The Gravedigger's Brawl (2 page)

Wyatt glared balefully at the imps. He kind of knew how the man in the poster felt, his work aided and encouraged by evil.

What he needed was inspiration. Or somewhere better to hide than under his desk. As the head curator, such nebulous things as new exhibits, attendance, and public interest were Wyatt's responsibility, and he would take the fall when the numbers showed hard losses over the construction. But every single suggestion he'd brought forth had been shot down as being too staid or not capable of drawing in the younger crowd. Virginia at War. Lincoln's Private War. The World at War! The only one the trustees had really liked was How to Tell Your Curator to Stick It up His Ass.

Wyatt was prepared to tell them that if they wanted a younger crowd, they were going to need a younger curator. At thirty-eight, he didn't consider himself old, but he was out of ideas and out of touch with the target audience.

That was one good thing about his line of work, though; historians never went out of style. In theory. But Wyatt knew you couldn't force an interest in history on people. You couldn't manufacture a love for it out of a few interesting baubles and trinkets being put on display, no matter how cleverly they were presented. It had to be organic, a spark of knowledge put into the mind. All you could do was offer the truth to the masses and hope they found it as fascinating as it was.

Another knock at his door made him wince, but he didn't have time to duck beneath his desk before the door opened.

To his eternal relief, Noah Drake stuck his head in and grinned at him. “You're hiding from the suits, aren't you?”

Wyatt sighed. “They caught me even though I just spent two minutes crouching under my desk.”

“Dignified.”

“There's a disturbing amount of head room under there.”

Noah grinned wider and nodded as he stepped inside. “Some people pay big money for that.”

“Wildly inappropriate.”

Noah laughed. “Come on. We're going to lunch.”

“We are?” Wyatt asked with a hint of dread.

The last time he had let Noah drag him somewhere, he'd wound up in Virginia Beach without a car and mysteriously missing his socks and boxers. Noah rode a motorcycle to work and his long hair was often pulled into a ponytail as he lectured. Like Wyatt, he was openly gay. And God help the poor soul who made a derogatory comment, because while Noah may have had an Ivy League degree, he also had several Krav Maga belts at home.

Noah laughed as Wyatt frowned at him. “Don't look at me like I'm about to eat your canary. Come on, I promise nothing untoward will happen.”

Wyatt sighed and then allowed himself a small smile as he stood and grabbed his coat. He was already placing bets on whether or not the bartender was going to have sleeves. “I assume I'm driving?”

“Actually, we're walking. I heard about this great place in the Fan last weekend.” They stepped out into the hall and Wyatt turned to lock his office door.

The Fan District was an aptly named neighborhood nestled across the street from the museum, called that because of the way its streets fanned out from its center. The Fan District was one of Richmond, Virginia's lovingly restored historic districts, full of converted condos, restaurants, and used books stores. It was a history buff's dream, an emo kid's hunting ground, and getting trendier and therefore less authentic all the time. He thought they'd hit every restaurant in the Fan, but it seemed like new ones popped up every week. Wyatt had no problem wandering into the area for a little lunch.

He did have a problem with the mischievous glint in Noah's eyes, however.

“What's the catch?” he asked.

“No catch.”

Wyatt stopped at the outer door and gestured for Noah to peer around the corner.

“This is escalating quickly,” Noah said, but he humored Wyatt and looked around the corner for any trustees on the prowl.

Once he gave the all clear, they made their way to the employee exit. Lately, Wyatt felt like he was in a live action version of
Spy vs. Spy
, and it was only getting worse.

“This is some dive that serves heart attacks, isn't it?” Wyatt asked.

“Wyatt, I promise, there's no catch. Just a nice walk and some lunch. Why,” Noah asked with a narrowing of his eyes that didn't camouflage the mischief. “What have you heard?”

“They have a hot bartender or waiter or something and you're dragging me there as cannon fodder so you can flirt with some buff guy in cutoffs.”

“Hardly!” They nodded to the security guard at the staff entrance and stepped out into the chilly autumn afternoon. “He's not really buff.”

