It was just another night in Eden. Too dull. Plenty patrons, few thrills. Lots of souls milling about, but not enough bite.

Another night that announced itself woefully too short.

That’s what Eve thought, anyway, but she’s been a jaded barkeep for too long.

To anyone else, the place was buzzing. The dancefloor was packed, the techno beats pulsating. Strobes were drowning out the darkness. The cash registers were having a fucking ball.

Every evening, seven days a week, the same ritual. As the sounds grew louder and the lights flashier, the ravers stayed, the normies deserted. Eden had a way of filtering out the casuals.

Perhaps it was the noise/music. Or the neon and plush black and red leather. Maybe it was the on-stage performers, bodies painted gold. Or the thick haze of anything-goes hanging in the air.

To Eve, this was it, the dull summum of her too-long day. The imaginary chain fixated to the spiked collar she routinely wore, tying her down to this place and time. She had the looks down to the last detail: the wet-hair tightly gathered in a ponytail, the spiked collar, fishnet tank top torn just-so, black leather bra. Deep-red lipstick faded in the middle, sharp fingernails.

Like every evening, she obsessed over the one blemish on the glossy counter that she was unable to wipe clean. Breathed on it. Wiped it again, to no effect. If details could kill, she’d be dying a death of thousand cuts, tending the bar.

“Hello, Stranger!”

The blemish was driving her nuts. She was taking it personally.

“Hello, Stranger!” Now, the stranger waved a hand in Eve’s face. Eve raised an eyebrow. There were plenty of ways to kill a conversation, before it even started. The stare worked, on most nights.

The blonde woman seemed immune, grinning back at Eve, daring the devil. Denim jacket over a vintage band tee. Not enough black, glitter or neon for Eden. Wrong bar, girl, Eve thought. Smile too white. Lips too full. Head tilted to the side, neck exposed, pulse a beat quicker than the techno. A whiff of vanilla and sandalwood and the kind of beer they didn’t serve in Eden. Leaning onto the counter like she was asking for trouble. Or attention. Too playful by half. Eve rubbed her lips together absentmindedly. Interesting.

She shrugged. “What can I get you?”

“Hmm. Surprise me?”

Eve blinked, but bit. Her hand went for the bottle of Cocchi di Torino. Next, the London Dry and Campari. The stirring, the pouring, the straining, it was entirely muscle memory to Eve. While she was at it, she watched the woman out of the corner of an eye. A couple of men buzzed about her, eager as flies, but she wasn’t having any of their attention. Their gazes locked. The blonde gave Eve a conspiratorial grin.

“One negroni, on the rocks.” Eve placed the glass in front of the woman.

The blonde tossed her head to the side, flicking a stray lock of hair out of the way, and took a sip. She hummed appreciatively. “Thank you, it’s very good.”

Eve’s gaze lingered a second too long on the woman swallowing. She caught herself staring and smirked, hands swiping the counter. “Pleasure.”

She looked up and down the length of the bar, but no one was flagging her down this very instant. She made to turn on her heel. There were glasses needing washing and polishing.

“You been working here long?” the blonde asked.

Eve turned back, eyebrow raised. “Too long. I’m practically chained to the place.” True enough.

“That’s the collar?” the woman ventured, touching her own throat, then quickly, “I’m Faye, by the way.” She proffered a hand to Eve.

Eve took it with a wry smile. “Eve. Nice to meet you.” She gave Faye’s hand a squeeze. It was warm. Pleasantly so. Faye’s thumb gave the back of her hand a gentle rub.

“Your hand is cold,” she observed, brows furrowed.

Eve pulled her hand close, all too self-aware, made to rearrange the bottles behind the counter. “Yeah. Handling too much ice and cold bottles and the like.”

The excuse worked, barely. “Your first time in Eden?” Eve asked. Of course it was. Eve hadn’t seen her before. She remembered all the patrons. The ones that talked to her and the ones that stuck out. Faye nodded, taking a sip, her lips smacking appreciatively.

“I heard about it. Wanted to see for myself what the fuss is all about.”

“Living up to the hype?” Eve quizzed.

Faye stared right back, returning the mischievous grin. “They make decent cocktails.”

“Cheers to that,” Eve retorted, hands busy with pouring a couple of shots of Tennessee Honey. Faye’s thumb was a burning patch where it had touched her skin. She handed a shot to Faye. “On the house.”

Faye watched her, amused, but didn’t say anything. They both downed their shots. “Gimme a sec,” Eve said, noticing patrons flagging her down. She moved on busily. Felt a couple of blue eyes boring into her back. It felt good. It felt… different, to be seen. It made her want to repay the attention.

When she returned to Faye, the blonde was in conversation with a man, another busy fly. It didn’t look too deep. Faye rolled her eyes at Eve, but the guy didn’t notice, barrelling on as he was. He signalled Eve a couple of beers. She obliged.

“Cash or credit?”

Faye didn’t touch the one he’d bought her. Eve went ahead and fixed her a second negroni. It didn’t take long for the man to move on, frustrated he wasn’t getting anywhere with his prey.

“You’re popular,” Eve remarked. Faye looked unimpressed.

“I came alone, because… I don’t know. Wanted to do something different. Dangerous, maybe? All bars… sorry, nightclubs are the same for a woman.”

“Hear, hear,” Eve nodded. Then, decided to go for the bait, even though it was unintended. “What’s your idea of dangerous?” she asked, downplaying the question by making a show redoing her ponytail, tightening her black hair.

“I… actually don’t know.” Faye’s shoulders sagged. “Never mind. This was all a bit too much for one night,” she said hurriedly, and made a show of pushing off her barstool. “Thanks for the drinks. You mix a killer negroni.”

“Hey. I’m due a break in five,” Eve said, nodding at Faye’s wristwatch.

Mouth closed, Eve ran her tongue across her teeth. Pricked it on a fang — the taste of blood exhilarating, deeply invigorating. The stuff of lurid waking dreams.

On the outside, she conjured her most innocent smile, head tilting suggestively to the side, where a black, red neon-framed door labelled STAFF ONLY led to the backstage.

“There’s more where that came from.”

….