Last Call at the Doghouse, page 27
LAST CALL AT THE DOGHOUSE
LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
Copyright © 2023 by Linda Winstead Jones
All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Elizabeth Wallace
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CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About Linda
Also by Linda Winstead Jones
PROLOGUE
From the middle of a deserted two-lane road, standing on what remained of the center line, Armi surveyed the businesses she’d bought with the proceeds of her divorce. The Doghouse, in less-than-perfect blue neon, flickered in the night. That bright, pulsating sign was sure to induce seizures in anyone who dared to look at it for too long.
Behind the bar, which was a decent size and had potential—or so she kept telling herself—sat the dark motel. Both establishments had been shuttered for at least a couple of years. How they’d managed to stay in business before that, she couldn’t imagine.
The big parking lot for both was gravel, and not in what she’d call great shape. The twenty rooms of the single-story motel, as well as a small office situated in the center, faced that parking lot, which at the moment had so many holes and bumps it was barely functional. The area in front of the bar was fairly level, at least. Faint praise.
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Armi’s neck. Early July in Alabama could be brutally hot. Although the sun had set hours earlier, the heat hadn’t abated much. Even the mosquitos seemed to be laying low tonight.
How many times in her life had she been told not to cut off her nose to spite her face? Often enough. Apparently, the warning hadn’t taken, because… here she was. Technically she hadn’t cut off her nose; more specifically she’d blown up her life in order to spite her ass of an ex-husband.
She had gotten some satisfaction, initially. A physical tingle of glee had danced through her body as she’d signed the papers, knowing it would kill Andrew to have everyone in his precious, elite circle of friends know that his ex-wife was a barkeep, as well as proprietor of her own ratty hotel where even the roaches had second thoughts about checking in. He was a snob who ran in a clique of snobs, almost all of them connected to the financial world in some way. Armi had never really fit in with those friends, though God knows she’d tried.
At the moment, she wasn’t sure why she’d tried so damn hard. The wives she’d been introduced to at company functions and the country club gym, the neighbors in their posh neighborhood… none of them had become real friends. She’d found herself playing a role more often than not, introducing herself formally as Arminda Sherwood, choosing her hated full name for the role.
Arminda could be as big a snob as any of them, when the situation called for it. Armi was much more down to earth.
She’d made a few good friends in Knoxville, but none of those true friends had been a part of Andrew’s group. They’d met, over the last fifteen years or so, at the bookstore, her favorite coffee shop, and the park where she’d liked to run a couple times a week. Some of them had moved on, as friends do, or drifted away. But a few, a precious few, had been with her during the past difficult year. Really with her. They understood; they sympathized and offered a shoulder to cry on. Or a bottle of wine and a sad or funny movie, depending on the mood. They’d been there, physically and emotionally. They still were.
Stella and Mary would be here in a couple of weeks. The three of them had returned to Knoxville after their visit to Mystic Springs for the summer solstice and the festival. After the decision to move to Alabama had been made they’d all needed to finish up a bit of business, store or pack their belongings, say their goodbyes. Armi had come back to Angel Lake first in order to get the ball rolling. Stella and Mary, the friends she’d made family, were coming because she needed them. Maybe they’d stick around for a few months until things were going well, but she hoped they’d stay permanently. The three of them could start a new and different life together.
This was definitely different.
Maybe no one at the country club would be surprised that she’d made such a drastic decision. From wife in the elite inner circle to barmaid! Shocking. That’s how they’d see it, how Andrew would spin it. Oh, how low she’d fallen… in their eyes, at least. Andrew, the ass, would get even more sympathy from those friends as word of her new life reached far and wide; he’d receive his own physical and emotional support. Many would say they’d always known there was something off about her.
We knew all along she wasn’t good enough for you.
That was probably what his mistress had been telling him for the past however many years. Was the homewrecker still around or had Andrew already moved on? That was his thing, apparently; moving on to someone younger and prettier.
Armi took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She needed to embrace this new life, to tackle her new problems and leave the old ones behind. She had plenty of new problems to deal with.
The motel room doors had once been red; she’d noticed that when she’d studied the place by the light of day. They were now more of a faded brick color with suspicious stains here and there. The closed curtains beyond the front windows were marred with their own stains. What she’d seen—a quick glance only—of the interior was even worse.
What had she been thinking when she’d signed the papers making her the proprietor of these fine establishments?
She hadn’t been thinking at all, she admitted. She’d still been angry about a husband who’d cheated, been caught, and had not been at all sorry. In fact, she was almost positive he’d been relieved. Relieved that the deception was over. Relieved to be rid of her. She’d been angry to turn forty-nine and find herself alone after twenty-five years of marriage, angry that her two sons were so busy getting on with their own lives that after a couple weeks of what seemed to be sincere sympathy, they’d left her to her own devices.
