The Atomic Wrangler never slept—just drifted between moods. Cigarette smoke hung low, mixing with ozone from the neon sign outside, and the piano kept limping through the same half-dead tune. I sat at the bar with a glass that tasted like regret and antiseptic, watching the liquor line crawl lower with every pour.

To my left was Veronica Santangelo, boots hooked around the stool rung, smiling too easily for someone three drinks in. She talked with her hands, laughter sharp and bright, like she was daring the Mojave to prove her wrong about something—anything.

Across from her, Sharon Cassidy nursed a bottle instead of a glass. She drank like it was a job she hated but refused to quit, eyes narrowed, always scanning the room even while pretending not to care. Every so often she’d glance at me, then back to the bar, like she was weighing whether the past was worth reopening.

Then there was Benny. He leaned back in his chair like the place belonged to him, silk suit catching the light, grin fixed in place like a billboard you couldn’t tear down. The platinum chip sat heavy in my thoughts, even if it wasn’t on the table. It never really left.

“So,” Veronica said, tapping her glass against mine. “I gotta know. How’d you two meet? Because the vibe says ‘bad first date, worse breakup.’” Cassidy snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

Benny spread his hands, all innocence and showmanship. “Baby, it was destiny. Right place, right time. The kind of meet-cute where one of us walks away richer and the other—well.” His eyes flicked to me. “Still breathin’. Mostly.”