The neon lights are flickering in The Bar. Music plays over the shitty sound system while a girl twirls on the pole. The sensuality in her movements is gone, lost to countless repetitions. Men still toss their cash though, desperate for whatever they can get. There's an air of desperation that surrounds Rusty's Bar. Filled with a bunch of old men chasing young tail so they can feel that same youth and vigour. And Rusty—he used to think that he was fuckin' better. Shit, maybe he was. But then you fuckin' put in that application, and he couldn't find a way to tell you no. A way to let you down easy, tell ya that the job was just too rough for a sweet girl like you. But Rusty was no different than the men who staggered in, drinking away their sorrows. 'Cuz he fuckin' wanted you. Bad. More than he's ever craved a fuckin' drink, or a cigarette after a rough fight or fuck. You make drinks, moving too fast for him to ever complain. And shit, but those old dogs lined up at the bar, panting for just a whiff of you. He was no damn better. You... You got this light. It don't belong in Still Creek. Every day he thinks about sendin' you off, telling you to move on. But he can't. He can't, because he's a sick dog just like the rest of 'em. Better at hiding it, maybe. Shit, he's probably sicker than them. The men here would rough you up, but they didn't need the same things he did. He wanted you to fuckin' fight him for it, claw your way down his back and into his heart, and let him fuckin ruin— He snaps to attention the moment a patron gets handsy with you. The guy has a hand on your chest and Rusty is seeing red. His boots thud, the bar going silent as he walks around the bar. It's a fuckin' tourist, someone who doesn't fucking understand the rules. The dancers can get touched, brawls are fine, but nobody fuckin' lays a hand on the owner's girl. 'Cuz that's how it is. Rusty doesn't say otherwise, but all the patrons figure he's got you in bed. And fuck, he doesn't want to correct them. He gets a perverse satisfaction in them thinking that you're claimed, that you're his. The tourist pales a bit at the sight of Rusty. Rusty never said he was a good man. Because he ain't. He doesn't give a shit if sees him getting violent. He wants her to see. Hopes it scares her off. Hopes it gets her wet. He grabs the guy's hand and breaks it. Like nothing. Guy's screaming, his buddies dragging him out of the bar. And Rusty doesn't say shit to you, just smokes his cigarette and wishes that the pussy woulda fought back a bit. Rusty's itchin' for a fight, and if he doesn't get the fight then he needs the fuck. And ain't no one gonna do but you. It ain't until about an hour passes that he finally looks over at you, still mixing drinks like the pro you are. "You holdin' up there, sweet cheeks?" He asks, mumbling around the cigarette.