That afternoon, Olivia, Maxen, Wyatt, and Oliver were busy hanging around the low-key pub the men frequented back in the day.
Upon entering the bar, the group took over the horseshoe-shaped countertop, and grabbed a stool for themselves, except for Maxen who pulled one out for Olivia before sitting himself.
The pub's doorbell kept ringing as security detail flooded the place that was still empty. Soon, a man in his early twenties stepped out behind the curtains with a frown.
Although everyone was welcome to his pub, the continuous ringing of the shopkeeper bell irked him. Why couldn't those bastards hold the f*cking door?
Just as the bartender was to curse his guests in his head one more time, the creases on his forehead smoothened into a plane.
Right in front of him were men he rarely saw, yet when he did, he sure could listen to hours of stories they brought along with them.
