QUINN'S BOOKSHELF

Chapter 1 10:47PM—Thursday, November 27th From her place behind the bar, Miki clocked the frat boys the minute they staggered in. Uh-oh. Not good. Maybe it was their smug expressions and UW hoodies. Or it was the instincts born from nearly twenty-three years of growing up in-and-out of bars in some truly shady places. But when something tripped her douchebag wire, she paid attention. And judging from the way her muscles coiled as her hearing sharpened and her eyes started pinging around the room? They were going to be giant pains in her ass. All three looked polished, preppy, and shiny—fish out of water in a place like The Midnight Lantern. It wasn’t the kind of bar where frat boys went to get shitfaced or pick up equally drunk coeds, nor was it home to any local sports jerseys, or flat screen TVs constantly playing ESPN for rabid fans. And if someone tried dancing and getting their club grind on? Her dad would probably cut them off—and then call them a cab. Because, no. Just no. What it did have was low, moody lighting provided by a singular lantern hanging over the front door—with others strategically placed to create just enough shadows for people to hide in if they needed. A potbelly stove at the far side of the room was currently lit, its warmth combating the late November chill that swept in whenever the front door opened. Exposed, weathered brick walls and dark wooden beams carried the embedded scent of whiskey and smoke. Here and there, the odd glint of hand-hammered metal caught the lowlight. The booths were comfortable, broken in, and always just a little sticky—no matter how much you cleaned them. Worn wooden tables, mismatched, squeaky chairs added a comfortable, lived-in charm. The jukebox, which her dad hated and Uncle Pat loved, only deepened the retro nostalgia. This was a place where regulars went after work or a rough day to sit back and let it go. Or a safe haven for those feeling a little lost. Broholes one through three? Definitely lost. Just not in The Lantern kind of way. And they also looked to be a few beers and shots deep, feeling no pain. Just invincible…and entitled. A fucking dangerous combination. Pouring a whiskey neat for a regular, Miki kept an eye on those three. Dammit, they reminded her of something. Matching hoodies, perfectly gelled hair, smug expressions, and the energy that screamed, “If I had a guitar in my hand, I would totally play music at you.” Fuck, that was it. They reminded her of Kens. Except more douchey. And GHB friendly. Shit. If they slipped roofies into anyone’s drink, she’d— “Miki?” Blinking, she stared down at her cousin, who was sitting at the bar, a notebook and textbook spread out in front of her. “What’s up? And please don’t ask me for help again. I’m studying photography—I don’t do math.” Jen rolled her cornflower blue eyes. Five-three, petite, and cute, her eighteen-year-old cousin was the bubbly girl-next-door—right down to that pink scrunchie in her sandy blonde hair. You know, if the girl-next door lived over a bar where she occasionally did her homework, and was perfectly content to lounge in a pair of yoga pants, Uggs, and a blue cable-knit sweater while sipping on her diet Coke. Because though their dads might own The Lantern, both of them had a staunch rule against serving anyone underage—even their own kids. Much to Jen’s irritation. Mostly because she had three years to go until she was legal. She’d already vowed to get smashed at The Lantern on her twenty-first—and on Uncle Pat’s tab. Uncle Pat’s only reply had been, “Did you want your puke bucket in stainless steel, matte black, or bedazzled? Follow-up question—would it bother you if it came with a mop?” Somehow, Jen hadn’t found it nearly as funny as Miki had. “Whatever. We both know if I need math help, I’d just ask Tyler or Dad first.” Miki wasn’t offended. They’d probably be her first choice, too. “I was going to ask you what’s up. You’ve got…a look,” Jen said, frowning. “What kind of look?” “Like you’re bracing to punch someone.” “Haven’t you learned? I’m always bracing to punch someone.” From his spot under his usual table, a giant, white mound of fur stirred. Grunted in agreement—eyes alert, tracking the chaos across the room. Her grin flashed. “See? Koda knows.” “Miiiiiiiick-eeeeeeeee,” Jen groaned. She sighed. Fine. “Do you see the frat boys who look like Kenergy with a side of bro-y asshole?” Jen nodded. “Yeah…” “I’m getting not good vibes.” Her cousin’s eyes widened, and she glanced around. “Where’s Uncle Jack?” “Dealing with a late delivery in the back.” “Should I—” “We’re fine,” Miki assured. “Grizz is nearby if I need backup. Besides, I’m just keeping watch.” For now. Probably wouldn’t be long until she had to step in. She gave them ten minutes. They lasted eight.