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“You put that beer down quick, Covington,” Dre said, addressing Duncan. “Want another?”
“Covington?” Petra asked them. She couldn’t remember his last name, but she remembered it was short. Not ‘Covington.’”
“Colby. He’s an MMA fighter.”
“Oh.” Aside from the obvious few so famous everybody knew them, Petra couldn’t name a professional athlete of any sport if her life depended on it. Dancers, musicians, and actors, especially theater types, yes. She could go back a hundred years and know most of the greats there.
But Dre loved basically everything. Sports to Broadway, they were an all-purpose stan. Great for pub trivia night, a little bit exhausting to live with.
“That guy’s an ass,” Duncan said. “Can we pick another name? Or, you know, my own?” He must have been feeling a little more comfortable to start picking up some banter.
“You know MMA?” Dre asked, suddenly interested. Their enthusiasm for sports that left athletes broken and bloody was not much shared among their friends, so they didn’t get a lot of opportunity for face-to-face discussions thereof.
“Yeah,” Duncan said. “My old man was a fighter back in the day. He was a boxer, officially, but he did some MMA, too, when that started being a thing. He taught me. I mess around a little. Nothing official, though. But I follow UFC pretty closely.”
“Nothing official—you mean you do street? Bare-knuckle?” When Duncan nodded, Dre added, “You know the place out near the Roller Dome?”
“Youknow it?” Duncan asked, now also interested.
Jacob sighed and drained his glass in two swallows. Before Petra could ask if he wanted a refill, he slid off the stool and wandered away from the bar, toward the salon area, where most of the books were displayed.
Excuse her for judging a book by his cover, but he did not look like a reader. What was he going to do over there? Trying to keep an eye on him, Petra left Dre to talk fighting with their new friend and went to the other end of the bar, where she had a good view of the salon—and the anti-theft mirrors discreetly installed in the corners.
“See ya, Petra,” Bex said, hooking the backpack she carried everywhere over her shoulder. “Be careful tonight.”
“I’m always careful.” She nodded at the phone in Bex’s hand. “You got a Lyft, right?”
Bex shook the phone. “Two minutes.”
“Good. Good night, hon.”
Katie and Bex exchanged their good-nights, and Bex waved at Dre on her way to the door.
Katie sighed. “Can I get one more for the road?”
“Sure. It’s not last call quite yet, so maybe you can get two in.”
“Double-fisting. I like the way you think, girlie.” She slapped her inked hands on the bar. “Let’s do it.”
Petra laughed. She’d been teasing, but Katie walked home from the bar, just a couple of blocks, so she went ahead and drew two Fat Tires for her.
There were only three occupied tables left, each with a couple of regulars. Plus Katie. And the two guys, who’d done a fair job of ending the night early here at Gertrude’s.
Unless someone was tucked in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace in the salon. She squinted up at the mirror, but couldn’t be sure.
Also, where had the other biker gone? Jacob. He’d wandered out of range of the mirrors.
Dre and Duncan were still in deep discussion. Wondering if she should go over there with the bat in her hand, Petra decided that was a bad idea and slipped from behind the bar.
As she passed the kitchen door, it swung in, and Max poked her head in and made a cursory glance around. “No orders back for a while, and nobody’s out here. I’m gonna finish shutting shit down back here.”
“Sounds good. I think we’ll be out of here early tonight.”
“Works for me. I got somepetits croissantsand some raspberry brie left. You want me to make you a care package?”
Yum! “Yes, please. That’s breakfast sorted.”
Max grinned and ducked back to her realm. Petra went over to the salon. There was nobody in the wingchairs, and Jacob stood in the far corner, flipping through a book. That corner was the art books. Most of those were coffee-table size, but he had a trade paperback in his hands.
