The moon was going down as the last couple of drunken bar-hops stumbled out of The Rock Inn. It was named The Rock Inn because of it's tattered decor of posters of Elvis and the few Les Paul guitars hanging. The only real performance you got around there was the old 60s música that hummed out of the juke box.
My head had been pounding all night. Fed up, I grabbed the bottle of aspirin that sat on the dusty wooden shelves under the bar. Pouring myself a shot of scotch and took them. "They say you shouldn't mix those together," I heard Mallory call over my shoulder. I glanced back at her.
"They...