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Bishop watches me. “Good?”

I take another sip. “Maybe.”

“That means yes.”

“It means maybe.”

“Your face says yes.”

“You spend an alarming amount of time studying my face.”

The words are out before I can stop them. His eyes meet mine. For a second, the noise around us seems farther away.

“You have a nice face.” He shrugs.

My fingers tighten around the cold glass. Oh-kay. This is alcohol making my cheeks hot. I’ve had approximately three sips, but that’s the explanation I’m choosing.

“Is that what I think it is?” Deacon’s voice saves me.

I follow the rookie’s finger toward the wall behind the bar.

Pinned between old photographs and hockey memorabilia is a fake bill with a much younger Bishop’s face printed across the center.

I choke on my drink.

“No.”

Bishop closes his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Deacon is already delighted. “Is that money with your face on it?”

“Bish Bucks,” Jax supplies.

“Oh, my God.” I lean closer. “Please tell me this is real.”

“It’s not.”

The bartender snorts. “It absolutely is.”

Bishop points at him. “You’re dead to me, Eddie.”

Deacon reaches for his wallet. “How much?”

“Not for sale,” Eddie says.

“Twenty.”

“Nope.”

“Fifty.”

Eddie doesn’t even glance up. “Not a chance.”

“Hundred.”

Bishop catches the back of Deacon’s shirt and hauls him away from the bar. “Stop trying to buy my humiliation.”

“Captain, this is history.”