Page 11 of Fighting Fate (Monsters of London #4)
Dax
I’m at the pub. Working, technically, though there aren’t any urgent tasks left until closing, and Billy’s on his break, so it’s just me behind the bar.
Patch is at it. The bar. He’s off work tonight, but as is usual when I’m working at the pub, he accompanies me, hanging out until it’s time to close.
He’s been sticking close ever since the weekend Vince and I spent together. The best weekend of my life, bar none, except Vince hasn’t called me since.
My heart clenches at the thought of him. I set down the pint I’ve been pulling, and the woman waiting for it pays with a smile. There’s no point in being sad about it. Maybe, one day, our paths will cross again. When Vince is ready for more—which he clearly isn’t right now.
“You’ve gotta stop pining,” Patch says from his end of the bar. I flick a cardboard coaster at him, and he catches it with a grin. “Just go get him. How hard can it be to track down one fuckboy in London?”
I swallow a growl. He’s only trying to get a rise out of me—and from the shine in his dark green eyes, he knows it’s working. “I have to give him space.”
“Six months is plenty of space.”
“Also, aren’t there like a million people in this city?”
“Try eight,” Patch replies. He takes another sip of his beer. He only has one, nurses it all night, and I don’t know how he can drink it when it’s lukewarm like that. It’s not like we wolves get drunk off one beer, anyway.
“ Eight million,” I say, correcting myself. “No, I haven’t tried to find him.”
“He’s your—” Patch cuts himself off and looks around before he leans in closer. Aside from the woman and her friend, there’s another group of human regulars in the corner and three young wolves from our pack by the door. The humans I know well, and I don’t like them, but considering booze does little for wolves, humans are the reason we make any money at all. “Mate,” Patch hisses.
“I know.”
“So just use the bond or whatever to track him down.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” We didn’t form a bond, after all. And even if we did… “He wants to be left alone.”
Patch sighs. “So no more going out, then?” He pouts. “I wanna get laid, Dax.”
“Since when have you needed me there for that?”
“Dax!” Patch whines.
I chuckle. “We can go out.” One of the regulars comes over and sets his glass on the bar. I glance at him, but I already recognise his scent. Ricky. He’s such a dick.
“Four Carlsberg, two Birra, and we’ll have a round of shots for the table,” he says, tone short and dismissive.
I bite back a growl and nod. Patch’s back is ramrod straight on his stool, eyes fixed on Ricky as I grab glasses and start pouring the pints. I need to get him a tray for it all, unless his friends help—though usually they don’t—and he’ll probably spill some and be a dick about that, too, so I might as well pour another pint or two.
It takes a while, of course, and Ricky thrums his fingers on the top of the bar the entire time. The noise irritates me, but I do my best not to let it show. I put the pints on a tray and Ricky lets out an exaggerated sigh.
He turns back to his friends, who are chatting loudly amongst themselves. “We should find some other fucking place on a Wednesday night.”
A couple of them chuckle. My face burns. Patch’s growl is low enough that Ricky doesn’t hear it, but I do. I shake my head and put the final pint on the tray.
“There’s the beer.”
“Yeah, I can fucking see that,” Ricky says with a sneer. “Get started on the shots, would you? Takes you so fucking long…”
He snatches up the tray and I grab shot glasses from the side. Patch is already on his feet.
“You need to simmer the fuck down,” he says, voice low.
Ricky stops still. The tray shakes at the sudden movement, and I swear under my breath. If he spills them all, I’m gonna be fucked.
“Well, if your boyfriend didn’t take so fucking long to serve us every time, I wouldn’t be as fucking annoyed now, would I?”
“Get out,” Patch snaps.
“Patch…”
Ricky scowls, and he’s still got the tray in his arms when he turns. Most humans would back down when facing a wolf—they know they won’t win if it comes to a fight, even if they don’t know why. But Ricky doesn’t. His friends are watching him. That means more.
“What did you just say to me?”
“You heard—”
“Patch!”
Patch’s eyes flick to me.
“Leave it.” I line up the shot glasses on the bar. Ricky hasn’t even paid for the other drinks yet.
“For once, seems like your friend’s the smart one,” Ricky says with a sneer. “Dickhead.”
The wolves by the door are paying attention, though the two women in the corner aren’t. I know the wolves will have our back in a fight, but it shouldn’t come to that. We need the money humans bring in.
I stare at Patch again, and he relents, perching back on his stool. He doesn’t stop eyeing Ricky as he returns to the bar and I lay out the shots on the tray. He pays—I wouldn’t let him get away with not—and gives me another dismissive look before he rejoins his friends.
He says something, and I don’t even try to listen. I don’t need to. I know that tone of derisive laughter, and my ears burn.
Patch leans over the bar. “Absolute wanker,” he snarls.
I nod. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like he said anything I haven’t heard before.