The Gravedigger's Brawl by Abigail Roux Page B

belongings in preparation of being given the old penny loafer boot. But he set out for the bar anyway, knowing he needed to see Ash more than he needed to sit in his office and feel sorry for himself.
    The walk seemed somehow longer as he made it alone. His mind was heavy with the impending loss of his job, but that wasn’t what he lingered on. He paged through every possible permutation of what he might be able to say when he saw Ash. None of it sounded even remotely acceptable.
    Far too soon, he was standing on the opposite corner from Gravedigger’s, staring at the unassuming establishment with dread. He shoved his hands in his pockets and told himself to just do it. Take his medicine and start down the road of no longer feeling like a prick. He crossed the street and shuffled up to the door, peering through a pane of glass at a hint of movement within. To his simultaneous relief and dismay, he could see Ash inside, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor with his back to the door. There was something large on the floor in front of him and he was hunched over it, fiddling with it.
    Wyatt took a deep breath and tapped on the door.
    â€œWe’re closed,” Ash said without turning to look at the door, never ceasing his fiddling. “Come back at eleven.”
    Wyatt pressed his lips into a thin line and tapped again.
    Ash flopped his hands in exasperation, and Wyatt saw a screwdriver in one of them as Ash twisted to glance back at him. The look on his face told Wyatt this might not go well, not that he had expected it to. Ash seemed surprised to see Wyatt standing there, but then his jaw tightened and his warm eyes hardened. He twisted back around and shook his head, then rolled his shoulders before pushing to his feet.
    He walked to the door and rested his forearm against the doorjamb, leaning close to the glass as he looked Wyatt over. Ash was wearing charcoal gray trousers and a sleeveless undershirt. Burgundy suspenders highlighted the outfit. Again, it was a quirky ensemble, even without the kohl around his eyes this morning. But it suited him. Wyatt admired him through the glass door, feeling that same heat kindle in his chest.
    â€œWe’re closed,” Ash said.
    Wyatt nodded, but he pointed at the deadbolt. “Can we talk?”
    Ash chewed on the inside of his cheek and scowled, and for a moment Wyatt thought he would refuse. But finally he reached out and flipped the deadbolt, then stepped back so Wyatt could open the door. By the time Wyatt pushed through the doorway, Ash had already turned and was walking away.
    â€œI owe you an apology,” Wyatt said as he let the door fall shut behind him.
    â€œI know you do.” Ash turned around and took a step toward Wyatt. “You know what flushing a condom can do to your pipes?” He was still holding the screwdriver, and Wyatt’s eyes were drawn to it for a moment before he looked back up at Ash.
    â€œWhat? That’s not why I—”
    â€œWell, it should be. You know how much a plumber costs?”
    â€œYou had to call a plumber?”
    â€œNo, but if I do in the future, it’ll be your fault.” Ash placed the tip of his screwdriver at his temple and tapped. Wyatt watched him, dumbstruck.
    â€œI . . . okay,” he managed.
    â€œFuck you, Wyatt,” Ash grumbled. He turned around and dropped gracefully to the floor. “It’s no fun to bitch at you if you don’t argue back.” He resumed his position and began loosening the screws on the back of what Wyatt now recognized as a window air conditioning unit.
    â€œI . . . I came to—”
    â€œI know why you’re here,” Ash said without turning his head.
    â€œI’m here to apologize.” Wyatt walked around to stand in front of Ash again. It was hard to talk to someone who was sitting on the floor. He felt stupid for standing, but he couldn’t just drop to the floor alongside him.
    â€œYou’re here