy the moment she stepped up to the bar.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Cna’s voice was a low, teasing drawl as she leaned forward on her elbows, her gaze flicking to Emy’s hands. “You look like you’ve been rolling around under a car all day, Grease Monkey. What’ll it be? Motor oil on the rocks?”
Emy’s lips twitched, but she didn’t crack a smile. She planted her hands on the bar, the faint streaks of black on her knuckles on full display, and met Cna’s stare head-on. “Funny. Real original. How about you pour me a beer instead of running your mouth, sweetheart? I’m not in the mood for stand-up comedy.”
Cna’s smirk widened, undeterred. She straightened up, grabbing a pint glass with a flourish and pulling the tap with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Oh, sweetheart, huh? Careful now, I might start thinking you’re sweet on me.” She slid the beer across the bar, her fingers brushing just close enough to Emy’s to send a tiny jolt through her. “First one’s on me, Grease Monkey. You look like you need it more than I need the tip.”
Emy snorted, wrapping her fingers around the cold glass. “Keep dreaming, barkeep. I don’t tip for sass, and I sure as hell don’t fall for cheap lines.” She took a long sip, her eyes never leaving Cna’s. The bartender’s confidence was irritating, but damn if it wasn’t magnetic. Emy couldn’t help but notice the way that tank top clung to every line of Cna’s body, or the way her smirk seemed to promise trouble of the best kind.
Cna chuckled, a low, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate through the air between them. She wiped down the bar with a rag, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she knew exactly where Emy’s eyes were wandering. “Cheap lines? Darlin’, I don’t do cheap. I’m high-end trouble, and you look like someone who could use a little of that in her life.”
Emy raised an eyebrow, setting her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Oh, please. I’ve got enough trouble without adding a cocky bartender to the mix. You’re all talk, aren’t you? Bet you can’t back it up.”
Cna’s eyes glinted with mischief, and she tossed the rag over her shoulder before leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is that a challenge, Grease Monkey? Because I’m real good at backing things up. How about a game of pool? Show me what those greasy hands can do with a cue stick.”
Emy’s pulse kicked up a notch, but she kept her expression cool, her lips curling into a smirk of her own. “You’re on, barkeep. But don’t cry when I wipe the floor with you. I don’t play nice.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cna shot back, her grin downright wicked. She called over her shoulder to a coworker to cover the bar, then sauntered out from behind the counter, her hips swaying just enough to make Emy’s mouth go dry. “Grab a stick, tough girl. Let’s see if you’ve got game.”
The pool table in the corner was scarred and uneven, the felt stained from years of spilled drinks and careless players. Emy chalked her cue with a steady hand, her gaze flicking to Cna as the bartender racked the balls with an almost sensual precision. The dim light overhead cast shadows across Cna’s face, highlighting the sharp line of her jaw and the playful curve of her lips.
“You break,” Cna said, stepping back and crossing her arms, her stance all confidence. “Unless you’re scared to take the first shot, Grease Monkey.”
Emy rolled her eyes, but there was a spark of amusement in them as she bent over the table, lining up her shot. “Scared? Of you? Keep talking, barkeep. I’m about to school you so hard you’ll be begging for a rematch.” The cue struck the white ball with a sharp crack, sending the others scattering across the table. A solid dropped into a corner pocket, and Emy straightened up with a triumphant smirk. “Your turn, princess. Try to keep up.”
Cna laughed, a rich, unapologetic sound, as she circled the table like a shark. “Princess? Oh, honey, I’m the queen around here. Watch and learn.” She leaned over, her tank top dipping just enough to make Emy’s breath catch, and took her shot. The ball missed by a hair, and Cna cursed under her breath before shooting Emy a mock glare. “Don’t get cocky, Grease Monkey. I’m just warming up.”
Their game stretched on, each shot punctuated by sharp banter and lingering glances. Emy couldn’t ignore the heat building between them, the way Cna’s eyes seemed to strip her bare with every taunt, or the way her own retorts grew huskier, laced with an edge of something hungry. When Cna bent over for a particularly tricky shot, her arm brushing against Emy’s as she passed, the contact sent a shiver down Emy’s spine.
“Careful, barkeep,” Emy drawled, her voice low as she leaned against her cue. “Keep rubbing up on me like that, and I might start thinking you’re playing dirty on purpose.”
Cna straightened up, her shot forgotten, and turned to face Emy with a slow, predatory smile. She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until Emy could feel the warmth radiating off her. “Maybe I am, Grease Monkey. Question is, are you gonna call me out… or play dirty right back?”
Emy’s heart thudded in her chest, her grip tightening on the cue. She didn’t back down, didn’t flinch, just tilted her head with a smirk. “Depends. What’s the stakes, barkeep? I don’t play for nothing.”
Cna’s eyes darkened, and she leaned in even closer, her breath hot against Emy’s ear as she whispered, “How about this: if I win, you owe me a private lesson on how those hands of yours work their magic. And if you win… well, I’ll let you decide what you want from me. Deal?”
Emy’s mind spun, her body humming with the thrill of the bet, the promise of something reckless and wild. She pulled back just enough to meet Cna’s gaze, her own eyes blazing with challenge. “Deal. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, barkeep. I always get what I want.”
The air between them crackled, electric and dangerous, as the game—and something far more intoxicating—continued to unfold.
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