Which was as it should be, she admitted. Ryan was in his second year of college. James had just graduated and had a new job on the other side of the country. She wanted her sons to have good lives and to be independent. Just maybe not quite so independent right now…
At least she’d managed to pass on the real estate agent’s suggestion that she buy the almost-empty lot to the left of the motel. It was impossible to tell what the site had once been, though what was left of the building—charred remains, weeds and all—was clearly visible from the street. That gravel parking lot was barely navigable. A line of trees hid most of the site from that end of the motel, so what remained of the burned-out building wasn’t a constant eyesore. Still, she was glad it wasn’t hers.
In defense of her impulsive decision, Angel Lake, the small town situated basically in the middle of Alabama, had once been a wonderful vacation spot, with nice camping grounds, hiking trails, fantastic fishing, and isolated cabins perfect for a long weekend getaway. Not upscale—nothing Andrew the ass would’ve considered as a vacation spot suitable for his family—but it had been nice. It was a little more than an hour’s drive from the small town where she’d grown up, Mystic Springs, and she’d spent many weekends here.
A seventeen-year-old Armi had lost her virginity in one of those cabins on a summer night much like this one. She’d thought herself so much in love for a few precious weeks. Turns out the love had been a fabrication, the result of a potion concocted by an up-and-coming wizard who hadn’t stayed in Mystic Springs any longer than she had. After high school they, and many others from their small class, had fled for parts known and unknown. Escape.
Mystic Springs: where the residents had magical powers they hid from the world, and sometimes even from one another. Witches, shifters, psychics. Everyone with Springer blood had some kind of power, great or small.
Everyone but her. It had been hard growing up as one of the few residents of the small town who had nothing magical to brag or complain about. She’d left town as soon as she was able, much as her mother had years before Armi’s graduation. Some women were cut out to be mothers, others were not. Her own mother fell into the “not” category. Armi had been raised by her father and, after he’d died too soon, her grandmother and her Aunt Helen.
Armi had loved college and had planned to get her teaching degree to establish a new and rewarding career. She’d started off well enough; she’d graduated and found a lovely job at a Knoxville elementary school. But very early in her career, she’d met the ass and gotten married. He’d wanted a stay-at-home wife, so she’d foolishly quit in order to please him. She’d been too young, she’d married too quickly, she’d been too… desperate. Desperate to fit in. Desperate to be loved. Desperate to be normal in a normal world.
If she really wanted normal sh
Behind her, on a road that had once led to a group of cabins by the lake, something howled. Coyotes. Maybe wild dogs. Wolves weren’t exactly common in the area, except for those three days a month when the moon was at its fullest. She looked up at the full moon above. That explained it.
There had been a time when werewolves had been contained within the boundaries of Mystic Springs. Other magic, other abilities, had been contained there as well. That had changed less than a year ago. She’d watched her boys carefully after she’d heard about the destruction of those boundaries. She’d visited them at school on weekends and invited them home using one excuse or another. They thought her new neediness was all about the separation and then the divorce, and she couldn’t deny that she’d needed them now and then. But that wasn’t the entire reason she reached out to them so often. Armi had to know if the family history she’d left behind had come back to her and hers. She’d made mental notes as she recalled her grandmother’s and Aunt Helen’s stories.
She’d had an uncle who could manipulate fire and water. He’d started the first Mystic Springs volunteer fire department. Her parents hadn’t been particularly powerful, which she’d often thought explained her own lack of abilities. Her mother had exhibited a touch of the family gift of knowing what others wanted, but it had seemed to be little more than good instincts. Her father had possessed a magical touch with plants. His garden had always been the envy of the town.
Were there shifters of any kind in her DNA? Werewolves? Bigfoot? She supposed any kind of animal was possible, and with so much blending of magics among the Springers she couldn’t be sure what abilities might crop up. So yes, she’d watched James and Ryan carefully.
Nada. Apparently they were like her; powerless Springers who could live a normal life.
What the hell was normal, anymore?
Armi took a deep breath and walked toward The Doghouse. As she took long strides, she ticked off the renovation plans in her mind. With luck, she’d have The Doghouse open in a month. It needed work, but according to the contractor she’d hired the basic structure was good. The motel would follow, with at least a couple of rooms available by Labor Day. For now she was going to reside in a modest suite of rooms over the bar, but eventually she might buy and renovate one of the cabins down the road.
