Chapter 1: Sympathy at the Tip

"Did you know the trade secret in the porn industry to make the sloppiest blowjob is a mouth full of bananas?" my best friend, Roxy, asked, leaning against the draft taps. "Yeah, so I tried it last night with that guy at table twenty-seven. You know, the one with the wife and kids."

Such a slut, I thought, suppressing a smirk. God, I love her. "And?"

"Well, I never read the rest of the article that says they need to be fresh bananas. I ended up shitting all over his dick."

I didn't blink, wiping down the sticky bar. "And the blowjob?"

"Oh, that was nasty." Roxy winked, tossing a bright, lingering wave across the dimly lit room.

Following her gaze, I found the guy. Back again, sitting alone at table twenty-seven. He just wanted more.

My mother always warned me about their basic need for visibility and gratification. She loved quoting evolutionary biologists like Amotz Zahavi. Men are like peacocks, she’d say. They lug around heavy, absurd feathers for no actual survival benefit—just a biological flex to attract a mate. To her, it was hilarious that an entire gender's evolutionary strategy was weighing themselves down with flashy garbage just to get someone to look.

But my paranoia wasn't just evolutionary theory. It was inherited from a father who walked out before I could barely walk. When your dad is a ghost story, you learn to look for the hidden teeth in everyone else. That instinct landed me in a doctoral program, writing a dissertation titled The Human Mousetrap: A Phenomenological Study of Predatory Isolation in Male Serial Killers.

I study the worst of them. Complaining about married guys, my boss, and frat boys is just loud cover for a quiet truth: I actually want a partner. Not a monster. Not an insecure boy. A real, grounded man.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was last call. Roxy and I needed one last hustle before the night ended.

"A man walks into the bar, buys a drink, and gives you a good tip," I told the four Sigmas sitting across from me. "Do you take him back home and let him fuck you? Or do you just blow him after your shift ends?"

They froze. A cloned lineup of backwards caps and Greek letters. A second ago, they were hollering over the jukebox. Now? Stunned silence.

Keeping eye contact, I reached into the ice bin and grabbed an IPA. It's basic behavioral science: to hijack a simple organism’s brain, just overload its senses. I grabbed a bottle, lifted it high, and intentionally tipped it onto my chest.

Freezing beer spilled over the rim, splashing my tits and pooling in the deep plunge of my uniform tank top. The fabric clung tight. Arching my back slightly under the neon lights, I let out a theatrical gasp.

Like watching a circuit board fry. Higher reasoning shut down, replaced by evolutionary static. Nobody looked at my face anymore. Their mouths parted. The question was completely gone, swallowed by wet cleavage and a cheap thrill.

I wiped a stray drop from my collarbone, slowly sucking it off my thumb.

"Want to know the answer, boys?" I purred, dropping my voice so they had to lean in.

Like Pavlovian dogs, they swallowed hard and answered in unison. "Yes."

The sweet smile vanished. Deadpan and icy, I looked right through them. "Neither. You ask her what time her shift ends."

Before their drunken brains could even process the words, Roxy strolled up beside me. Leaning her hips casually against the bar, she pulled a fresh banana from her apron pocket and slowly peeled it back.

"It's last call," Roxy purred, locking eyes with the alpha. "Does anyone wanna buy me a drink?"

Then, she put the banana in her mouth.

The implication landed like a bomb. Frantic realization washed over the Sigmas. Without another word, wallets flipped open. Crumpled twenties, a fifty, a fistful of tens slammed onto the wet wood. They didn't wait for change, just stared, practically begging to be the one who got to ask the question when the doors finally locked.

I scooped up the cash. I never said another word to them.

Behind me, the punch clock clacked over the bass. Roxy tossed her banana peel into the trash and rubbed her temples.

"Tuesday night karaoke. Put a bullet in me," she muttered, un-tying her apron. "I'm going to change. We're still hitting that club downtown, right?"

"Yeah," I said, my tone softening. I patted my pocket, feeling the cash. "Just let me finish closing."

She flashed a tired smile and disappeared into the back room.

Alone behind the bar, my eyes swept the room. Some sit here for hours looking for answers. For most guys, the answer is a pretty, drunk girl who doesn't care his card is one drink away from declining. Some come to dance, terrible at it, but smiling the whole time. Some come in groups of three, oblivious that competing against your own friends kills your odds.

Then there are the singles. They sit alone. Quiet. They've given up on love, and honestly, there's a certain peace in that. Watching them, I like knowing I'm in good company. Pouring the drinks or drinking them, I'm no different. Just a quiet single going home to my cat and an empty bed, waiting for my lucky break.

