The tequila bottles rattled as they were carried in the crate. The small framed girl pushed open the storage room door with her back, arms wrapped around the dusty liquor.<br/><br/>She turned, facing the small dive of a place and placed the dusty tequila under the counter next to the security system, an old Winchester .22 rifle. Thirty years old, but boss made sure the damn thing still worked. Thatâ€™s about all he did in fact. Tonight sheâ€™d be on her own, not that the place out in the middle of nowhere was ever usually packed. She wasnâ€™t worried about it being busy, itâ€™s just the clientele tended to get a bit rough sometimes. Bruce the boss seemed all too aware of that fact and had enough boxes of rifle ammo outback to re-enact the Alamo.<br/><br/>She reached back under the counter pulling out a<span style="font-style: italic">fresh</span>bottle, cracked off the plastic lid, inserted the stopper, and placed it on the fully stocked shelf. The wall behind the bar was stacked with the premium in low quality booze. The wall that was visible through the shelf of intoxicants was fitted with a mirror. Charlie briefly took notice of her own appearance; freckles covered the bridge of her nose, her face was tan and her eyes were frighteningly blue. She looked too young to be half as cynical as she was, and certainly didnâ€™t look old enough to work here.<br/><br/>She reached into the pocket of her cut-off Calvin Klein shorts and pulled out a small name-tag:<span style="font-weight: bold">Charlie</span>. A name that should have gone to her brother if her parents had the fortune of having one. Realising the boss wouldnâ€™t be in tonight she took the tag and rested it against the mirror behind the bar. Something always bugged the hell out of her when people used her name like they knew her.<br/><br/>Before the place opened she had to get the bar ready, which really just means setting the stage for the never used and always available open mike night, and absentmindedly cleaning the shot-glasses and high-ball glasses out with the same dirty rag.<br/><br/>Her long tanned legs danced across the creaky hardwood, once polished and clean, now simply the thing separating the dirt on the floor from the dirt under the floorboards. She carried herself by her worn-out running shoes. Bruce always told her, and the other girls that worked that they aught wear heels if they expected to make any tips. Not that making money wasnâ€™t the only reason Charlie put up with this place, but she figured if she was going subject herself to the crowd that came through here she least better do it on her own terms.<br/><br/>Charlie, opened the screen door looking for a breeze from the hot stuffy bar. But the sweaty Texas night was hardly a relief to step out to. She walked across the wide front porch, and eased back into a large patio chair. Marlboro Lights, in one hand and a rusty zippo in the other, Charlie lit up like she has been smoking all her life.<br/><br/>The summer night was exceptionally hot and sweat was already working its way into small beads on her neck. She tied up her long blond hair into a messy, but effective pony-tail. An unbrushed mess held together by an elastic, mostly.<br/><br/>The parking lot was empty except for a pick-up and two rusty muscle cars. The pick-up belonged to the boss. The cars, one was a beat-up GTO, and the other a Mustang in surprisingly good condition. The Pontiac belonged to Charlie and briefly she wondered what the second car and the truck was doing there if no one had come by the bar.<br/><br/>Shrugging it off she returns to her smoke; taking in a long inhale. Breathing out a ring and watching the smoke rise into the clear dry air. Just before the ring of smoke dispersed Charlieâ€™s head whips to the right as the sound of boots stomp up the dusty steps onto the porch.