Page 3 of Last Call at the Doghouse

Armi handled the money, the ordering, and directing the renovations of the bar and the motel. She’d set up a website and some social media accounts for basic advertising, and she updated them all on a semi-regular basis. Stella helped with that; she had a knack for it. It was Armi’s girlfriends, who each had their own room in the motel—the first two to be made habitable—who kept the place running.

Maybe this venture would work out after all. A little luck, a lot of hard work… maybe…

Stella and Mary didn’t notice the magic around them; they had no idea the band that played here so often was made up of werewolves. There hadn’t been any obvious display of supernatural beings, no magic out in the open. One day, she really should sit them down with a bottle of wine—or two—and spill the beans, because if something ever did happen, they needed to be prepared.

How could one be prepared for that kind of news?

One of the fishermen stood in that way a drunk who’s trying not to look drunk does. He turned slowly, carefully, taking one unsteady step then another. It took a moment for Armi to realize he was walking toward her with purpose. Well, crap.

“You here alone?” he asked, slurring his words slightly and pressing one palm on the table to lean forward, and to steady himself. The man was probably in his mid-thirties. He had dark hair, a five o’clock shadow, and was relatively handsome in an ordinary way.

“I am alone, and I intend to stay that way.”

He didn’t take the hint. “Why is a pretty woman like you sitting all alone in a crappy bar in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s my crappy bar,” Armi responded, her voice tight.

“Nice,” the drunk said with a nod of his head. Uninvited, he pulled out a chair and sat. Plopped was more like it. “I’m Carlton. My buddies and I came up for a few days of fishing. We saw this place when we were driving by and decided to check it out.”

Armi sighed. She should simply get up and walk away. Odds were that Carlton would be unable to follow in a timely manner. She could be in her back-room office with the door closed and locked behind her before he managed to stand and steady himself. He was that far gone. But dammit, she’d been taking the easy way out all her adult life. She’d hidden from trouble, when she didn’t ignore it entirely.

She wasn’t going to hide any more. “Go away, Carlton,” she said in a firm voice that left no room for argument.

He didn’t obey her simple order. “Come on, sweetheart. I figure you’re a little older than I am, but I don’t mind. I like older women.” His eyebrows did a little dance. “They know what they’re doing and they really appreciate the attention.”

Carlton wasn’t just a drunk; he was an asshole.

“How old are you?” he asked. “Forty, forty-two, maybe?”

“I’m fifty,” Armi said coldly, hoping the number would shock him into leaving her alone.

He did lean back slightly in obvious shock. “Well, damn. You sure don’t look fifty. You got a rocking body.” He tilted his head. “I thought maybe the gray streak in your hair was something you, you know, added on purpose, like some women add pink or purple or whatever. And that face…” He leaned forward to look into her eyes.

For a long moment he stared, then something he saw in her perfectly ordinary green eyes alarmed him. Carlton leaned back and away, and in his own eyes she saw… fear. Maybe the man wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He pushed his chair back and stood unsteadily, swaying slightly.

“Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” With that he turned and walked back to his table. His buddies, who were mostly as drunk as he was, laughed at Carlton as he retook his seat and started babbling in a whisper.

Her business wasn’t healthy enough for her to be scaring customers away. With a sigh, Armi stood slowly. She walked over to the table and said hello to the others, gritted her teeth in a semblance of a smile, and welcomed them to The Doghouse. Four men looked up at her, nodded, and returned her greeting, but Carlton stared into his half-empty beer mug.

The fisherman to Carlton’s right punched him in the upper arm and said, in a too-loud whisper, “Her eyes ain’t on fire, you numb nuts.”

Armi studied the men, one after another. She looked directly at one of the group who had a glass of water in front of him. “Designated driver?” she asked.

The man nodded. He didn’t seem happy about his position.

“Good.” The other four sure as hell needed someone to deliver them safely to wherever they were going. Carlton couldn’t be allowed to drive, and neither could the other three drinkers, who stared at her with fiendish curiosity.

Eyes on fire? Maybe he’d caught the reflection of a neon sign advertising a popular beer, and was drunk enough to make the leap. What a doofus.

Armi looked toward the bar and called out to Stella. “A plate of ham and cheese sandwiches for this table. On the house.” The Doghouse didn’t offer much in the way of food, though every table started off with a bowl of party mix they called kibble. Maybe one day she’d be able to hire a proper cook and offer hot food, but for now it was sandwiches, chips, and kibble.

“That’s nice of you,” the designated driver said. Then he leaned over a bit and lowered his voice, while the others celebrated the news of free sandwiches. “Sorry about Carlton,” he said. “He just got divorced and it’s made him act a fool on more than one occasion.”

“I can sympathize,” Armi said, then she nodded and walked away.

Everyone had something going on in their lives. She needed to remember that. As she passed by the bar she called out. “Refill their kibble, too.” Then it was back to the office in the rear of the long building, past the restrooms and the door to the storeroom, toward a back exit used primarily for taking out garbage. Her office was small, a little cluttered, and home to a decent enough swiveling chair. She’d close and lock the door, sit in that swivel chair, and sort the papers on her desk. A few of them should probably be put in the small safe that was tucked into one corner.

Maybe she hadn’t quite given up on hiding.