The red numbers on the register flipped with heavy finality, marking the end of the shift.

Right on cue, the "ugly lights" flickered to life. The jukebox died mid-bass drop. Chairs scraped aggressively across linoleum.

The sudden brightness stripped the magic. No shadows, no illusion. In the harsh glare, the Sigmas just looked like tired college kids with bad skin. They lingered at the edge of the bar, gripping their empty glasses, staring at me with desperate, pathetic hope.

I didn't even look at them. I dumped the spilled beer into the sink and grabbed a dry rag.

Before the alpha could even open his mouth to try his luck, heavy boots from the back office cut through the noise. My manager pushed through the swinging doors, scowling. Pointing a meaty finger at the floor, he didn't even acknowledge the frat boys.

"You need to take the rubber rug, roll it, tie it, and then place it on the bench out front so you have room to mop," he mansplained for the third time this week.

Oops. I remembered my mother’s advice for simple men. "I forgot."

"Think I could take off Friday night?" I asked, stroking his ego. "I need more time to finish my phenomenology design assignment."

"Fine. Take Friday," he grunted, practically preening as he retreated.

It took another thirty minutes to lug that heavy rug outside, kick the stragglers out, mop, and lock the registers. By the time Roxy and I finally pushed through the heavy metal back doors into the alleyway, my body was running on fumes and spite.

The freezing air hit my lungs like a strike. The alley was pitch black, except for a dull orange streetlamp bleeding through the fog. We were heading to a club downtown, a sweaty, pulsing basement where Roxy promised the drinks were strong enough to make us forget the smell of stale beer.

"So, Table Twenty-Seven actually slips me his business card on his way out," Roxy said, her heels clicking loudly against the loose gravel. She didn't even shiver. "He writes on the back, 'Sorry about the mess. Let me make it up to you.'Can you believe the audacity?"

I didn't answer. I had stopped walking.

Above the dumpsters, the motion sensor light—the one that always flickered on when I walked past—stayed dead.

The silence in the alley wasn't peaceful. It was the pregnant, heavy silence of a room where someone is holding their breath. I spend my life dissecting the predatory tactics of serial offenders. I know what an ambush feels like. I know the distinct difference between being alone, and being watched.

"Hey," Roxy called back, pausing at the edge of the alley. "You coming?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "Just... walk fast."

Without a sound, I pulled my keys from my pocket, sliding the longest, sharpest one between my knuckles. It’s all I have.

The walk to the subway station was only four blocks, but the shadows felt suffocating. Roxy kept rambling, oblivious to the shift in the air, tearing into the psychology of married men who think a business card is an apology. I nodded along, but I wasn't listening.

My ears were tuned to the street behind us.

Underneath the low hum of the city and the sharp clack-clack of Roxy's heels, there was another sound. A heavy, rhythmic scuff against the concrete. Every time we crossed a street, the sound paused. Every time we passed a dark storefront, I could feel eyes burning into the back of my neck. My heart hammered against my ribs, pumping ice water through my veins.

"I mean, what is his endgame?" Roxy threw her hands up as we finally reached the concrete stairs of the subway station. "A nice seafood dinner and another ruined pair of my underwear? Pass."

"Totally," I breathed, practically shoving her down the stairs.

We swiped our cards and hit the grimy, fluorescent-lit platform just as the train roared into the station. The doors slid open with a chime. We stepped into the empty, rattling car.

"It's just exhausting," Roxy sighed, dropping into a plastic seat and crossing her legs. "It’s like they don't even see us as people. Just collateral damage for their mid-life crises."

"Right."

The automated voice announced the doors were closing. I didn't sit down. I stood gripping the metal pole, my knuckles white, staring out the smudged glass window at the empty platform.

The train lurched forward, beginning its slow, screeching crawl toward the dark tunnel. Roxy was still talking, dissecting Table Twenty-Seven's ego.

Through the dirty glass, just as the train picked up speed and the platform began to blur, I saw them.

Heavy, dark boots stepping slowly, deliberately down the bottom of the concrete stairs. He stood completely still on the edge of the platform, facing the glass, watching our car disappear into the dark.

I didn't pull away. I just stared right back into the shadows, feeling a strange, dark thrill settle over me, completely burying the panic from the alley.

He's the same man who's been following me for two weeks. It must be him…

I rested my forehead against the cool, vibrating glass as the train finally swallowed us into the pitch-black tunnel.

I just wish he’d come in some day.