Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(119)

“No,” Akara says.

The hecklers shout some more bullshit, and we do a good job of ignoring. But a female bartender leaves the counter and nears us.

She ties her hair into a bun. “Hi, guys. Look, I can take your drink orders and serve you, but you shouldn’t approach the bar. It’s not safe, and the manager thinks this is a better deal for everyone, yeah?”

The bearded dipshit looks too pleased with himself. He thinks we’re about to be kicked out, not given special treatment.

Amusement pulls my lips upward. I’m enjoying this.

“Sounds good,” Akara says. “You guys want anything?”

“I’m buyin’ a round of whiskey shots for everyone,” Donnelly says, gesturing to all of us.

“Got it,” the bartender says and departs.

I chalk my cue stick. “Who’d you tattoo?” I ask him since that’s how he earns extra cash, and it’s the only time he buys everyone drinks.

“Luna.” Donnelly picks a cigarette out of a pack. “Thought about consulting with her dad first since he went ape-shit on me about the others, but then I thought, nah. He won’t ever see this one.”

My brows spike. “Man, if you tattooed her ass and her dad finds out, he’ll—”

“Don’t freak. It was a shooting star below her hipbone.” He cups his hand over a flame and lights his cigarette. “And she’s eighteen. If it’s not me inking her, then another tattooist will, you know?”

I know.

But that’s still Loren Hale’s daughter and Maximoff’s little sister. That’s still the Hale family, and fuck, I’m not typically incessant on inserting myself in other people’s shit, but I understand that family better than him. And I care about Luna.

Akara motions his beer bottle at Donnelly. “If she asked you to push her off a cliff, what would you do?”

“I’d say let’s grab some parachutes first, babe.” He smirks. “Then I’d clasp her hand and we’d go down…” He jumps forward and then slings an arm around Oscar.

“You playing?” Oscar asks him about pool.

“Later.”

Akara shakes his head, his lips lifting. He does friendly disapproval well.

My smile widens at Donnelly. “Look who’s never being put on Luna Hale’s detail.”

He blows cigarette rings at me.

“Hey, guys.” Quinn approaches, his plain shirt torn at the hem, nail scratches on his neck.

Most everyone stiffens, but I’m still leaning on the cue stick.

“What the fuck happened?” Oscar instantly nears.

Quinn pushes his brother away. “You know how the crowds are.” The ones in the street, outside The Independent.

“Nah, they aren’t that bad,” Donnelly says.

Akara frowns and assesses Quinn from afar, who tries to convince everyone with I’m fine, I’m fine, but it’s clear that the fame has been harder on him than us.

“I just need a drink,” Quinn mutters.

The bartender returns with a tray of whiskey shots, and the bar boos at her, more than at us.

“Sorry,” I apologize to her, and she shrugs sheepishly.

Donnelly puts a wad of cash on her tray for a tip.

“Thanks. I’ll leave this here.” She sets the tray on a pub table and then tucks the cash in her back pocket.

I grab a drink. “Take a shot, Oliveira.” I hand Quinn the glass.

He downs the whiskey shot, and then Thatcher, the last of Omega and my new roommate, joins us. I can’t say we’ve been friendly. We’ve spoken one time since the tour ended. He asked if I saw Ophelia, Jane’s white cat, who went missing for an hour in our townhouse.

I said no.

He said nothing in reply.

And that was the end of that shit.

“Who’s playing?” Thatcher asks, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows.

Oscar points his stick at me. “Redford is supposed to break.”

I pop my gum. “No, I’m out.” I pass my cue stick to Thatcher. “You go ahead.” I’m not handing him an olive branch. This is me just not wanting to play pool.

Thatcher senses this, and he doesn’t say thanks.

I down a shot, whiskey burning the back of my throat. And I sidle next to Oscar. About to place a bet on the pool game.

But the bearded dipshit with leathery skin and an eagle bicep tattoo stands off his stool. He must be in his early thirties, not much older than us, and four more men flank him. All look about three-hundred pounds.

Donnelly often says he’s “a buck seventy-five” and the rest of us are lean and muscular like UFC fighters and boxers. Not heavyweight entertainment wrestlers. Shit, the only one who comes close is Thatcher. But even entering a fight underweight, we could easily knock all of them out.

We’re not intimidated. To be honest, their bravado actually has the opposite effect.

“Go back to L.A., you dumbfucks, and get outta our city!” That though—that’s getting annoying.

The six of us face them, and the “get outta our city” holler grates on more than just Donnelly. I’d like to punch one out. Collectively, we’ve spent more time in Philly than most people at that fucking bar.

For us, it’s home.