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If my memory served, Tundra started coming in here more regularly six months ago. Within about a week or two, he and I had found time to chat for twenty minutes to half an hour every time he sat at the bar. Three months ago things felt different between us, but then we’d had our blow up, and I realized it was my over-active imagination.

Still…had I made his problems worse with her? Was our blow-up the reason he kept hope alive?

I shot him a feeble frown. “It’s never dumb to hope, and you know it.”

“Yo! Need another round,” a man on the other side of bar hollered.

I pasted on a smile. “Duty calls.”

“After you’re done over there, I’ll have another,” Tundra said.

The crowd had thinned out and we were closing up before midnight for the first time ever. Other than Tundra, the last two patrons had just left. By my count, Tundra must have had four cocktails over the past five hours.

Lark took the drawer from the bar register. “Tundra’s in the john. He comes out, don’t you dare let him get on his bike.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry.”

I wandered around and put chairs upside down on tables so the cleaning crew could mop before we opened on the twenty-seventh. As I went back behind the bar, I noticed that Lark hadn’t taken the tip jar with him.

“You forgot the tips,” I called.

“They’re all yours. Merry Christmas.”

“What? You schlepped drinks too, you know.”

“Wasn’t my weathered carcass in a sexy Santa suit making men thirsty, either. Don’t argue.”

I swallowed down a giggle. “Thanks, Lark. That’s very generous.”

The tips were a mess in the huge glass jar, and I pulled the bills out before dumping the coins into a pile. By the time Tundra trudged out of the corridor leading to the bathrooms, I had over two hundred dollars in bills stacked on the bar. My guess was that Lark snuck in some extra money on me, but he’d deny it if I asked.

I watched Tundra come back to his barstool. He walked in a straight line, so that was good.

Lark came out of his office. “You want an Uber or is a prospect coming to get you?”

Tundra groaned.

I pulled my Santa hat off. “I can drive you to the clubhouse.” I looked to Lark. “And if you’re done with the drawer, I can lock up, since I know you’ve got a flight to catch bright and early.”

Lark stared at me, then nodded reluctantly. “Normally, I don’t like the idea of you lockin’ up alone.”

“You’ve been listening to too many of those true-crime podcasts,” I said.

Lark and a couple of the older Riot MC members had listened to a true crime podcast about a string of murders where the victims all worked at small taverns, random saloons, and the occasional biker bar.

Lark looked at Tundra pointedly before focusing on me. “But it’s unlikely anyone’s gonna fuck with you with him around, so I’ll trust you this time. He doesn’t want you to take him, get his ass a fuckin’ Uber, and don’t leave until you see him get in it.”

I gave him mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir. And thank you for the bonus in the tip jar.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mick. Enjoy your time off.”

Lark gave Tundra a chin lift and sauntered outside.

I turned back to Tundra to see him holding his head in his hand, staring into space.

“You good or do you need a bucket?”

He straightened. “I’m not drunk, but I’m buzzed so I’m not gonna get on my bike. Can’t say I’m looking forward to sleeping at the clubhouse tonight. Last night was loud as fuck, and tonight won’t be any better.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ll get an Uber to save you from making the trip.”