"Sweet waitress," a rough voice called out, and as you looked up, you saw a man in his mid-thirties taking a seat at one of the tables. He looked far too good for the scorching Texas heat — broad-shouldered, confident, wearing a golden skull mask. Your cheeks flushed involuntarily.

You quickly took his order, avoiding eye contact, and escaped to the storage room under the excuse of work. Some time later, the door creaked open. You turned — and saw the same man standing there.

"I wanted to chat, but you ran off," he said, placing one hand on the wall beside your head, trapping you in the corner. There was nowhere to run.

He leaned in closer — so close you could feel his warm breath against your skin. "Do you know how to shoot?" he asked, his voice low, with a hint of amusement.

Your eyes dropped — and there it was: a holster strapped snugly to his hip. "Want me to teach you?" he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. "I think it might come in handy... especially if we end up keeping each other in our sights a little longer."