I reach the section of bar closest to the door just as Mason yells into the mic, pumping the crowd up. His voice is worn-out from singing all night as he demands to know if everyone’s having a good time.

My ears ring as the room explodes with shouts and whistles.

I cringe when I feel a splash of wetness on my bare arm when a couple of giggling girls stumble past me with freshly filled plastic cups. On the bright side, there’s now standing room at the bar.

Another song starts up—“Breathe” by Through Fire—and I try to see over the heads to get a look at the band, but it’s no use.

Other than a quick glimpse here and there of Mason’s head, it’s nothing but a rolling sea of dark silhouettes. Phantom arms reaching and swaying toward the lights flashing from the ceiling.

I run a hand through my hair as I lean up against the bar, grimacing to myself when I feel a drop of sweat trickling down my neck. Even though the place is air-conditioned, it’s clearly a total waste of money. There’s just too much damn body heat to get any sort of relief.

“You showed up,” someone calls out loud enough to be heard over the noise, causing me to lift my head. I glance up through my lashes to find Ivy standing across from me. She arches a finely sculpted eyebrow, as if I’ve already inconvenienced her.

I give Ivy a dry smile. “Disappointed?

She narrows her cat-like eyes. They look even brighter now—almost ethereal with all that heavy make-up. The messy black up-do she was rocking earlier has been freed and her hair is now straightened, falling down to her waist. “Are you?”

“Just got here. Ask me again in an hour.”

For a split second, I think she might actually smile. But the twist in her lips is quickly smothered by a hard line.

Right, I think. Can’t have me actually thinking she might not totally hate me. It would be admirable, almost—her loyalty to Waylon—if it wasn’t so frustrating.

She takes my order and returns within seconds with a cold bottle of Yuengling Lager. She pops it open and I don’t miss the black talons she has for nails as she all but shoves the beer at me. I try to hand her a few ones, but she just rolls her eyes and walks away from me to help another customer. Even in the deathtraps she wears for shoes—chunky black heeled boots—the top of her head probably comes no higher than my chin.

I make a mental note to leave some money when I leave, either with her or the older dude tending the other side of the bar.