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ZOEY

The Rabbit Hole wouldn’t have been my first choice for hosting a crochet club. The building is all old wood with small windows illuminated by neon beer signs. I mean, I knew I was going to a bar. The flyer on the library’s bulletin board that shouted Sip ’N’ Stitch described a gathering of people interested in crocheting, knitting, sewing, and drinking.

Sounded like a group I could get along with.

To fulfill the sip half of Sip ’N’ Stitch, a bar makes sense.

But I imagine this place sits on the darker end of the watering-hole spectrum.

Maybe it’s a hipster bar , I reason.

Back home in Denver, I visited some beat-up-looking places, only to find them filled with people wearing designer jeans, hundred-dollar flannel shirts, and glasses with rims so thick that you’d think half the grad-student population was dealing with glaucoma.

The Rabbit Hole could be one of those. Once I open this battered door, I might find myself in a speakeasy with artisan cocktails.

In that case …

My hands brush over my sweater and jeans, then finger-comb my hair. Only one stray twig falls loose, which I count as a victory after walking a mile and a half through Colorado country. Part of that on a dirt road with trees crowding in on every side.

At least I had the fading afternoon light on my way here. The return trip is going to be trickier.

But I push that thought to the side as I finally pull open the door.

Okay. Definitely not a hipster bar.

The Rabbit Hole is just as rough-looking on the inside as it is on the outside. Which only makes me more curious about the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch.

I scan the large room, taking in the heavy wooden bar against the back wall, various furniture that I’d label steampunk meets Wild West, a pool table with two leather-clad ZZ Top–looking older dudes playing a round, and a general feel that says, We happily serve criminals of all kinds .

Interesting.

Other than the pool players, the only person in the place is a tatted-up guy behind the bar. A quick glance at my watch reveals that despite my hike to get here, I’m still fifteen minutes early.

“Okay. That’s fine. Early is better than late,” I mutter to myself, making my way toward the booze.

The guys playing pool ignore me, but the bartender tracks every one of my steps, thick brows lowered, as if my approach confuses him.

Maybe the Sip ’N’ Stitch ladies have a particular table they usually claim. Still, it seems better to wait at the bar for them to arrive.

“Hello.” I try a winning smile.

The guy grunts, his eyes tracing over my form. The gesture doesn’t seem sexual, more like a cataloging of information.

I climb up onto a stool, settling my bag of supplies in my lap. “Could I have a bourbon on the rocks?” Bourbon always makes me friendly, and if I only get one drink tonight, I’m ordering a good one. “Something local, from Colorado, if you’ve got it.” Crap, now, I sound like a hipster. “But really, any bourbon is fine.”

Another grunt, and then he turns away. A moment later, I have some liquid courage in a short glass. He didn’t give me the name of the brew. But he hasn’t said any actual words to me, so maybe that was expecting too much.

I try not to look pretentious as I sniff the amber liquid before taking a sip.

Whatever he gave me is good. Under the burn of the alcohol, there’s a soft hint of caramel, teased with vanilla.

As I enjoy the play of flavors over my tongue, I angle my chair toward the front door.

Soon, I catch a hint of female laughter carrying from outside. I smile in anticipation, but lose some of my enthusiasm when the door opens. A group of women saunter in, but I doubt they’re at The Rabbit Hole for fiber crafts.

They’re dressed for a night out. Of course, it’s night, and I’m out. But I’m not out like they’re out. Specifically, I dressed to combat the growing chill in the air. These three women are dressed as if they’re ready to tell the cold to go fuck itself.

Their Daisy Dukes and midriff-revealing tops make me wistful for hot summer days. Ones I’ve sadly waved goodbye to for the year. Ones these women cling to in an admirable manner.

Now, it’s completely possible the members of Sip ’N’ Stitch treat the gathering like a tailgate party. But the bar’s newest arrivals also have no kinds of supplies. Not even a purse between them.

Not the group I’m waiting for, but I still offer a friendly smile when their sharp eyes settle on me.

