Chapter 1

“Dammit,” Fred struggled with the three cases of booze she lugged up the cellar stairs to the main floor of The Thirsty Dog.

Being a Werewolf definitely had its perks. Increased strength, sense of smell, and enhanced vision to name a few, but none of them helped her as she banged her elbow on the door frame while exiting the musty old basement. If anything, she only hit it harder. Ouch.

It wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t see over the cases of long necks, was it? What could she do about her height? Not a damn thing.

Fred often joked about being vertically challenged. She was short. Period. Especially for a Wolf. At five-foot five-inches tall, she was the runt of the Pack. Not a bad height for a normal, but next to her six-foot plus Packmates, she was seriously lacking.

Her weight was fine. She maintained a solid buck forty. She was as fit and muscular as any Wolf in Maccon City. And that was without exercising at one of those twenty-four-hour gyms that were all the rage.

Fred got enough exercise between her two jobs and full moon runs with the Pack. She had no extra time for running on treadmills and Zumba classes.

Not that she was complaining. That was how she liked it. Keep moving, stay busy, no worries. Something her older brother used to say.

“Fred. Let’s go. We got customers.” Mike, the seventy-five-year-old Wolf who owned the place, yelled at her from across the bar.

He was tall, well over six-foot. Long, lean, and muscular without a single gray hair on his head. He looked more like forty than seventy-five, but that was the same with most Wolves.

Fred didn’t care about his looks. He was a good boss. Better than most, and that counted for everything. He paid her on time and treated her with courtesy and respect. Heck, he’d given Fred her very first job in town. She owed Mike.

“I’m coming already. Hold your horses.”

The roar of the crowd from the main room of the bar was like a smack in the face as Fred rounded the corner. Ugh. She wished she had remembered to put her ear plugs in.

Her Werewolf hearing was super-sensitive. Most of the time it didn’t bother her, but tonight she had one hell of a headache.

Cheer up, girl. Noisy means crowded. Big crowds meant big tips. And she seriously needed the money.

Saturday nights in Maccon City tended to be slower in the winter. But even with snow on the ground everyone seemed to be out tonight. It was Valentine’s Day after all.

Cheesy paper-Cupids with bows and arrows decorated the doors. Red streamers and glittery heart-shaped confetti covered every inch of the place.

Mike even had buckets by the front door filled with long-stem roses. The bouncers gave one to every woman who walked in. Happy Valentine’s Day.

The fact that the town served as the headquarters for the Macconwood Werewolf Pack accounted for most of the supernatural customers. Pretty much every Wolf in North America made their way to Maccon City at one time or another.

Werewolves liked paying their respects to their leader and this was his hometown. There were always a couple of Wolves she didn’t know in the bar. Heck, Fred had been a visitor herself only six years ago.

She liked the Jersey Shore town so much that she stayed. Finally taking her brother’s advice to “put down roots”. Damn, she missed him.

She’d been shiftless for so long. No direction. No family. No home. Loneliness was becoming too familiar, but just lately she was thinking about getting a degree in counseling, buying a place, settling down. But that was never gonna happen. Not now.

Fred usually worked two jobs at a time. She used to work one day a week at a local realtor’s office, but it wasn’t her speed. Meanwhile, she was doing 12-hour days, six days a week at The Thirsty Dog until she found another gig. That was just to make ends meet.

She didn’t mind hard work. Of course, she wanted to finish her degree and get a “real job” someday, but that was in the future. For now, she was happy she finally found a place to fit in.

Of course, that happiness was fleeting. That was before the latest in a long line of disastrous relationships blew up in her face. Ugh. She really hated men.

She shook her head in an attempt to get back in touch with reality. These musings of hers were doing no one any good. Fred took a deep breath. She needed to get back to work and in truth, she did like this job.

The Thirsty Dog was a cool place. A real favorite with the locals. Werewolves and normals alike. Mike prided himself on the fact that he served two types of crowd, and no, not the obvious two. He offered a place for sophisticated palates to try some truly unique liquors and for others, who were not so discerning, to just hang out.

