tavern, blaring into the trees as if to keep whatever lurked there at bay.
"One helluvan odd place for a bar."
But in the single day I'd been in Wisconsin, I'd noticed they did taverns up right. There had to be one on every corner of every town I'd driven through. Why should Crow Valley be any different? Although I didn't see a corner anywhere near here.
There also didn't appear to be anything resembling a room for rent. I was going to hold Jessie's head under a faucet when I got back to her place.
I glanced around for a space big enough to pull a U-turn and caught a glimmer of motion from the woods.
"Well, hell-o," I murmured as Damien Fitzgerald slid out of the trees and headed for the front door.
He'd found his shirt and his shoes since I saw him last. He appeared to have a penchant for black. What had he been doing between then and now? Only one way to find out.
I shut off the engine, climbed out of my car, and hurried across the grass toward the tavern without a name.
Chapter 5
I stepped into a room so filled with smoke I could barely see. Since I hadn't had a cigarette in two years, my eyes burned and my throat clenched, even as I yearned.
I missed cigarettes. More than I could say.
The door slammed behind me, and everyone stared. I stared back, feeling as if I'd stepped into a backwoods edition of Star Wars. I even glanced at the stage to see if the jazz was coming from a bizarre collection of aliens playing instruments I'd never seen before. But the raised, open area was empty, the music wailing out of a jukebox instead.
People of every shape, size, color filled the room. That struck me as odd right away. Folks in the north woods were not known for socializing with the Indians, and this tavern must be way over their quota of African-Americans north of the great Green Bay divide.
There were women - young and old, fat and thin, black, white, and red. Men the same way. Even a midget - make that litde person - was perched on a stool at the bar. I'd stepped into the twilight zone.
But when?
Everyone still stared at me as if I'd invaded a sacred place. This was a bar, wasn't it? My money was as good as the next guy's.
"Hi." I waved.
No one answered, but they did go back to their drinks and their smokes. I scanned the room for Damien, but he wasn't there.
I crossed to the bar, took a seat next to the little guy. He blew smoke in my face. So much for being welcome.
I didn't see a bartender. Not at first. Spinning my chair, I scanned the crowd again.
Damien had come in here. I'd seen him. He was not a figment of my imagination. But I was beginning to wonder what he was, since he seemed able to appear and disappear at will. I'd learned, over the past few years, that there were more things to fear in this world than werewolves. A lot more.
I turned back and let out a little shriek. The man I'd been searching for stood directly in front of me on the other side of the bar.
He may have found his shirt, but he seemed to have trouble with buttons. He'd only managed the bottom two, and an enticing V of pale, smooth flesh flashed against the black silk.
"What can I get you?"
I forced my eyes from his chest to his face. He lifted a brow. He knew I'd been looking. I only hoped I hadn't been drooling.
The thought made me straighten, scowl, snap, "Where were you?"
"Right here."
"No." I shook my head for emphasis - though I wasn't sure if the movement was for my benefit or his.
"I was rotating stock." He pointed behind the bar, toward the ground.
Relief rushed through me. I wasn't losing it. Not again. Or at least not yet.
"What can I get you?" he repeated.
"You're the bartender?"
"No, I'm independently wealthy. I come in here on Tuesday nights and wait on people for fun."
Since he said the words without a hint of humor or a trace of a smile, I almost wondered if he was serious. Until the midget snorted.
"Do you have white wine?" I asked.
I wasn't much of a drinker. I needed my wits about me all the time. I never knew when someone might turn into a werewolf and try to kill me.