One smiles back with a wink, and the other two dismiss me in favor of leaning on the bar to call out drink orders to Grunt. He has no name tag, so that’s what I’ve named him. A small twinge of worry in my chest disappears when he doesn’t talk to these women either. At least I’m not the only one unworthy of verbal acknowledgment.

I go back to door-gazing.

The girls get their drinks and claim a table, their laughter bringing brightness to the dingy bar.

Five minutes pass. I sip my drink.

Ten minutes go. I realize I’m halfway through my glass and tell myself to slow down.

Another five.

Shouldn’t someone have shown up by now?

Could they have canceled this week’s get-together?

The flyer said Sip ’N’ Stitch meets at The Rabbit Hole every Wednesday night at seven p.m. No mention of blackout dates, and today is not any holiday that I know of.

I’m about to check if my phone gets service here so maybe I can look up announcements on the library’s website when a soft roaring rumbles from outside the bar.

The girls’ chatter pauses briefly, then starts up again with renewed vigor. I take another precious sip of my bourbon as the familiar sound grows louder, giving me an unexpected taste of home.

Away for less than a week, but I guess I’ve been missing it.

Soon, there’s an almost-orchestra-level of roaring engines, the chorus practically surrounding the bar.

That’s when I realize they are surrounding the bar.

Apparently, in small towns, holding a crocheting club at a biker bar is no big deal.

The bikes begin to cut off their roaring engines, and I can envision a crowd of them lining up on the blacktop I crossed—I glance at my watch—a half hour ago.

Fifteen minutes late? Time for me to call it.

Looks like my attempt at subverting my introverted tendencies has failed. I glance at the girls, wondering if I should go over and introduce myself. Try to make some friends anyway.

But their smoky eyes continue to skitter toward the entrance, and I sense that I’d just be an obstruction to their evening entertainment.

Instead, I face the bar and focus on the last of my bourbon, satisfied that I at least left the cabin and found myself a decent drink.

Without anyone’s prompting, Grunt puts two pitchers under the taps, filling them to the brim.

Seems the regulars have arrived.

Some bikes are still settling down when the front door’s hinges squeak and deep voices fill the room. The once-quiet bar is now overwhelmed with the noise of rowdy men. Or maybe I’m just the one feeling overwhelmed. The shouts and ribbing and grumbles and laughter shouldn’t be unpleasant.

Only it’s like taking a week vacation from work, then finding out your boss booked a stay in the same hotel.

I came to this town to get away from rambunctious men.

Picking up my drink, I swirl the remaining liquid, considering finishing it off in one large swallow.

But that’s wasteful, and it’s not as if the bikers are doing anything to me.

In my peripheral vision, I watch the group claim a handful of tables. I can practically smell the leather—there’s so much if it. Black jackets and vests, each with a huge patch on the back. Probably the name of their club. I’d have to turn and stare at one of them to find out, but that might result in unintentional eye contact. I try only to meet someone’s eyes if I want to make conversation with them, and while I considered making friends with the small group of women, this massive crowd of bikers is not my speed.

Give me a handful of friends, and I’m good. A crowd? Hello, Irish goodbye.

But the tiny group is lost to me, having thoroughly enmeshed themselves in with the larger. They aren’t the only women in the bar. The sight of some ladies in leather makes me smile against my glass. Good to know I’m not surrounded by a bunch of misogynists that don’t allow women in their club.

I mean, they still might be misogynists. It just seems slightly less likely.

A flash catches my eye, tempting me to turn enough to seek out the errant sparkle. That’s when I realize one of the Daisy Dukes girls has on a set of cowboy boots covered in crystals.

Bedazzled boots. Now, there’s a project. I file it in the back of my brain for future consideration.

Tearing my gaze away, I accidentally snag it on something even more distracting.

A set of eyes.

Oh no . Unintentional eye contact.

Abort! Abort!

But I can’t. Not right away. Not when I’m staring at a set of irises the same beautiful gold as the liquid in my glass.

Caught as I am in the bourbon stare, for the first time tonight, I start to feel tipsy.