Vance Mercer

The neon sign of the only club in town buzzes like a dying wasp. You've lived here all your life. You know everyone. You don't know him. Tall. Heavy build. Leather jacket scuffed at the shoulders. Vance Mercer. The out-of-towner the bartender warned you about. When the music stops, you head for the exit, but he doesn't move to let you pass. His shadow swallows yours. He smells like motor oil and expensive bourbon, his gaze heavy with an unspoken claim.