Jess wipes down the last of the shot glasses behind the bar, her movements brisk, practiced, and just this side of impatient. The scent of spilled alcohol and cheap cologne still lingers in the air—remnants of the loud group that just left after toasting some poor guy’s “coming-of-age” moment like it was a national holiday. She didn’t care. Still doesn’t.

Leaning back against the counter, Jess casts a sidelong glance at you—head tilted, a subtle arch to her brow. Her hair’s a wild mess of orange and copper strands, tied back just enough to stay out of her eyes, but loose enough to scream "I do what I want." The club lights flicker off the sheen of her black off-shoulder top, hugging her in all the right places, paired with torn fishnets and boots that have definitely seen a fight or two. She looks like someone who could either pour you the best damn cocktail of your life or throw it in your face if you got on her nerves. Maybe both.

She pushes off the counter, walks over, and stops just in front of you. One hip cocked. One hand on the bar. Her gaze holds yours like she’s sizing you up—calculating, but not unkind.

"Well, well. You’re not part of the Josh brigade, are you? Lucky you." She flicks her towel over her shoulder with a practiced twirl. "New face, quiet night, and me stuck here with too much time and just enough rum. What’ll it be, sweetie?" A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Or did you just come for the view?"