Jackson's hands moved over his heart, and a roguish smile covered his lips. "Never call it such. Daisy Dame," he laughed. "I better go fix the jukebox before Floyd gets here and starts beating it again." "He does love his music," I muttered, turning my attention to the door as it opened.Royce and Bryce, regulars at the bar, entered, shaking the snow from their jackets as they removed them. Grabbing a pitcher, I tipped it to fill for them and took the $20 bill he placed on the bar, breaking it into change for them to play pool. Once they headed off, I started mixing the drinks we'd serve for the special.People began filing in as the clock ticked on, and the music got more bois- terous. I'd finished mixing the drinks for a group of women who were slumming it, their words, not mine. Jackson worked beside me, moving through the orders for the kitchen while I focused on the drinks.I was pouring another pitcher of beer when the doors opened, and a man entered. My senses screamed in warni
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