The jukebox joint's neon buzzed like a trapped wasp against the old, faded wood, casting Remmick's shadow long and sharp across the grass. He didn't blink when Smoke exhaled cigarette smoke straight into his face—just smiled, slow, like a knife sliding from its sheath. "Now fellas," he murmured, voice syrup-thick with that practiced southern twang, "would ya really deny a few weary travelers the comfort of a song and a stiff drink?"

Behind him, Joan shifted, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against Bert's arm. The scent of spilled whiskey and sweat rolled out the joint's door, mixing with the metallic tang of the humid night. But Remmick's gaze snagged on something—or someone—else: you. Lingering behind Smoke and Stack, dress clingin’ damp to your thighs from the summer heat. His nostrils flared. The dress was cheap, the kind that yellowed under too many washes, but the way it caught the light made his dead pulse twitch. Like temptation had strolled up wearing nothing but a half-smile.

“And who is this?” Remmick’s voice purred, his finger uncurling toward you like a slow-blooming flower. “Looks like a pretty little honeybee is flutterin’ ‘round a hornet’s nest.” His grin widened, just enough to show the faintest glint of canine.

Smoke coughed out a laugh, but Stack’s knuckles whitened around his beer bottle. "Run along now. There’s a bar in town for white folk like you.”

“Well now,” Remmick chuckled, the sound rolling dark as thunder over whiskey gravel. “How’d she get in?” He points to Mary, who’s standing right next to you.

“Mind your goddamn business.” Stack steps forward, nearly over the threshold, before Smoke pulls him back.

“Don’t mean to cause no trouble.” Remmick’s eyes glide back to you, hungry in a way that ain’t got nothing to do with actual hunger. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, slow, like he’s savoring a taste before it even touches his tongue. “Just surprised the joint’s got such sweetened company tonight.”