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Abe’s bar, which was just called Abe’s, was more respectable than most of the places we’d visited so far. It was an old, shopworn sports bar, but it was clean. And nobody propositioned me as I walked through the front door, which I considered a much higher recommendation than any Zagat rating.
Of course, the lack of propositions could have had something to do with Caleb’s arm being firmly wrapped around my waist, but why split hairs? The interior reminded me a lot of the Blue Glacier in Grundy: scarred pine bar, worn pine floorboards, neon beer signs, and taxidermically preserved fish specimens decorating the walls. Two obviously well-loved pool tables occupied the far corner of the room. Since one of them was marked with a little green “reserved” sign, I assumed that one would serve as Trixie’s stage for the evening.
There were plenty of perfectly respectable teetotalers in the Great North. But in some smaller towns out “in the bush,” bars and saloons served as the social hubs, sources of gossip and entertainment to break up the monotony of living in a place where a snowfall could mean being cut off from your neighbors for months. People didn’t come for the booze so much as the conversation. The problem was that some bars were “less nice” than others and attracted people who were similarly less nice than the average citizen. It all depended on what the ownership was willing to let the patrons get away with.
My opinion of the caliber of the bar changed when a tall bottled redhead with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of sidled up to us, calling out to Caleb. My werewolf paled a little and pulled at the collar of his jacket.
“Mary Ann, hi,” he said, clearly uncomfortable, which in some perverse way amused me immensely. “How are you?”
“Lonely.” She scowled at me. “This your old lady now?”
Caleb looked from her to me and back to her. And then back to me. “Uh . . .”
Part of me enjoyed watching Caleb twitch a little bit. But a much more influential part of my brain wanted this woman away from us, away from my man, before I started some Maury Povich catfight, rolling around on the floor, pulling at her hair. So I decided to step in.
“Oh, come on, Caleb, don’t try to hide our love,” I cooed, stretching my arms around him. I beamed at her, all silly and cow-eyed. “We just got matching tattoos.”
Mary Ann’s eyes widened. “Really? Can I see?”
I winked at her. “Not where we put them, no, ma’am.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want big commitments,” she said to Caleb.
And the ever-erudite werewolf responded, “Uh . . .”
She gave me one long, disdainful look. “When you figure out what you’re missing, you give me a call,” she said, turning her back on me.
“It was really nice to meet you, Mary Ann!” I chirped.
She sashayed away, her butt swishing back and forth. Caleb closed his eyes as if he was wishing the whole situation would go away. “Never going to live this down, am I?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Before he could come up with some explanation, a tall blond man came barreling up to Caleb, pulled back his fist, and punched my werewolf square in the stomach.
Seriously, I couldn’t take him anywhere.
Caleb grunted, doubling over and propping his hands against his knees to get his breath back. I hissed out a growl and yanked my trusty baton out of my bag. I flicked it to full extension, but Caleb pulled himself upright and grabbed my wrist before I could swing. “No! This is my old friend, Abe Clarkson.”
Caleb took time off from reassuring me to swing up at Abe’s gut, doubling him over. Abe gave a wheezing laugh right before using his lowered center of gravity to fly-tackle Caleb and send him toppling against a booth.
“Do any of your old friends like you?” I asked him as both men roared with laughter. None of the bar patrons seemed to notice the exchange, as if it was a regular occurrence for Abe to brawl with customers.
Caleb brought an elbow down between Abe’s shoulder blades. “No, that’s just how he says hi.”
With Abe’s grasp around Caleb’s waist weakened, Caleb shoved his alleged friend halfway across the barroom. I assumed that the abusive greeting ritual had concluded, because Abe approached me, gave me a once-over, and waggled his eyebrows. “Who is this sweet little thing, Caleb? You know, Mary Ann’s been missing you—”
Caleb interrupted him with a loud clearing of the throat. “Abe, this is my Tina. Behave yourself.”
Abe instantly straightened up, his expression more friendly than flirty now. I guessed Caleb’s calling me his held some sort of special significance. In a second, I’d gone from hanger-on to lady of significance. I felt I deserved nonflirty respect either way, but given the eager, open smile on Caleb’s face, I wasn’t going to be churlish about it.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Tina,” Abe said, shaking my hand. “I was afraid he was going to end up as the male version of a crazy old cat lady.”>“No. That’s . . . wrong. But people who live in lampshade-note-shaped houses shouldn’t throw stones.” He tapped me on the nose with his fingertip for emphasis.
“Any other little secrets I should know about?”
He pursed his lips. “No.”
“You hesitated.”
