“Should I make you a Shirley Temple?” she asked.
He smirked. “Fine.” Pulling his wallet, he did the same thing his friend had done, leaving it on the chain and opening it so she could read the ID. The first thing she noticed was the ink on his fingers, a letter on each one: B-U-L-L.
Did that mean he was a Bull? A Brazen Bull?
Dre must have seen the same thing, because they asked, “You’re Bulls?”
“That a problem?” the big one, Duncan, asked.
“Not if you don’t make it one,” Dre answered.
Bikers could be as bad as skinheads. But the Brazen Bulls had a not-terrible reputation in Tulsa. They weren’t Boy Scouts, but they weren’t running around hurting innocent people for sport, either.
“We’re just looking for a drink,” Duncan assured them.
With a few blinks to regain her focus, Petra studied the ID the cute one was still holding out.Jessup, Jacob. Born June 1999. He was twenty-three.
Oh. That’s young, Petra thought, and immediately pulled the handbrake on her brain. He was young, but old enough to serve, which should be her only interest in these boys—that, and the hope they’d behave themselves and go away. So why had there been a little twitch of disappointment in her thought? She wasn’t interested in aBrazen Bull, of all people. Especially not one almost ten years her junior.
She wasn’t. She’d dated, and had actual relationships with, people all across the gender spectrum. But she preferred people her own age or close to it, people who had the same touchstones she had, the same collective memory.
More importantly, she was currently very much enjoying being with no one at all. Having her apartment, her schedule, her life all to herself was a joy she felt every day. Especially while her dad was self-destructing at an increasing clip, she didn’t want to have to consider anyone else in her life right now.
She hadn’t had sex with anyone in six months, and so far, she hadn’t much missed it. Her vibrator took care of the physical, and her friends the emotional. For the rest of it, solitude was freeing.
This boy was cute, it was true. Tousled, shoulder-length sandy hair, those bright eyes under a strong brow, a very nice square jaw, a notch in an equally strong chin, and a good smile. He was on the thin side, which was nice. She appreciated a fit physique, but she did not understand the appeal of bulging muscles and never would.
Oh—and he had freckles. Dark brown and scattered loosely across the full canvas of his face. Petra loved freckles.
Yeah, he was cute. But she wasn’t remotely interested, except to appreciate the view. She wasn’t interested in anyone, and surely not some tourist with obvious attitude.
“Okay. You’re official. What can I get you?” she asked him.
“A Stella works.”
Dre set Duncan’s glass on a coaster before him. “Your friend here has better manners. At least he said please.”
Still focused on Petra, the freckle-faced cutie reshaped his smirk into a more natural smile and said, “A Stella for me,please.”
She nodded and went to grab a glass.
Sticking close to the potential troublemakers, Dre asked, “So what brings you fellas into Gertrude’s tonight?” There was just enough edge to their tone to convey a willingness for violence, if necessary.
The boys looked at each other. The bearded one—Duncan—wrote an essay with a shrug, and Petra was even more sure it hadn’t been his idea.
“Just looking for a place to finish off the night,” the freckle-faced one—Jacob—said as Petra set his glass on a coaster before him.
“Looks like your night got off to a rough start,” Katie, sitting one empty stool away from Jacob, said. “Did you get beat or do the beating?”
Jacob grinned. “Little bit of both. We were at the Dawghouse.”
Katie barked a laugh.
“Why’s that funny?” Jacob asked, looking honestly confused.
“Let’s just say the Venn diagrams of Gertrude’s and the Dawg are two separate circles,” Katie told him.
“Not tonight.” Jacob’s grin spread wide, and his arms went out likewise, as if he were offering himself. “Tonight we are the overlap.”