I don’t give a shite about any of them.

My eyes lock on the back of the bar, on her—hair scraped back, one hand wrapped around a pint glass, the other working a rag in slow, deliberate circles. She’s not even looking at me yet. Doesn’t need to. That little smirk says she knows I’m here before I’ve even taken the second step.

I barge through the crowd, shoulder-checking some fella who’s too slow to get out of my way, and plant both hands flat on the sticky counter. Close enough to smell her—cheap perfume and something sharper underneath, like metal and mint.