A three-legged dog: "I'M NOT DISABLED, YOU'RE JUST BORING – Come support pets with personality!"
An ancient, one-eyed cat: "I'VE SEEN SOME SHIT – Help me see better days. (I can't actually see. I'm blind. But the point stands.)"
A pissed-off-looking rabbit: "I BITE – But only people I don't like. Come find out if that's you! (Spoiler: it's you.)"
"These are—" Ace is trying not to laugh and failing. "These are atrocious."
"These are genius." I prop a few up on the bar, making sure the most deranged ones are front and center. "Becker's gonna save the world with aggressive marketing and I'm here for it."
Petrov picks up the Hendrix flyer, nodding. "I would go to this. Bird has good energy."
"The bird is a terrorist," Ace says.
"Yes. Good energy."
Ace and Petrov drift over to the beer tap, which apparently isn't dispensing at the right pressure or something equally boring and mechanical.
I should probably help.
Instead, I'm watching Ace's hands as he tinkers with something on the tap. Those long fingers, the way his forearms flex when he adjusts the pressure valve, the little furrow of concentration between his eyebrows.
I'm in so much trouble.
He looks up and catches me staring.Again.
"Seriously, what?"
"Nothing. Just admiring quality craftsmanship."
"The beer tap?"
"Sure. Let's go with that."
His ears go pink again and I have to physically stop myself from saying something that'll make it worse.
Petrov mutters something in Russian that I don't understand but sounds distinctly like judgment.
The front door opens again and Mama Paws walks in, and I know it's go-time because she's got three dogs on leashes and Hendrix's cage in her other hand.
The dogs—a scrappy terrier mix, an anxious pit bull, and something that might be a dog or might be a sentient mop—immediately start sniffing everything like they're conducting a very important investigation.
Hendrix sees me and screams, "Kiss kiss!"
"Not today, Satan!" I yell back.
Mama Paws beams, setting Hendrix's cage on the bar. "Evening, boys! Ready for your big debut?"
Ace and Petrov look at each other.
"No," they say in unison.
"You'll be fine." I grab a stack of menus and start distributing them around the bar like I know what I'm doing (I don't). "I've been doing this for three whole days. I'm basically a pro."
"That's not comforting," Ace says.
"It's not supposed to be comforting. It's supposed to be motivating." I wave him off. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"
Petrov opens his mouth.
