Teghan settled herself onto the bar stool, leaning forward on her folded arms. The bar was called the Black Dog, and it was her usual after-work drinking haunt. It was a popular drinking bar for bikers who came through from British Columbia, on their way to Toronto or the northern States--Montana, the Dakotas. It
had cheap drinks that were good for the price, and bartenders willing to throw out anybody who bothered her. That was why Teghan came here. A couple bottles of Jägermeister sat behind white-lit glass in a small box on the other side of the bar. The rest of the bar was washed with a warm, orange glow from the fairy lights around the ceiling. She turned her phone over on the bar top, checking the time-- 1:13am. She had gotten off work an hour ago; she was a bartender at [
redacted
], and her shifts tended to go late. She came here most nights, as an escape from having to speak to bar patrons. She was one of the few people in the establishment without tattoos.
"What can I get you love?"
Brynn, the mountain of a man who worked as a bartender most late-nights of the week--besides Saturday and Sunday--gave her a friendly smile as he walked up. He tossed the bar towel over his shoulder, folding his arms across his broad chest. His head had been shaved, which only played into what most people thought of the man--ex-military, likely special ops. He wore a white t-shirt tight enough that it seemed stretched around the enormous muscles of his chest and biceps. Dark tattoos stood out along his neck and forearms. Long Live, was spelled in black cursive along one side of his bald head, in large letters just above his left ear. Only Teghan knew that the man was a retired mine-inspector from Yellowknife. They had shared many drinks together, over the years. Despite his fearsome appearance, Brynn was one of the kindest men she had ever met--he also knew exactly how she took her drinks. He only asked for the pleasure of hearing her say it.
"Martini," she spoke clearly, "dirty, on the rocks."
"You got it, gorgeous."
Anybody else would have met the sharp side of her tongue, for that nickname. Brynn was... well, he was Brynn. He was different. There was a little bit too much sexual chemistry between them for Teghan to be entirely comfortable thinking of him as a father figure, or a protective older brother--but it was something like that. She didn't have many friends, but she had Brynn. The man would step in front of a train if she asked him to, and she would do the same for him. They spoke only in the bar; she had only added his number to her phone last week, but somehow it had just happened that way. She watched as the bald man turned away, grabbing a round glass off the shelf and placing it down on the counter. He filled the cup with ice with one hand as he worked with the other. As a bartender herself, she admired the swift efficiency of the man's movement. He poured two shots of gin into a tumbler, then turned to her with a wink, and poured in another two shots. He added a splash of vermouth, a smaller splash of olive juice, and shook the tumbler one-handed as he took orders from a pair of men down the bar. Returning, he poured the slightly cloudy liquid over the previously placed ice and popped an olive into it. She traded the man a ten-dollar bill as he slid it over the bar to her.
"Keep the change," she said.
"Aw--you do treat us well," Brynn grinned at her, "By the way, leathers' wants your number. Should I give it to him?"
She glanced down the bar. Leathers' was Brynn's familiar way of telling her that the man was wearing a biker jacket. She glanced down the bar to where the two men were chatting; they were both in their middle age, and probably had twenty years on her. Both men wore thick beards and open-fronted leather jackets decorated with patches. On the back of the closest man's jacket, she could make out Hell's Angels MC and below it in a curved white bar British Columbia. The further man wore a heavy mustache, with a small amount of beer foam clinging to the bottom of it.
"Which one--wait, no." She sipped her drink and shook her head as she turned back to Brynn, "I just realized I don't care which one. No."
Something had caught her eye, though. She watched from the corner of her eye as a young man came through the doors of the bar and took a seat between two wooden walls, tucked into a booth. He didn't seem to be hiding; he sat too casually for that, and he signaled for Brynn as he sat. She saw a swath of blonde hair, pulled back from a broad forehead. Every inch of the boy was tattooed, from the flats of his fingers and the back of his knuckles to the bottom of his throat. Two small daggers, points down, were etched into the skin beside his eye in blue ink. He was wearing a biker jacket, but it wasn't the scratchy black cut-off of the Hell's Angels; it was faded green, and the long sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.
"Whose that one?" She asked Brynn, tilting her head slightly in the young man's direction.
Brynn looked up, and cursed quietly when he saw the boy. He raised a large hand, indicating that he had seen his gesture and would be with him shortly. Leaning in toward Tegahn slightly, he shook his head.
"Not that one, gorgeous. He's bad fuckin' news."
"Whose he ride with?"
"Iron Teeth," Brynn grimaced, "fuckin' nasty gang out of the pineys. North Ontario boys. Haven't seen him out here since he was riding the back of his daddies chopper, but he was a nasty kid even then. Don't look like he changed much with the years."
"How do you know if he's bad news," Teghan gave the man a hidden smile, "if you haven't seen him since he was a kid?"
"'Cause I know his old man," Brynn shook his head, "If he got his skin with the Iron Teeth, he's got his daddies' mouth, and probably his temper. More fights when those bikes pulled up than any other time of the year."
As if on cue, Teghan watched the two older men realize who was sitting behind them. The wooden legs of their stools scraped on the bar floor as they pushed them backward, moving to stand. Behind the bar, Brynn watched carefully as the two men approached the young man's table. One of them slid into the booth across from him, the other folding his arms and leaning against the wooden wall of the booth. Either of the men alone were almost twice as large as the young man. Teghan also watched, though she pretended not to. Under the din of the bar patrons in the back of the establishment, none of whom had noticed the confrontation taking place beside the door, she could make out their voices. The young man's eyes looked almost lazy as he stared at the man in the opposite booth.
"You're riding out of territory," the mustached man leaned against the table as he spoke, "that's a bad call."
The boy didn't reply. Teghan saw a hint of dark eyes as he blinked in response to the man's words--he barely seemed to register them.
"I think maybe you should offer to buy us some drinks and take off," the other man offered.
