Sally Ramirez didn’t come for an apology; she came to balance the books with a .38 Special and a heart full of Jim Beam.
The Neon Burn
The neon sign outside pulsed a rhythmic, sickly pink, casting long, bleeding shadows across the laminate bar. Sally Ramirez watched her reflection in the amber depths of her fifth—or was it sixth?—Jim Beam. Her reflection looked like a stranger, eyes hollowed out by a rage that felt heavier than the .38 Special tucked into her waistband.
Biff West was a special kind of parasite. He hadn’t just walked out; he’d scorched the earth. Leaving her sister with three kids under six was a sin; draining every cent from their accounts was a death sentence. Sally could still hear her sister’s muffled sobs through the phone, the sound of a woman drowning on dry land.
Sally’s left hand tightened around her leather sparring gloves. They were salt-stained and smelled of old sweat and grit—the only things she had left that felt honest.
“Biff is a deadbeat,” she muttered, the words thick with bourbon and bile. “And maybe tonight, he’s just a dead deadbeat.”
She threw back the final shot. The burn was a mercy compared to the fire in her chest. She stood up, the world tilting for a precarious second before the cold weight of the steel against her hip anchored her.
Twenty minutes later, she stood outside Biff’s cheap motel room. The air smelled of rain and exhaust. Inside, she could hear the muffled laughter of a man who thought he’d gotten away with it. Sally pulled on the gloves. They fit like a second skin. Her right hand hovered over the cold grip of the .38.
The door was flimsy. One good kick would do it.
Sally took a breath, the silence of the hallway roaring in her ears. She had two ways to settle the debt: the lead in her belt or the leather on her fists.
The door handle turned. What happens when the light hits the hallway?
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