The Gravedigger's Brawl by Abigail Roux

the bar and talk.
    He rested his head on the back of his chair and opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. It was past closing time. The interns he’d been supervising as they set up the new exhibits had all gone home. Noah had left early to “take his baby to the doctor,” which meant his vintage motorcycle had something wrong with it again.
    Wyatt had no excuse not to walk the four or so blocks down the street to the bar. Nothing but the very real terror of rejection was keeping him here.
    He growled and stood, gathered the copies of the documents he had collected, slid them into protective sleeves, and placed them in his satchel.
    He was out of the museum and walking toward Gravedigger’s before he could think better of it.
    It was nearly six when he got there, and the after-work crowd had materialized. The bar wasn’t very busy, though, and Wyatt found out why when he stepped through the door. The music wasn’t blaring like it had been Monday, and Ash was merely mixing drinks rather than performing. The ambience was different. It seemed intimate and almost mellow, in a strangely dark and antiquated way. He liked it, though. It felt like stepping into a different world.
    It was the same feeling, he realized, that he’d had that night in Ash’s apartment. There was a sense of history here—in the bar, in Ash’s condo, even in the way Ash dressed. But it wasn’t the same sense the museum gave off, like history on display. It was like stepping into a portal, back to a world that had never been. Like Ash had come out of the past and put a modern twist on it. Wyatt couldn’t quite explain it, but it was just one more thing about Ash that appealed to him.
    As Ash leaned out and swiped a towel over the scarred surface of the bar, he happened to look up, his eyes meeting Wyatt’s. He stopped his wiping, as if Wyatt had somehow frozen him, and stared for a long moment before moving his arm again. He nodded at Wyatt, then looked away as someone requested a drink.
    He wasn’t wearing suspenders today, just a pair of casual black trousers and a bright red tuxedo vest over a V-neck T-shirt. Wyatt was almost disappointed. But then, he supposed a man could only have so many pairs of the things. The kohl was still there, though. Wyatt was relieved. He had grown very fond of the kohl.
    He looked around the room as he walked over to the bar. Delilah was in the far corner, taking an order. Ryan and Caleb were nowhere in sight. Wyatt set his bag on the bar top and chewed on his bottom lip as Ash mixed a drink. As soon as Ash set the finished product down, he glanced over at Wyatt and then looked around as if searching for the others, just like Wyatt had done.
    He walked over, wiping his hands on the towel he had draped over his shoulder. “What’s your poison?”
    â€œI have something to show you,” Wyatt said.
    Ash’s eyes darted down to the bag where Wyatt’s hands were resting. “Okay.”
    Ash’s distrust was obvious, and Wyatt wanted to reassure him. “It’s about the history of this house.”
    Ash’s brow furrowed, and he looked back down at the bag. “Weeknights we take turns at the tables. Tonight’s Delilah’s go and it’s Ryan’s night off, so I’ve got the bar all night. I can’t really look at anything unless it gets real slow.”
    â€œI understand.” He could wait; he had nowhere to be.
    Ash looked at him expectantly, then seemed to realize that he wasn’t going to leave. “You’re going to hang around?”
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” Wyatt said as he reached into the bag and extracted a document. He laid it aside and pushed the bag away from him. “Can you put this behind the bar?”
    Ash nodded and stowed the bag under the bar. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
    â€œI’d love some of that root beer you have on tap.” Wyatt met