Preferably not the one where she’d lost her virginity.
The cabin would have to wait. First the bar, then the motel. She planned to take lots of pictures before the renovations began. Pictures she could share on social media. She wondered how many pics she could tag the ass in before he blocked her. Who was she kidding? He’d already blocked her, making sure in every small way that she was no longer in his line of vision, face-to-face or computer-to-computer. That didn’t mean she couldn’t try…
“Petty, Armi,” she said as she inserted her key into the front door. “Petty.” But she smiled. These days she took her small pleasures where she could find them.
She caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye, just enough to make her turn her head. The big dog… and she did mean big… stood at the edge of the parking lot, head held high, eyes on her. It was black and white and shaggy, a mixed breed, she assumed. Was that what she’d heard howling? She didn’t think so. The howl had been more distant.
“Well, hello Goliath.” She couldn’t think of any other suitable name for a dog of that size. Not that she needed to be naming strays…
Goliath didn’t move toward her; it didn’t seem to be a threat at all. After a few seconds the dog turned and loped away, disappearing from view as it circled the building.
Armi turned the key in the lock and pushed; the door swung open into a cavernous space. She reached out and hit the light switch with the palm of her hand. Overhead lights flickered and then came on, bathing the place in an odd and incomplete light. Several of the overhead lights had burned out, but not all. She could imagine her bar, her own business, all too well.
The stage at the far end of the room was surrounded by chicken wire. She had no way of knowing if that barrier had been intended to protect the bands that played there or the customers. A long wooden bar to the left stretched more than a dozen feet. It was dinged and scratched, but solid. Maybe both could be saved. The floor was solid wood, too, scratched and slightly uneven here and there, but a few well-placed repairs might do the trick. Plans for the new place unfolded in her head, which helped her to forget her worries. This could work.
She wasn’t angry anymore. Not really. Peeved was more like it. As she surveyed the sad interior of her new business, she smiled a little. If she was honest with herself, her life had gotten boring. She’d been on automatic pilot for the past… fifteen years? Twenty?
Her new life in The Doghouse wasn’t going to be boring at all.
“Bring it on.”
CHAPTER 1
Two months later
The band was rocking. Armi smiled as she watched from her favorite table not far from the front door and near the corner. From here she could see almost everything. The band on stage, behind chicken wire, was made up of five brothers. None of them were what anyone would call a prize, but then werewolves rarely were. They maintained a touch of wildness even when they were, to all appearances, human. She had a feeling they were never entirely human, though. Milhouse had been painted on the biggest drum in the set. She was sure there was a name for that particular drum, but she didn’t know it. Or care.
Everyone called the group The Milhouse Brothers’ Band, but that was simply a description of who they were. As far as she knew they didn’t have an official name.
If they kept improving, as they seemed to be, they were going to need one.
She was glad she’d left the chicken wire around the stage. She’d had doubts along the way, had almost started tearing it down one lazy August afternoon, but leaving it in place seemed like the thing to do. Especially in this neck of the woods, and with a regularly appearing werewolf band. One could never be too careful.
The Friday night crowd was small but not as small as it had been a month ago, when they’d opened the doors to a trickle. She knew it would take time to build the business. Still, she really wanted to see the crowds grow, especially on the weekends. If she was going to blow her life up, it might as well be profitable. Or at least not bankrupt her.
The habitable cabins that remained around Angel Lake still managed to draw in a few tourists, and she’d met a handful of permanent residents. Not much more than a mile down the road sat a gas station/diner that did a decent business. There were a few small towns within a half hour’s drive in any direction; one that might even be called a city not much further away than that. The werewolf band always drew in a few fans. They were moderately popular on social media and posted when and where they’d be playing. Often there was a group of women in attendance who’d made the drive to drink and giggle and make eyes at the musicians.
The brothers sucked up the attention and by the end of the evening were singing love songs directed at one or more of their admirers. Some nights it paid off for them and one or more of them left with a woman on their arm. There was no accounting for taste.
The newly repaired blue neon sign, The Doghouse, along with the new red Open sign she turned on each afternoon, let everyone passing by know the place was open for business. That and a bit of her own reluctantly updated social media had her enterprise growing. Fingers crossed…
Mary danced away from waiting on a table crowded with five semi-rowdy fishermen, shimmying her way to the bar where Stella drew beers and mixed damn good alcoholic concoctions. Some even came with little umbrellas. Armi wasn’t good at either job. The customers got on her nerves, tested her thin patience, and she didn’t have the knack for bartending the way Stella did. So far she’d been a strictly behind the scenes owner. If she was lucky it would stay that way.