Serious drinkers could quench their refined thirsts with his unique collection of locally distilled liquors, wines, and craft beers. Younger, party crowds could find entertainment of all kinds on the premises. The place had pool tables, virtual gaming stations, multiple dartboards, a punching bag, a DJ booth, a stage for bands, and a newly finished dance floor. Werewolves certainly loved to play.

The lights were always dim, the bathrooms were impeccably clean, Fred would know, and the black leather stools looked damn fine next to the polished pine wood bar. Just last year, Mike ripped the ceilings open to reveal the steel beams that held the place together.

He said it gave the place an edgy, industrial look. A large mirror lined the back wall behind the bar. That’s where he showcased an assortment of high-end liquor, with a focus on local breweries and distilleries, lined the shelves.

Fred’s absolute favorite was produced by Mason Lane. He was another local Werewolf. The founder and owner of a successful line of artisan distilled whiskey right out of Maccon City. She’d only seen him once or twice. The dude liked his privacy.

He called his whiskey Bite. And it certainly had one. Fred couldn’t keep it on the shelves. Top quality, organic ingredients, non-GMO, crafted by artisans. Liquid gold.

Werewolves preferred high quality food and drink. Especially older Wolves. Their heightened senses made the super-processed foods of today difficult to swallow. Fred had to admit that once she began to eat organic foods, she could actually taste the chemicals in regular food. She couldn’t even begin to justify the consumption of meat from animals kept in pens and fed GMO corn, grain, and who knew what else. Not to mention the number of insecticides on non-organic produce.

Mason Lane had it right when he created his label. It was the cleanest, finest whiskey Fred ever tasted and she pushed it at the bar for that reason alone. It was simply better. Especially to the Wolves in the area, though to be fair, normals loved it just as much.

A flood of just turned twenty-one-year-olds let the cold night air in as they crammed into the bar. Fred guessed their ages from the “I’m 21 today. Buy me a drink.” sash that one of the girls wore over her clothing.

Not that there was much clothing. Black lycra, red lipstick, a few Valentine’s Day flashing necklaces and not much else. She grinned at Mike then nodded at them. He clapped his hands and grinned. He was seeing dollar signs and an opportunity to keep the Wolves in the bar entertained. Wolves loved to play.

Fred rolled her eyes at the guys who were already sniffing around the cloud of hairspray, perfume, and ew, was that KY jelly? TMI, girlfriend. Her Packmates were down to party, the guys especially tended to be players of the highest order. Werewolves had loads of energy and needed to blow off steam regularly, but they were honest about it. Fred respected that. They treated their women right and only messed around with those that knew the deal.

It was dangerous for a Werewolf to get in too deep. Protective instincts took over and before you knew it, bam, you were married and mated. Not that Fred needed to worry about that. She never dated other Werewolves.

But these ladies were more than happy to get all that masculine attention. And, really, it wasn’t all their fault. Normals tended to be naturally receptive to the virility of Werewolves. They had natural charisma. Their physical attributes were simply a bonus. Not too many ugly, flabby Wolves walking around. Especially in Maccon City.

Fred rolled her eyes. She certainly didn’t mind the fact that she had toned abs and clear skin as a supernatural bonus, but she never flaunted the way her male counterparts did. The hams. But boys will be boys, playas gonna play and all that. Werewolves were no exception.

On the bright side, hot young girls meant tons of men looking for a no-strings hook-up. Those men usually paid for the drinks. They also left large tips to attentive bartenders. So, yeah, Fred thought, come on in and get your drink on, ladies and gents.

“Hey, girl. How ‘bout a round of Bite-Bombs and ooh could you put extra cinnamon heart candy in them like last time? Thanks.” an especially cute blonde called out.

“You got it.” Fred smiled as she started mixing shots for the young women. She smiled even bigger as a gentleman in a suit grabbed the tab and dropped a crisp fifty in her tip jar.

The guy was a regular. He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows at Fred. She just laughed and wiped the bar clean. He was a good guy. Came in every week with his work pals. She watched him turn his attentions back to the flirtatious young woman who ordered the drinks.

Good luck, buddy. She could hardly remember when she was that young and optimistic about love. What was it they said? Once bitten, twice shy. Well, that was, Winifred. No. New. Men. Period. Not even on Valentine’s Day.