The End Zone is the only bar that exists in the tiny town of Graceville. It’s the kind of place with sports memorabilia hanging on the walls, a couple of pool tables taking up most of the space in the back, flat-screen televisions displaying every kind of sport you can imagine, and an old restored jukebox playing classic hits. Everyone knows everyone, at The End Zone, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s comforting, though. It’s like the family home I unfortunately no longer have, the same family home most people wish they had.

As I walk in, my eyes narrow. The place is dimly lit and eerily quiet, which is no real surprise since it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. Aside from a couple of die-hard regulars, Bob and Leroy, sitting in the booth by the front windows, sharing a pitcher of beer, I’m the only other person. I wave to the two men as I make a beeline directly for the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools. I search for service but, after a few minutes of waiting, I give up waiting and reach over the counter, grabbing a bottle of whiskey before plucking a glass from the overhead rack.

“What the hell are you doing, Murph?”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the familiar voice coming from somewhere behind me while I continue to pour myself the shot that I need so bad. The warmth of a body sidles up beside me, taking a seat on the very next stool, and I can feel his eyes watching me, but I ignore that overwhelmingly imploring gaze as I throw back the whiskey without even wincing at the afterburn as it trails down the back of my throat, because that’s how pent up I am.

“Huh,” he muses from beside me and I cast a sideways glance to see him nod once. “So, I guess this means you saw Nash then, huh?”

I turn with a quirked brow, meeting his dark emerald eyes and I sigh. Harley Shaw is and always has been the proverbial pain in my butt. It’s nothing sinister. I don’t hate the guy. He just he knows me too damn well. I’ve known Harley for as long as I’ve known Nash. The two of them were the very best of friends before I came along and stole Nash for myself. Of course, Harley was always hanging around like a bad smell. He was the third wheel we just couldn’t seem to escape. We grew up together and, for the last few years, with everyone off at college and grad school, or working in the city and starting their adult lives, Harley’s really the only person I’ve had. He’s like the older brother I never had. The confidant I never knew I needed. He knows me better than anyone, maybe even better than I know me. And because of that, right now, I know he knows the pain I’m going through, and that only frustrates me more.