“Those dudes look like tool bags. That one guy’s mustache looks like he drew it on with a pen.”
Deacon laughed into his drink. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of the mustache? No way.” Ethan rubbed his chin. “But the one beside him has a pretty sweet goatee. I’d love a goatee. Or a beard. I’d look great with a beard.”
Deacon looked over again only to find the girl in a short black dress and red heels staring back at him. She waved and whispered something to her friend in the green dress. Mr. Mustache reached for her hand, but she shook him off. There was some drama going on there that he did not want to get involved in.
“Hold on…They’re coming over.” Ethan grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. “You gotta play along, man. Girls love your stupid accent. You can be Oliver Cavendish, my boring cousin from England. I’ll be Spencer Miller—you can call me Spence.”
“Cavendish?”
“Yeah. Sounds über-British, right?”
Deacon finished his drink and set it on the counter. “Sorry, Spence. I’m just not feeling it tonight.”
“Too late, Oliver.” Ethan nodded to someone behind him.
“Hey, guys,” the girl in black said, resting her elbows on the back of Deacon’s stool. “I’m Ashton, and this is my BFF Maci.” The dark-haired girl giggled and waved.
“Spence and Oliver.” Ethan dragged over two more stools and offered them to the girls. “Can we buy you ladies a drink?”
“Two Mic Ultras, please.” Maci tugged her skirt toward her knees, but it rode back up her thighs when she climbed onto the stool.
Ashton didn’t bother to adjust her skirt at all. “Where are you guys from?”
Ethan waved toward Joe, then ordered a round of drinks for all of them.
“I’m from Surrey,” Deacon said, hating these stupid games, “and Spence is from Oklahoma.”
“Oh my God.” Ashton’s silver-lined blue eyes widened. “You’re from England?”
Ethan sniggered and passed each of the girls a bottle of beer.
“I am.”
“Your accent’s hot.”
He sighed.
“Hey, kid,” a voice said behind him. “How old are you?”
No one in Neverland was too concerned with age for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the same for outsiders. At nearly twenty-five, the question had already become tiresome. He could only imagine how he would feel in another hundred years.
Deacon turned to find Mr. Mustache glaring at him. “I’m twenty-one.”
The man’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You sure about that? You look a lot younger.”
“What can I say? I have good genes.”
Ethan snorted.
Ashton shoved the man’s shoulder. “Leave him alone, Stan. He didn’t do anything to you.”
“The two of you know each other?” Brilliant. Just the sort of drama he tried to avoid. It wasn’t Ethan’s fault, but he was going to blame him anyway.
“She’s my girlfriend, kid,” Stan snarled, grabbing for Ashton’s elbow.
She shook him off and hissed, “Ex-girlfriend.”
“I don’t think she wants you to touch her, Stan,” he drawled, feeling his adrenaline stir beneath his skin.
“Go back to your own damn country and mind your own damned business.”
“Is there a problem over here?” Joe asked, wiping down the bar as he approached.
Stan pointed at Deacon and Ethan with his beer bottle. “Have you checked their ID’s?”
“Didn’t need to. They’ve been coming in ever since they turned twenty-one.”
God bless Joe. He didn’t know about the PAN, but he knew enough that if he kept them happy, they’d keep his tip jar full.
“My mistake.” Stan not-so-discreetly knocked Deacon’s wallet into a puddle of unknown origin on the floor.
Deacon closed his eyes and took a steady breath. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it. He would pick it up, finish his drink, and go home. He would not hit Stan. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that.” Whatever was on his wallet was sticky and smelled like piss.
“What if I did?”
In his peripherals, he saw Ethan stand up. Push his sleeves to his elbows. Shouldn’t he be trying to diffuse the situation instead of encouraging it? Deacon needed better friends.
“I really don’t need this tonight.” He tried to go back to his stool, but Stan blocked him. “Excuse me. That’s my seat.”
“Come on, Stan. Leave ‘em alone,” Ashton pleaded, her blue eyes wide and frightened.
“Shut the hell up, Ash.” Stan puffed out his chest and shoved Deacon toward the wall. “Is it? Is it your seat?”
It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it. “Hey, Spence, let’s go.”
Ethan chugged his beer, and Deacon pulled his sweatshirt free. “Ashton, Maci.” Deacon nodded to the two girls, feeling guilty for leaving them alone with the prick. But what other option did he have? “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”
“What the hell, dude?” Stan slammed his bottle on the counter. “Stop talking to my girlfriend.”
Another shove, this time between his shoulder blades. His sweatshirt landed in the disgusting puddle. Don’t hit him. Do NOT hit him. “If you put your hands on me again—”
Stan went to shove him a third time and, oh god, his fist was already flying through the air, and there was nothing he could do now but watch it connect with the asshole’s nose. A crunch. And blood. Shit there was a lot of blood. He’d definitely broken Stan’s nose. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Stan caught his elbow, twisted his arm behind his back, and slammed his chest against the bar. He knew better than to move from the hammer lock, even though the pressure felt like it was going to snap his bloody shoulder.
Joe shouted something as he rounded the bar.
Stan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a . . . Shit. That was a badge.
Shit.
“As we discussed last week, this fairy tale was originally a play.” Joseph tapped his book against his knee. “And Barrie used grossly oversimplified caricatures in order to segregate the different factions in his version of Neverland—like the pirates and Tiger Lily’s tribe.”
“Isn’t that a nice way of saying it’s racist?” Emily asked, popping the lid on her pen. “Because that’s all I see when I read about Tiger Lily.”
“Yes.” Joseph took a deep breath. “Barrie was the quintessential upper-class Victorian white male. We could hide behind the idea that perhaps he was simply depicting Neverland from a Penny Dreadful point of view—those were cheap fantasy novels popular at the turn of the century. But the fact is, he took non-white cultures and rolled them into one racist trope. Even the term Piccaninny is a Victorian racial slur.”
Vivienne had loved the story as a kid, but she hadn’t realized how racist it was until she read it as an adult. “Can’t someone change it?”
Joseph slipped his book into his leather briefcase. “The copyright on Peter Pan has been granted in perpetuity. It’s protected and cannot be changed.” He looked up and smiled sadly. “As described in the text, the tribe is an amalgamation of people considered to be other—which misses the point of Neverland entirely. We call everyone outside of our Never-circle…” Joseph raised his eyebrows and waited.