Page 28 of Romeo

He recognized the song immediately as one belonging to Dirty Deeds, Nash’s band. The band still did well but could’ve been a national—or even international—success if the Dirty Angel hadn’t settled down with Cross, his badge-wearing pig husband, to raise adopted twins.

The band still toured, but not like it used to. The Knights occasionally hired them when they threw a big bash or event.

The Iron Horse played their music a lot, both recorded and live. When it was live, they were a huge draw, and the bar was usually packed shoulder to shoulder. Tonight, Dirty Deed’s music was recorded, and the bar was about as busy as any drinking hole would get on a Thursday night.

Not very.

That made it much easier to spot the person he’d hoped would be here.

He had a fucking hunch she might show up at the Iron Horse only because she had mentioned the other night that this was where she drank.

Her mistake was his advantage.

He grinned.

Since she was playing pool, her back was to him when he strode straight to the bar to grab a beer.

He slid his ass backwards onto a stool and only twisted his head enough to give Coop a chin lift in greeting.

Instead of returning it, Coop came over. “Brother.”

“Whassup? Need a cold one.”

“Tap or bottle?”

Romeo answered, “Whatever’s on the house.”

“Nothin’s on the fuckin’ house ‘cept conversation. And maybe a bowl of stale peanuts.”

“Whataya got on tap?” Romeo asked him.

“Probably the same shit you have on tap at Dick’s. Why you here?”

“Damn! Can’t a man come in here and have a fuckin’ beer?”

“Sure. But if you wanna drink for free, Dick’s got you covered. Maybe you’re lost.”

“Ain’t lost. Can’t hang out here? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Hawk know how you’re treatin’ your customers?”

“Since when are you a customer?”

“When I gotta fuckin’ pay!” he just about shouted. With a grumble, he dug out his wallet and thumbed through his cash. He turned and slapped a fiver on the bar.

“You’re short.”

“I’m goddamn six-one. How the fuck am I short?”

Coop snorted and tipped his head toward the five-dollar bill. “It’s six now for a draft. And that don’t include the generous tip you’re gonna leave me.”

“Here’s a fuckin’ tip for you…” Romeo flipped Coop the bird, then jabbed it at him. “See the tip of my finger?”

“You’re goddamn hilarious, Rome. You should do fuckin’ standup.”

“Prolly should.”

“Okay, cheap ass, draft or bottle?”

“Whatever that five spotcovers.”

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