Wyatt snorted.

“And I doubt he wears cutoffs. I like them a little more—”

“Please, spare me any details.”

“Closet case.”

“Flaming whore.”

“Touché.”

They stopped at the streetlight and waited to cross the busy street named simply Boulevard. The boundary between the Fan and the boutiques of Carytown, Boulevard was lined on each side with turn-of-the-century houses, most restored, others still languishing as rundown condos with bikes and Christmas lights hanging off their once-splendid balconies. It wasn't hard to imagine it as it had been in its glory days, though.

Wyatt grinned and shook his head as they crossed the four lanes and wide grassy median at a jog. The wind whipped at them and sent dried leaves skittering across the road at their feet. It had been a mild mid-Atlantic summer and was cold now at the end of September. Wyatt wasn't complaining, though. He would much rather bundle himself up in a jacket than suffer through the sweltering summers and warm falls the Eastern seaboard was accustomed to.

They walked down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing. “So, tell me about your latest conquest. And then tell me why you need to drag me along.”

“I figured you'd do anything to avoid Reth,” Noah said wryly.

“A fair assumption.”

“So play wingman for me and stop complaining. I met this guy at the shop. He's got this great World War-era bike,” Noah said.

“I see.” Wyatt pulled the collar of his coat up against the chill. “One or two?”

“He's only got the one.”

“World War I or II,” Wyatt asked.

“Oh. Irrelevant to the story, but II,” Noah answered. He was wearing a stupid grin, not going into further detail about the bike because he knew Wyatt neither understood nor cared about any more of the particulars. Noah spent a lot of his spare time at the motorcycle shop on the seedier end of Boulevard, the one right next to the tattoo parlor with the checkered floor. Wyatt sometimes suspected he owned part of the place.

“He told me he tended bar at this place in the Fan and that I'd like it, so I checked it out this weekend. It's got great ambience.” Noah gave a dramatic flip of his hand.

“Ambience. People only talk about ambience when there's nothing else good to say, Noah.”

“No, Wy, you're gonna love it. The food's pretty good too.”

“Uh-huh. And since you've already got an in with this guy, you need me why?”

“Because I think you'd really like the place.”

Wyatt stopped short and turned to glare at his companion. “This guy doesn't have a friend, does he? Are you trying to set me up?”

“I'm sure he's got no friends. No friends at all.”

“Noah!”

“No friends, I swear!”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes and glared for another moment, but Noah's innocuous stare never wavered, so Wyatt turned and began walking again, smiling grudgingly. He had the very distinct feeling that he was being set up with some random guy Noah had found at a bike rally or something. But there wasn't much he could do about it if he wanted to duck the trustees, which seemed the greater of two evils just now.

Wyatt didn't date seriously; he just didn't have the time or interest in it. He had always been happy on his own. But he would have fucked a polar bear if it meant not being bothered by Edgar Reth today.

When they got to the bar, Wyatt found a beautifully restored Victorian with a carved wooden sign hanging outside that read Gravedigger's Tavern. A chalk marquee on the sidewalk indicated the day's specials in a pleasant scrawl, and below that, Olde Richmond Towne Ghost Tours was permanently advertised in paint.

“Fun,” Wyatt drawled. “Do you have to be wearing eyeliner to get in?”

“Don't read too much into the façade,” Noah said as he took Wyatt's elbow and pulled him to the door.

It wasn't all that crowded because they were behind the lunch crowd, and it looked like the few patrons inside the tavern were regulars. No one sat at the tiny booths that lined the walls of the long, narrow room. Instead, the four people in the establishment were all leaning against the bar that covered the length of one wall, talking with each other and the man serving. One patron wore a long black trench coat. A young woman wore red and black striped tights under a leather miniskirt. Two others wore work vests and had orange hard hats on the stools beside them. An eclectic assortment, to say the least.

