Page 10 of Robbin’ the Rich

And the back corner booth, sat the Grimm Reapers. The team table was impossible to miss, even if they picked the same one every time. If the glitter and fishnets didn’t give them away, the loud laughter that seemed to follow them around would.

One of the women, Belle, I thought, was already standing on a chair dramatically retelling some story while the rest of the table screamed at her. Their captain Mel sat beside her, looking deeply resigned to the chaos surrounding her.

I scanned the group. No Robin. That shouldn’t have been disappointing. Unfortunately, it absolutely was.

Nate followed my gaze and groaned immediately. “Oh my god.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re looking for that derby girl.”

“I am casually observing the environment.”

“You literally checked the table before the stage.”

“I’m very community-oriented.”

Derek snorted. “You’ve had a crush on this woman for like six months.”

“It’s not a crush. I just happen to like watching her play roller derby.”

“Then you go home and wank about it.” said the drummer, Niles, in his British accent.

I sighed and started getting my gear plugged in while they continued bullying me like the supportive friends they were.

By the end of the first set, Trixie’s had somehow gotten even louder.

The dance floor was packed, somebody in a vampire cape had broken a glass near the jukebox, and Derek nearly got hit with a plastic skeleton thrown by a woman dressed as Dolly Parton.

A successful night, by local bar standards.

We stepped off stage, sweating beneath the lights while the next playlist kicked in over the speakers.

“Beer?” Nate asked.

“Water,” I said.

“You are deeply disappointing for a man dressed like a priest.”

“I have another set in twenty minutes and would like to survive it.”

“Coward.”

I ignored him and headed out the back door with a cold bottle of water while Nate followed me anyway.

The alley behind Trixie’s smelled faintly like cigarettes, fryer grease, and a hint of dumpster. Orange string lights hung crookedly above the patio area while smokers huddled beneath outdoor heaters laughing too loudly.

I leaned against the brick wall and twisted open the bottle.

Nate bumped my shoulder lightly. “She still isn’t here, huh?”

I frowned at him. “Who?”

“Micah.”

“What?”

“Sorry. We’re pretending you aren’t desperately waiting for Robbin Banks to show up.”