Page 17 of Last Call at the Doghouse

“I’m not staying with you. I don’t care what you say…”

“Fine. I’ll grab some clothes and sleep at your place.”

Her heart thumped too hard. The last thing she needed was Mitch Duncan underfoot. “That’s really not…”

“Carlton was a message. I’m sure of it. Call the sheriff, kick my ass, you and your friends gang up on me.” He looked at her again. “But there is no way in hell I’m leaving you alone.”

A part of her wanted to not only refuse Duncan’s offer—offer, hell, it was a command—but to fight like hell against it. Her freedom, her independence, had been hard-won. She’d never again rely on a man to take care of her. She’d never again rely on a man, period.

But until she knew more, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have someone around. She’d been comfortable in her rooms above the bar; she’d never felt unsafe. Then again, she’d never seen a man torn apart by what Duncan said might be a werewolf. Made sense to her. There had been a full moon, and no human could do that kind of damage, right? Dog? Coyote? Unlikely. Bear? Maybe, but there had been no animal sightings in the area that she knew of, other than Goliath.

Could it have been a person who’d butchered Carlton? That had crossed her mind last night. Maybe, but how? She wanted to think no, but she wasn’t a naive girl any longer. There was evil in the world, and not all of it was mystical. Some men—and women—were capable of anything and everything. Some days she wished to be naive again.

Why did Duncan know so much more about the situation than she did? Not just from dreams, she suspected, but she hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask. She would, though. Soon.

Her lifelong habit of cutting off her nose to spite her face had kicked in big time. Duncan’s cabin on the lake was a lot nicer than she’d expected. It was significantly bigger than her above stairs space and the bathrooms were much nicer. She poked around a bit as casually as she could manage. There were three furnished bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and a fabulous kitchen. The porch, which was littered with chairs and small tables, looked over the lake. She could actually imagine having her coffee on that porch, sipping while she watched the sun come up.

He’d invited her to stay. She’d foolishly refused.

Nose. Face.

* * *

Mitch packed a duffle. Underwear and socks, jeans, a few plain t-shirts, and toiletries. He grumbled as he packed. Staying here made so much more sense than crowding themselves into Armi’s rooms above the bar, but he was determined only to stand his ground on the important things.

He wished she hadn’t asked about Laura. Whenever he had to talk about his deceased wife, emotions he’d prefer not to face stirred. Guilt. Horror. Grief, even after all these years. She’d wanted kids; he’d insisted that they wait. Just another year, maybe two. He’d had no way of knowing Laura didn’t have another year.

The guilt was the worst of it. It was his fault she was dead. He’d never confessed that to anyone, had never told a soul that Laura had asked him to go with her to that stupid antique store in the next town over. He hadn’t wanted to go; antiquing was not his thing, and he had better things to do. He couldn’t even remember what that better thing had been. A baseball game. A woodworking project. It didn’t matter.

If he’d gone with her, he would’ve been driving. His reflexes were better than hers had been, so he might’ve been able to avoid that damn truck. And if not… he would’ve died with her. He wouldn’t have minded that at all; it would’ve been right.

He locked up his cabin, opened the truck’s passenger door, and tossed his duffle into the small back seat before offering Armi an assisting hand she refused to take. They drove away silently, he trying to find a way to put the past where it belonged and her… silently contemplating her future, he imagined.

When they pulled into The Doghouse parking lot he parked his truck in the back lot so it wouldn’t be visible from the main road. He expected Armi to exit quickly, to escape the truck with purpose. She usually did just that. Part of her impatient nature, he supposed.

But instead of jumping out she turned to him. “Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not upset.”

She gave him a too-knowing look. “Bullshit. I can see it in your face, I can… dammit, I can feel it like it’s rolling off of you in waves.”

He didn’t respond right away. Did she need more proof that they were connected?

“Isn’t the fact that a war is coming enough to explain my bad mood?”

She hesitated. “What I see isn’t really worry, it’s… sadness.”

Mitch turned away and opened his door, then reached into the back to grab his duffle. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said as casually as he could manage. “I don’t do sadness.”

“The hell you don’t,” she mumbled as she opened her own door and stepped down.

The last thing he needed was a woman, any woman, looking into his very soul.

* * *

Armi got the sheets for the narrow bed in the small bedroom out of the closet and made quick work of making the bed. Duncan had offered to help, but honestly, it wasn’t a two-man job. The room was no bigger than the walk-in closet in her old house, but Duncan hadn’t complained, so far, unless you counted the one low grunt he’d uttered when he’d seen the room for the first time and dropped his duffel there.

Against her better judgment, she liked him. It wasn’t just the way he looked, which would’ve made her shallow, she supposed. Mitch Duncan wasn’t at all hard on the eyes, but he was also solid, calm, and self-assured. He was a man who got things done when they needed to be done. She’d like to think he and all his claims were completely crazy, but he didn’t come off like someone who didn’t have his shit together.