Wyatt gave the surroundings a wary glance. It wasn't dirty or greasy like he had expected from a place an acquaintance of Noah's worked, but it looked . . . well-used. In fact, Wyatt liked the vintage feel of the place. The walls were dark and rich, covered with black and wine-colored brocade fabric, and there were antique sconces along the walls that filtered soft light into the room. The ceiling sported tin tiles, and all the woodwork in the place seemed to be original to the old Victorian structure. At night it would probably be quite intimate. The dark wooden floor appeared to be original as well; it was smooth and dull from years of use, any wax or lacquer long worn away.

Noah waved to the bartender and slid into the nearest booth. The man nodded at Noah and smiled as he wiped out a glass with a dishrag.

“Is that the guy?” Wyatt asked as he sat across from Noah and shifted on the leather seat. It was real leather, he was surprised to find, worn and smooth from age and use.

“That's Ash. He's hot, right?”

Ash was a good-looking guy: dark curls, darker eyes, tall and wiry. Wyatt tried not to smile. “Not what I was expecting.”

Noah raised an eyebrow.

“Big muscles, braided ponytail, goatee with beads in it.”

Noah snorted and rolled his eyes, looking away with a smile and shake of his head.

“Sleeveless leather vest and patches that say ‘The bitch fell off' on the back.”

Noah laughed, holding out his hand to make Wyatt stop. “You have a low opinion of my taste in men.”

“Not low. Just . . . you know, leather-bound and hairy.”

“You suck,” Noah said as a woman with purple hair came up to take their orders.

She must've caught Noah's words, because she grinned at Wyatt and said, “You'll be popular in certain circles then.”

Noah threw his head back and cackled. Wyatt could feel himself blushing, thankful for the low light and the heavy curtains on the windows.

“What can I have Ash make for you?” the woman asked as she rested her hands on the edge of the table.

Wyatt fought the urge to lean away from her. She had piercings everywhere: in her eyebrow, in her nose, one in the side of her lip, and so many in her ear that she probably picked up NPR on clear nights. Her long hair was done in a beautiful array of old-fashioned curls and loose braids, only it had royal purple streaks and white feathers through what appeared to be natural black. She was wearing a corseted dress over fishnet tights, outrageous heeled boots, and velvet gauntlets on her wrists.

“What's good?” Noah asked, unperturbed. They hadn't been given menus.

“Oh, you're fresh meat?” the waitress asked with something like unholy glee as she turned and pointed them out to the bartender. “Hey, Ash, is this the guy?”

The bartender nodded and pointed a dirty glass at them. “1951 tan Indian Chief. Hey, Noah.” He offered them a small smile.

Noah nodded in return, the smile on his face threatening to become permanent.

The waitress whistled and looked back down at Noah, impressed with the mention of the motorcycle. Wyatt felt distinctly out of place, and he took up his customary post in the background as he listened.

“I'm Delilah Willis,” the waitress said. She offered her hand to Noah, then crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the side of Wyatt's booth. “Nice to meet you. You got it with you?”

It took a moment for Wyatt to decide that she was asking about the motorcycle.

“Not today.”

“We better make sure your food's good enough to get you to come back. That means I'll be cooking it,” Delilah said, loud enough for the bartender to hear.

“We're not up to fire codes right now,” the bartender replied.

“Caleb'll cook it then,” Delilah said without missing a beat.

Wyatt couldn't help but smile. Noah always managed to find some real characters. God only knew how.

“What would Caleb recommend?” Noah asked.

“You want meat, non-meat, or other?”

“Cheeseburger?” Noah asked.

“Meat, gotcha.”

“Club sandwich?” Wyatt ventured.

“Other. Coming right up,” Delilah promised, and turned away.

Wyatt frowned at Noah, who was laughing silently. “How is a club sandwich ‘other'? What have you gotten me into?”

Noah waved him off and shook his head, still chuckling.

Wyatt watched Delilah as she headed for the little door at the end of the bar that led to the kitchen. Another waiter came almost at the same time, nearly running her over. He was at least a foot taller than she was, broad in the shoulders and lanky. He grabbed her and spun her around to keep from toppling her over, then smacked her on the ass as she continued into the kitchen.

“Dammit, Ryan, every time you do that I end up with a hand print on my ass for a week.”