Witcher Upper - Amy Boyles

Chapter 1

Some nights don’t turn out the way you plan, know what I mean? You have the best intentions, think everything’s going to be just fine and then bam, bad things happen. Tonight happened to be one of those. And it was such a pain in the tush because today had been smooth as chocolate silk pie—which was what I’d had for breakfast, by the way.

This morning I’d ordered kitchen cabinets for a barn being renovated into a house, found the perfect countertops to complement them and had picked the most beautiful vanilla-colored tile for the backsplash. So I deserved a treat.

I sat on my favorite stool at Shane’s Place, a local joint, enjoying my favorite afterwork cocktail—a red appletini, which happened to be built by my favorite bartender, Shane.

My furry little dachshund, Lady, sat beside me, lapping up water that had been brought out for her.

After serving us, Shane stepped away from the bar to bring in a keg. That was when the trouble started.

Two young truckers (I could tell by their wrinkled clothing and hats, and also the fact that they talked about their rigs—dead giveaway) left their booth and started bothering a pretty young thing with porcelain skin and strawberry-blonde hair.

One of the two losers leaned over the table, breathing heavily in her face. I’m sure his breath stank—probably from dip and sour beer. “Come on. Don’t you want to see my truck?” He laughed and jeered at his buddy, who sneered.

I cocked an ear toward them. Sadie, my best friend, sat beside me. “Clem, you’re not going to get involved, are you?”

I stared into Sadie’s big blue eyes. “They’re asking for trouble. They’re drunk.”

In that sweet way of hers, that real Southern-belle way that Sadie had where every movement was delicate and purposeful, she placed a hand on my arm and gave me an earnest glance. “Wait for Shane.”

“I’ll show you my truck, and you can show me yours,” the second truck-driving jerk said to the poor girl. She looked frightened, unsure of what to do. Her gaze darted around before locking on mine.

My heart clenched. Now I really felt responsible, like it was my duty to help her. It became hard to remind myself not to get involved—which was my motto. Don’t get involved. That had been my slogan ever since that night, ever since it happened to me years ago.

The way that trucker leaned over her, the way he dominated the conversation, reminded me of a scene from my own past, one I worked hard to forget. Suddenly, I was that girl, and fright raced all the way to my heart.

Come with me, he had said. Come with me and we’ll have fun.

I’d believed him, and believing had cost me dearly.

I gritted my teeth and took another sip from my appletini. Dang, was it good—just the right combination of sweet and sour. Shane seriously knew how to make a perfect drink. I wondered if he could teach me; then I wouldn’t have to come into the bar and listen to drunk guys hitting on solitary women. It would also help me avoid roaming town in work boots and plaids shirts, looking like I’d just come from a construction site.

Whenever I complained about it, Sadie said, “But you do come from a construction site.”

I would shrug and nod. “So do you, but you’re wearing a dress and heels.”

Her lips would then tip into a pert smile, and she’d give a little innocent shrug of her shoulder. “But you’re more hands-on than me. You like the demo stuff. It’s not my thing.”

I always scoffed. “I like picking finishes, too. But demo is fun. Besides, it keeps me on track if I know where the team is in terms of construction.”

Sadie and I run a house renovation business called Magical Renovations. No, there’s nothing magical about it. So before you get all excited and think that Sadie’s a witch or that I’m a witch—guess again. This isn’t that type of book.

Okay, maybe it is.

Okay, it sort of is.

I am a witch, but I sure as shootin’ don’t use my powers.

Anyway, tonight was a rare occasion on the clothing front. For once I wasn’t wearing work boots. Instead I wore heels and a dusty-rose-colored sheath dress.

But that was neither here nor there. I turned away from the girl, hackles up, hands clenched tight and my foot tapping the air a mile a minute. Don’t get involved, Clementine; don’t do it.

Sadie was right. It was best not to get involved.