Chapter ONE-ARLISS

Ugh. Cowboys. Again

.

Wannabe fucking cowboys at that.

I roll my eyes and deliberately turn my back on the group of out-of-towners strutting through the door like they own the place, their denim too crisp, their boots too clean.

Not a scuff, not a speck of dust. Just that store-bought, mass-produced Western cosplay that somehow makes my skin crawl.

Why do grown-ass men always wanna dress up like goddamn cowboys?

I mutter it under my breath, but Rita, my coworker, hears me anyway.

“I don’t know, honey, but it pays the rent,” she snorts, expertly balancing a tray of beers as she saunters toward the table of loud-mouthed city boys.

They’re already hootin’ and hollerin’, like this is some honky-tonk straight out of a movie, instead of a dimly lit, no-frills bar in the middle of Dry Creek, New Jersey.

Bob’s Bar.