tovek
I didn’t plan on throwing a troll through a neon sign tonight, but the moment I spotted Mei Tan—the actual Mei fucking Tan—being cornered by that sleazy goblin debt collector, something primal took over.
The moment she mentioned she was broke, something clicked. The bar needs something the Sunrise can’t match, and having the chef whose videos have kept me from burning down my apartment on lonely nights feels like the universe throwing me a line.
Now I just have to convince her that a dive bar with a half-lit sign and an unused kitchen is worth her time.
I need to calm down so I don’t sound desperate, but my brain won’t stop replaying the way she looked at me with wide-eyed wonder after I threw that troll into the neon sign.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking and the closest I’ll ever get to her is standing four feet away while she critiques my bastardization of her cumin lamb noodle recipe that I left simmering for dinner.
Still. It’s more than I ever thought possible when I was watching her Bowl Goals videos at 2 AM, taking notes on how to fold dumplings without tearing the wrappers.
“You sure about this?” she asks, adjusting the backpack she’s had clutched to her chest since we started walking. “I don’t want to take up your night.”
I’m about three steps ahead, half-turning to talk to her. “The kitchen isn’t going anywhere. And if you’re moving in...” The words catch in my throat. I’d meant it as a practical offer. Her situation seemed dire, and I have the spare room. But somehow it came out sounding like I’m already planning where to put her toothbrush. “I mean, if you need somewhere to stay while we figure out the kitchen thing, you’re welcome to use it.”
Mei snorts. “My choices are the spare room or continuing my tour of Vegas’ least picturesque alleys. I’ll take the room.”
She doesn’t seem put off by the idea, which is something.
Gods, I’ve watched her videos so many times I’ve committed every frame to memory. I know her coffee order is black with three sugars. I learned to use chopsticks specifically because of the way she looked at the camera with that raised eyebrow when people commented about eating her food with a fork. I’ve tried every recipe she’s ever posted, some dozens of times, adjusting and refining until my kitchen smelled like I’d captured lightning in a bottle.
And I’ve never, ever told anyone about it.
It’s not just the embarrassment, though there’s plenty of that. It’s that keeping that little secret is one of the only things that’s kept me sane while watching the bar bleed customers day after day. The Sunrise Casino opened six months ago, and it’s been stealing my regulars in slow motion ever since. They’ve got those sleek, modern cocktails with ingredients from four planets, servers in custom outfits with those illusion-woven name tags, and a view of the Strip that makes you feel like you’re floating above it all.
Meanwhile, The Drunken Dragon has Greta’s collection of novelty glassware, the lingering smell of last week’s spilled beer,and a jukebox that only plays songs from the 2050s because the license fee for anything newer was too rich for my blood.
We turn the corner onto Shifter Street, and I watch Mei’s face as she takes in the block. It’s not the worst part of town. The were-brothels are three streets over. But it’s definitely seen better days.
The streetlights are the old-fashioned kind, casting pools of warm yellow light that barely hold back the shadows between them. A trio of vampires are passing a bottle outside the blood bar two doors down, and a guy with horns that spiral six inches above his head is sleeping it off against a fire hydrant.
“That’s us,” I say, pointing to the building with the flickering sign. The Drunken Dragon. Currently reading “The Drunken ragon” because the D has been on the fritz for three weeks.
Mei tilts her head. “Has the dragon always been missing half his scales?”
“He’s drunk,” I explain, pushing open the door. “It’s thematic.”
The inside of The Drunken Dragon is what I like to think of as “honest” rather than “shabby.” Exposed brick walls that have seen better days but still have character. A bar top made from a single slab of reclaimed timber from an old growth forest. Mismatched chairs and stools that I’ve collected one by one from closing businesses across the city. In the corner, there’s a collection of antique arcade games, the kind that run on actual coins instead of credits, that have become something of an attraction for the locals.
Greta’s behind the bar, polishing a glass with more vigor than it probably requires. Her steel-gray bob is tucked behind her pointed ears, and her expression is somewhere between skeptical and unimpressed, which is her resting state. She’s been running this place since before I bought it. Knows the regulars,knows the stock, knows exactly how much ice to put in each drink.
And she’s currently staring at Mei with the particular focus that means she’s putting together puzzle pieces in her head.
“You’re back early,” she says, not taking her eyes off my companion. “And with company.”
“Greta, this is Mei Tan.” I gesture between them. “Mei, this is Greta. She’s been running this place longer than I’ve owned it.”
“The bar,” Greta clarifies. “Not the kitchen. Only that one uses the kitchen when he’s feeling ‘inspired’.”
I shoot her a look that should, by all rights, melt glass. She ignores it completely.
“You’re the noodle girl,” Greta says, leaning forward. “From the internet. The one who puts chili in everything.”
Mei’s mouth twitches. “That’s me. The one who puts chili in everything.”
“And you’re here because...?” Greta looks at me, one eyebrow raised.
