There are open stools at the bar, and I settle on one, feeling the weight of shame and misery bow my shoulders.
“Welcome in,” a deep voice says, the bartender having spotted me. A younger guy who’s definitely not Kev. At least one thing has improved. “What can I get you?”
And here, we run into a speed bump on my road to getting drunk—I don’t drink.
After watching the way my father wasted all his free time in alcohol’s grasp, I figured there was no point.
But now I’ve decided there is a point—I don’t care, so I will do what I want.
Only I don’t know what to order.
Let’s leave it to the expert.
“Your stiffest drink, sir.” I pound a fist on the bar. My meaty hand sets the nearby drinks to rattling, liquid sloshing over the edge of a few.
People glare my way, and chagrin heats my cheeks.
“Sorry. So sorry.” I grab a couple of napkins and help mop up the speckles of beer that escaped my fellow bar-goers’ glasses because of my aggressive move. Once that’s dealt with, I face the bartender again.
“Your stiffest drink, please,” I mumble.
The bartender scoops up a glass and a bottle—all the while, his curious eyes stay on me, and a lopsided smile sits on his mouth. The expression tugs at a memory, as does the man’s scent. But all I know for sure is that he’s a werewolf.
“You look familiar.” He slides a short glass of amber liquid my way.
The color of the alcohol is pretty. Kind of reminds me of the highlights in a certain redhead’s hair.
I shake my head and focus on the wolf. “I was just thinking the same about you.”
“Are you from Folk Haven?”
“Born and raised.”
He tilts his head with curiosity. “You been away for a while?”
I huff a humorless laugh as I bring the glass to my mouth. “You could say that.”
Then I take a sip.
And promptly spit it back out.
“Gods, that is disgusting!” I grab a napkin and try to wipe the taste off my tongue, but to no avail. “Did you pour me poison?”
The bartender blinks. Then the guy throws his head back and roars with laughter.
I don’t see what’s so funny about him trying to kill me in front of all his customers, but I’m distracted by the sound of his hilarity.
I would swear I’ve heard that laugh before. Maybe not as deep, but the cadence, along with the hiccup on the end, stands out in my mind.
“Griffy?” I ask, voice hushed.
The werewolf’s laughter fades off with another two hiccups as he refocuses on me. He clears his throat. “What did you call me?”
“You’re …” Couldn’t be. This is a full-grown wolf.
Seventeen years.
“Are you Griffy? Griffith Fangworn?”
