Chapter 1
Ezra
The stray tabby is back.
She's sitting on the hood of Vaughn's bike, which is either the bravest or stupidest thing a twelve-pound cat has ever done. Vaughn is going to lose his mind. I set out the food bowl — the one I keep behind the dumpster that I pretend doesn't exist when anyone asks — and make a noise with my tongue.
"Come on. Off the bike before he sees you."
She blinks at me. Doesn't move.
"Your funeral."
I leave the bowl and head inside. The bar is quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Knox is in the office doing something that involves frowning at his laptop, which could be anything from payroll to figuring out how to open a PDF. Jason is behind the bar, reorganizing the liquor shelf for the third time this month because he stress-organizes the way other people stress-eat. Silas is in his corner with a book, which is like saying the sky is up.
Robin's at the counter, testing a new pastry for the café. Tiny fruit tarts with some kind of glaze that catches the light. He's been bringing test batches to the bar for weeks, using us as guinea pigs, and nobody's complaining.
"Try this," he says, sliding one across the bar.
"What is it?"
"Apricot frangipane with cardamom glaze."
"I understood three of those words." I take a bite. It's spectacular. Everything Robin makes is spectacular, but I've learned you're supposed to say something specific or he gets suspicious that you're just being nice. "The cardamom works. It's warm without being heavy."
He lights up. "That's exactly what I was going for."
"I know. That's why I said it."
Vaughn comes in from the garage, wiping grease off his hands. "There's a cat on my bike."
"Is there?" I don't look up from the inventory spreadsheet I've got open on the bar. Tuesday means liquor order day, and we're low on the cheap bourbon. Also the IPA. We go through an unreasonable amount of IPA.
"Orange tabby. The one you've been feeding."
"I haven't been feeding anything."
"There's a bowl behind the dumpster with your name on it."
"Circumstantial evidence." I make a note about the bourbon. "She likes the warm engine. She'll move."
"She scratched the seat."
"I'll buff it out."
Vaughn grunts, which in Vaughn language could mean anything from "I'm going to kill that cat" to "fine." He takes a tart from Robin's tray without asking and disappears back into the garage.
This is my day. Inventory, orders, keeping the books that Knox has been doing wrong for a decade and only admitted when I caught a six-thousand-dollar discrepancy three years ago. The garage is the real business — five lions who know engines, steady work from locals and bikers passing through,enough to keep the lights on and the property taxes paid. The bar is more of an afterthought. We keep the liquor license active and the taps running, but our customer base is mostly us. Shifter bar on a back road near nothing — humans don't exactly wander in for happy hour. Every few months a lost tourist or a curious local pushes through the door, stays for one uncomfortable beer, and doesn't come back.
Which is fine. The bar is ours. The garage pays the bills. I make sure both sets of books are clean, the taxes get filed, and nobody gets audited. It's not glamorous. But someone has to do it, and none of these idiots can operate a spreadsheet.
My phone buzzes. Robin, from four feet away, because this is how we communicate now:Jason rearranged the vodka by country of origin. Please make him stop.
I look up. Jason has, in fact, created a geopolitical vodka display.
"Jason."
"It makes sense! Swedish vodka next to Finnish vodka. They're neighbors."
