***
“This can’t be the place,” he muttered, shoving his hand into his pocket.
His fingers closed over a well-worn piece of paper. He pulled it out, unfolding it for what felt like the thousandth time since this little side trip of his began. It was a small square, with only four lines scribbled on it. Four names. He read the top one again.
The Right to Bear Arms.
Unbelievable.
“Why would a shifter willingly hang out here?” He shook his head. “You have got to be kidding me. Who in their right mind—” he stopped abruptly as passerby began to look at him strangely.
Fine. Do it quiet-like then.
He folded the paper back up, conscious of how many times he had looked at it. Trying to understand just what it was he had gotten himself into, Ajax proceeded across the street, dodging an oncoming car in the process. Right. Traffic. He hadn’t had to deal with that in a long time either.
The bar itself was a ramshackle affair, a storefront along the street sandwiched between a law firm that looked like it had lost one too many cases, and a dry cleaner. A single window to the right of the door had a hastily handwritten sign that simply said “Open” taped to it. White blinds were drawn behind it, yellowed and wrinkled with age.
“Hell of an establishment,” he said to himself as a tiny bell sounded above the door, signaling his arrival.
To his surprise, there were actually people inside. Not just one or two either—at least a dozen heads turned to stare in his direction. No stranger to establishing his right to be somewhere, Ajax stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath as he stared down the various curious looks. Most of them gave him a once over, and decided that he wasn’t worth it. At well over six feet in height, and consisting of large masses of muscle, Ajax cut a rather imposing figure. There were several sets of eyes that took their time eyeballing him, but in the end, even they turned around.
Ajax marked them nonetheless, knowing they would be the ones unafraid to come after him. He didn’t know if it was concealed weapons that increased their confidence, or just a sense of pride that didn’t know when to back down. Either way, they would be the first ones to come at him if something went wrong. Not that anything should; he was simply there to ask questions, figure out what the bartender knew, and leave. Simple as that.
He snorted audibly as the last challenging glare faded, and he stepped into the bar, making his way toward the back wall, where a middle-aged man with a horrible comb-over stood behind a cracked and stained bar. He was using a brown towel to wipe off some glasses. The clouded opaqueness told Ajax that the towel was likely anything but sanitary.
How the hell does a place like this stay open?
He was pretty sure there were roaches living behind the bar. Either that, or it was a really small mouse. As he approached, something told him that he shouldn’t be barging in asking questions if he wanted answers. It could have been the shaky, nervous glance the bartender gave him when he thought Ajax wasn’t looking. Whatever it was, he slowed his forward pace and gently slid into a stool at the bar, ignoring the rips in the checkered brown covering.
“Anything in a bottle,” he muttered in response to the inquisitive look from the bartender.
There was no way he was getting anything poured. Something sealed with at least a bit of cleanliness to it. Ajax wasn’t susceptible to any human diseases, nor did he need the place to be spotless. In fact, he preferred a bit of well-worn grime. But this place looked like the only way to improve it would be to incinerate the top inch off every surface.
An old TV haphazardly hung from the ceiling crackled to life, the tiny picture spitting out the day’s news in warped audio. One of the other patrons grumbled and the bartender reached up and banged on it until it switched channels. An old western came on, and the grumbling subsided.
Ajax couldn’t help but blink in confusion. The place had to be a setup. It had to be. There was no way something like this actually existed. It was a front, he decided. In the far corner behind him, an old man with a white handlebar mustache was slumped down on his table, sleeping.
He covered a laugh. No, it had to be real. Somehow, it actually existed. It was too much to be faked.
A brown bottle clinked down in front of him. Ajax waved off the bartender as he went to open it. He would do it himself—save as much dirt from his drink as possible. With a flick of his wrist he popped the cap off and brought the bottle to his lips. At least it was properly chilled.
Behind him, the door opened slowly, almost tentatively. The bell jingled lightly, and he heard the rustle as people stirred, their attention wandering over to the door. He didn’t think much of it while looking at the slight form as best he could in the dirty mirror behind the bar. He couldn’t make out much detail, but he could see it was no threat. Too small for him to worry about. Probably just another drunk come to start the day off.
A rumble of unintelligible words, along with a hiss of rapidly expelled air from more than one set of lungs made him focus his attention on the newcomer. He still didn’t want to turn in his chair; he wanted to cultivate an attitude of nonchalance to try and put the bartender more at ease. Perhaps that way, when Ajax was ready to question him, he would be more responsive.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to turn, because whoever it was made their way up to the bar next to him. He took another gulp of his beer, using the motion of throwing his head back to glance to his right in order to size the new person up.
Ajax almost choked on his beer.
It was a woman.
He recovered as smoothly as he could, forcing his attention away and down, but not before he caught a glimpse of her. Long brown hair was pulled back tightly into a strict ponytail. Big, thick-rimmed glasses slid down her nose, and as he watched discretely, she pushed them back up with a finger so absentmindedly that he knew it was a regular occurrence.
“Excuse me,” she said politely to the bartender, who had until then ignored her.
He continued doing so.
“Excuse me,” she repeated after a few moments.
The man behind the bar continued to face the other direction, wiping down glasses that had already been cleaned. By now he was just smearing around the dirt that wasn’t coming off.
The woman got frustrated and began to tap on the bar, but it didn’t help. She pushed off the bar to move around it, but Ajax shot out a hand, telling her to wait. He still didn’t look over at her, but this time, it was because he was concentrated on the object in his hands. Getting his aim just right, he let fly with a flick of his index finger.
The beer cap shot across the short distance in the blink of an eye, bouncing sharply off the tender skin right behind the man’s ear. He hissed, spinning on the spot to glare at the woman, his mouth opening with what was no doubt a sharp set of words. His anger died away as he saw Ajax just sitting there, hands outstretched, not having moved them. It was clear who had sent the object at him.
“She asked politely,” he rumbled, his deep voice echoing off the walls and filling the bar. He could feel the attention of the other patrons swivel to focus on him, but he no longer cared. It was one thing to be rude to him. It was another entirely to be an outright ass to a lady, especially when she was being nice.
“Of course,” the bartender said with a reedy hiss to his words. “What can I do for you?” he asked with fake sincerity, turning to look at the woman.
Ajax frowned, but his attention was yanked away in astonishment as the woman asked the same question he had.