The air rushed through Jessica's dark, curly hair, sweeping it into her face as she walked briskly down River Street. Her cheeks, pinked from the river's breeze, nearly ached with the huge smile that had been plastered there since early morning. The wad of bills bulging in the front pocket of her worn-out wrangler jeans pressed hard against her body. The horrendous task of rebuilding the transmission in the VW van had suddenly turned into the most memorable job of her life when one of the rusty drawers of the deteriorating tool chest broke free from its tracks spilling a hidden stash of hundred dollar bills onto the cold, concrete floor of the garage. Rolled up in the center of the wad had been a yellowed scrap of paper with names of nearby colleges and what she assumed to be tuition amounts scrawled in her father's hasty manuscript. The small note remained rolled in the tight grip of her rough, grease-stained hand. What would she do with the $5,000.00 dollar treasure her father had scraped together over all those years? She could put the money toward renovating the garage but she felt sure he had wanted her to fulfill her dreams with this money. Little had he known that her dreams had never been of college. Instead she dreamed of owning her own business . . . not one that had been passed down to her, established and bearing her family name. No . . . she wanted to start something from the ground up and that something was a bar. Day after tedious day she had slaved in the garage physically while mentally she brought into being a place where people could go to escape the exhausting monotony of everyday life . . . awesome bands, best beer in town, warm atmosphere . . . Just then Jessie awoke from her daydream to find herself staring into a vacant store front.

Jessie's hair was tangled into a knot on the back of her head as she helped the delivery men bring in the tables and chairs. The other work crew was busy installing the chestnut bar along the left wall. She silently prayed that the new mechanic she had hired wasn't tearing up anything else valuable while she was away. Her dad would have disapproved of him. Every day he came in with a different tattoo from a guy he called Jake and he insisted on blaring John Steven's radio show every day, insisting, "John's deep voice inspires the grisly worker in me."
She grabbed a chair and almost speared the guy standing in the doorway as she spun around away from the delivery truck. It was the new face from outside of the garage only a few weeks before.
"Looks like you got your hands full there!" the face said. The accent was not south Georgia.
"If I can handle pulling a transmission, I'm sure this little chair and me will get along somehow," Jessica spit out defiantly at the stranger. The face darkened in misunderstanding and Jessica realized she had damaged a relationship that hadn't even begun. She sat the chair down and said apologetically,
"You'll have to excuse me. I'm not very good with first impressions. My name's Jessica McDaniel." She extended a hard, working hand out toward the man who met her invitation with a contrastingly delicate grip.
"Bo."
"What brings you to Savannah, Bo?"
"Well, it was the people until some starkly independent woman upbraided me on River Street," the fresh, young face joked as a crooked smile spread itself underneath the mysterious eyes. "Actually I'm looking for work."
"Do you bartend?"
"No, but I can learn."
"You're hired."

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