'Here's your whisky, Tryg,' Matthew said. He slid the shot glass across the scarred bar top. 'What kind?' 'Rot gut, what other kind do you drink?' Tryg grunted, almost smiled, and tossed back the amber liquid. 'How about another?' 'You up for trouble tonight?' Matthew looked wary, holding the whisky bottle but not pouring. What kind of bartender didn't pour? 'Me? Never.' Tryg fingered the scar that bisected his eyebrow and barely avoided his left eyelid. He realised Matthew was watching, and quickly dropped his hand. 'I'm fine, Matt.
Just pour.' 'Word is -' 'Word is none of your business and it's just hearsay so . Maybe you should just pour and not worry about rumours.' Matthew pressed his lips together, nodded, poured. 'Fine. But any problems from you, Bolo, and you'll be banned from my bar.' 'Got it,' Tryg said. 'And don't call me Bolo.
' Matt shrugged. 'It's your name, as far as I heard until you started drinking here. Damn, Tryg, I thought it was your name.' 'A bolo is a knife,' Tryg said. 'And you're an enforcer.' 'Go away.' Matthew grinned and went to fill another order. That had been close.
Tryg had been itching to clock him to teach him some manners. But he wouldn't do that. We thought it might be good for you to have a break from the pride . He shook off the echoes in his head and downed the glass of whisky. About 600 more and he might feel better. He might even get his drunk on. Tryg set his glass down with a bang and Matt looked up. He was annoyed.
'So let him be annoyed,' he growled. Someone bumped into him and he practically roared, the urge to shift rippling under his skin and along his spine. This was not the day to provoke him. When your pride wants to send you away for "a break" you're pretty much over. Especially if you're supposed to be the muscle. Again he touched his scar and it made him angrier when he realised he was doing it. Whoever was behind him had better be ready. 'What the fuck is your problem? You can't see where you're -' Something made him bite off his words.
Maybe it was the flash of fear in the man's bright blue eyes or the nervous duck of the head that caused sandy blond hair to fall across his brow. Tryg bit back another roar because he found himself even more annoyed that he found the kid attractive. 'Move,' he growled. The kid moved. Tryg called him a kid because he might be 25 to Tryg's 32. Might. Their shoulders brushed as he tried to push past, and he felt a comingling of instincts. The urge to lash out and hurt immediately contradicted by the urge to protect.
What the hell? 'Sorry,' the kid said. Again, he wanted to hit him and kiss him. Tryg shook his head and moved away. He needed some air. Maybe he'd had too much to drink. Or not enough brain cells in your damn head.