Page 2 of Last Call at the Doghouse

Were there shifters of any kind in her DNA? Werewolves? Bigfoot? She supposed any kind of animal was possible, and with so much blending of magics among the Springers she couldn’t be sure what abilities might crop up. So yes, she’d watched James and Ryan carefully.

Nada. Apparently they were like her; powerless Springers who could live a normal life.

What the hell was normal, anymore?

Armi took a deep breath and walked toward The Doghouse. As she took long strides, she ticked off the renovation plans in her mind. With luck, she’d have The Doghouse open in a month. It needed work, but according to the contractor she’d hired the basic structure was good. The motel would follow, with at least a couple of rooms available by Labor Day. For now she was going to reside in a modest suite of rooms over the bar, but eventually she might buy and renovate one of the cabins down the road.

Preferably not the one where she’d lost her virginity.

The cabin would have to wait. First the bar, then the motel. She planned to take lots of pictures before the renovations began. Pictures she could share on social media. She wondered how many pics she could tag the ass in before he blocked her. Who was she kidding? He’d already blocked her, making sure in every small way that she was no longer in his line of vision, face-to-face or computer-to-computer. That didn’t mean she couldn’t try…

“Petty, Armi,” she said as she inserted her key into the front door. “Petty.” But she smiled. These days she took her small pleasures where she could find them.

She caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye, just enough to make her turn her head. The big dog… and she did mean big… stood at the edge of the parking lot, head held high, eyes on her. It was black and white and shaggy, a mixed breed, she assumed. Was that what she’d heard howling? She didn’t think so. The howl had been more distant.

“Well, hello Goliath.” She couldn’t think of any other suitable name for a dog of that size. Not that she needed to be naming strays…

Goliath didn’t move toward her; it didn’t seem to be a threat at all. After a few seconds the dog turned and loped away, disappearing from view as it circled the building.

Armi turned the key in the lock and pushed; the door swung open into a cavernous space. She reached out and hit the light switch with the palm of her hand. Overhead lights flickered and then came on, bathing the place in an odd and incomplete light. Several of the overhead lights had burned out, but not all. She could imagine her bar, her own business, all too well.

The stage at the far end of the room was surrounded by chicken wire. She had no way of knowing if that barrier had been intended to protect the bands that played there or the customers. A long wooden bar to the left stretched more than a dozen feet. It was dinged and scratched, but solid. Maybe both could be saved. The floor was solid wood, too, scratched and slightly uneven here and there, but a few well-placed repairs might do the trick. Plans for the new place unfolded in her head, which helped her to forget her worries. This could work.

She wasn’t angry anymore. Not really. Peeved was more like it. As she surveyed the sad interior of her new business, she smiled a little. If she was honest with herself, her life had gotten boring. She’d been on automatic pilot for the past… fifteen years? Twenty?

Her new life in The Doghouse wasn’t going to be boring at all.

“Bring it on.”

CHAPTER 1

Two months later

The band was rocking. Armi smiled as she watched from her favorite table not far from the front door and near the corner. From here she could see almost everything. The band on stage, behind chicken wire, was made up of five brothers. None of them were what anyone would call a prize, but then werewolves rarely were. They maintained a touch of wildness even when they were, to all appearances, human. She had a feeling they were never entirely human, though. Milhouse had been painted on the biggest drum in the set. She was sure there was a name for that particular drum, but she didn’t know it. Or care.

Everyone called the group The Milhouse Brothers’ Band, but that was simply a description of who they were. As far as she knew they didn’t have an official name.

If they kept improving, as they seemed to be, they were going to need one.

She was glad she’d left the chicken wire around the stage. She’d had doubts along the way, had almost started tearing it down one lazy August afternoon, but leaving it in place seemed like the thing to do. Especially in this neck of the woods, and with a regularly appearing werewolf band. One could never be too careful.

The Friday night crowd was small but not as small as it had been a month ago, when they’d opened the doors to a trickle. She knew it would take time to build the business. Still, she really wanted to see the crowds grow, especially on the weekends. If she was going to blow her life up, it might as well be profitable. Or at least not bankrupt her.

The habitable cabins that remained around Angel Lake still managed to draw in a few tourists, and she’d met a handful of permanent residents. Not much more than a mile down the road sat a gas station/diner that did a decent business. There were a few small towns within a half hour’s drive in any direction; one that might even be called a city not much further away than that. The werewolf band always drew in a few fans. They were moderately popular on social media and posted when and where they’d be playing. Often there was a group of women in attendance who’d made the drive to drink and giggle and make eyes at the musicians.

The brothers sucked up the attention and by the end of the evening were singing love songs directed at one or more of their admirers. Some nights it paid off for them and one or more of them left with a woman on their arm. There was no accounting for taste.

The newly repaired blue neon sign, The Doghouse, along with the new red Open sign she turned on each afternoon, let everyone passing by know the place was open for business. That and a bit of her own reluctantly updated social media had her enterprise growing. Fingers crossed…

Mary danced away from waiting on a table crowded with five semi-rowdy fishermen, shimmying her way to the bar where Stella drew beers and mixed damn good alcoholic concoctions. Some even came with little umbrellas. Armi wasn’t good at either job. The customers got on her nerves, tested her thin patience, and she didn’t have the knack for bartending the way Stella did. So far she’d been a strictly behind the scenes owner. If she was lucky it would stay that way.

A few months ago, she’d been angry and miserable. Those sentiments had faded over time. Damn, she had good friends. They’d stuck with her, even when she’d been tough to be around. A few friends remained in the Knoxville area, with their faithful husbands or decent jobs, but these two… they’d followed her. They’d joined her in this colossal adventure or magnificent mistake. She loved them for that, and always would. They’d left their homes in Tennessee for the backside of nowhere so the three of them could start over. Together.

Her friends had very different personalities. It was almost as odd that they were close as it was that they were friends with Armi. Maybe it was true that opposites were attracted to one another, in friendship as well as romance.

Mary’s husband had died two years ago. The petite blonde still grieved for him, and probably always would. High school sweethearts who’d married young, they’d been together for almost twenty-five years when Danny passed in his sleep. He’d been too young to have a heart attack, at least to Armi’s way of thinking, but that’s what they’d said it was. Life was short, and tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed for anyone. They’d never had kids. Armi had never been gauche enough to ask if they hadn’t wanted children or had been unable to have them. Mary knew she could tell her friends anything and everything if it suited her. Good friends listened, but did not pry.

Stella, with a curvy figure she didn’t mind showing off and a mane of curly dark hair, had been divorced for just over ten years. She had one daughter who gave her fits, but the kid was now twenty-six and on her own. The mother and daughter didn’t talk often. There had been times when Armi wondered if she would’ve had a closer relationship with a daughter than she had with her sons, but if Stella was any example that wasn’t a given.