Page 14 of What a Wolf Demands

Harry’s expression was sympathetic. “These Nawlins bus drivers don’t trust anyone.”

“I’ve taken the same route for three weeks.” Anger fired anew in her gut. “He had to recognize me.”

“Probably.” Harry shrugged. “But don’t sweat it, babe.” He nodded toward the illuminated Coors Light clock behind the bar. “You still got here on time. Keep it up and Jay might make you employee of the month.”

She rolled her eyes, then headed toward the bar, weaving around tables and chairs as she went.

“You get a plaque and everything!”

She turned her head and called back to him. “I’m sure I’ll do something today to ruin my chances.”

Harry’s deep chortle let her know he agreed.

She shook her head, but a little smile tugged at her lips. It hadn’t taken her long to appreciate Harry’s presence. His imposing bulk kept the patrons from harassing her or getting too familiar. And for all his “babes” and “sweethearts,” he’d never shown her anything but respect.

He’d also been with his boyfriend for eight years, so she took the endearments as a sign of genuine affection rather than good old boy sexism.

She went behind the bar, entering through a little swinging door built into the far end. A couple patrons sat on stools, nursing beers. Both were regulars—retirees who came for a liquid lunch and ended up staying until just before dinner. She stuck her backpack in a cubby under the bar and went to them.

“How’s it going, gentlemen?”

The taller of the two—a grizzled truck driver named Gaspar—slapped the top of the bar. “No complaints, Lily.” He grinned, revealing a gold front tooth, then jerked a thumb at his companion. “Can’t say the same for Phil here. This sonuvabitch will complain about anything.”

Phil shrugged, then reached for his beer. “If the shoe fits.” He took a drink and grimaced. “Beer’s warm today.”

Gaspar threw back his head and laughed, his tooth reflecting the string of Christmas lights tacked up behind the bar. The decor gave the place a creepy Stranger Things vibe, but Jay insisted they made the bar “festive.”

Lily filled two new glasses and set them on coasters in front of the men. “Is Jay around?”

Phil nodded toward the back. “He’s in the kitchen making chicken tenders.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Someone ordered off the menu?” Jay’s Place had its perks, but the food wasn’t one of them. A few days ago, Harry used a hamburger bun as a doorstop.

“Tourists,” Phil said with a grimace.

“Now, now,” Gaspar said, “they ain’t so bad.”

“They muck up the place.” Phil took another swig of beer. “Can’t go anywhere without them slinging around plastic beads or taking pictures of everything.”

Lily hid a smile. Phil never failed to express his dislike for the city’s robust tourism industry. He’d been suspicious of her until he learned she grew up on the bayou. She couldn’t tell him the tourists were the very reason she’d come to New Orleans. Werewolves were an insular lot—Bon Rêve was proof of that. Although it had been centuries since humans hunted them, wolves harbored a deep-seated fear and mistrust of mankind.

So, what better place to hide than a city full of the loudest, most obnoxious humans in the country? Urban areas were a thick tangle of noises and scents. Jay’s Place was in the heart of the French Quarter, which meant it saw an endless stream of foot traffic. Even the most proficient Trackers had a hard time picking up a trail under those conditions.

Gaspar spoke in the Cajun patois Lily had grown up hearing. “Me? I think tourists make things more intéressant.” Interesting.

Phil scowled into his beer. “Nothing interesting ever happens in this bar.”

The door swung open, filling the entrance with a burst of afternoon sunlight. From her spot behind the bar, Lily had a direct view of the newcomer. The dark outline of a man appeared in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame.

On his stool, Harry threw up a hand, shielding his eyes from the glare.

The door swung shut, taking the light with it.

Harry stood and lowered his hand.

The visitor turned toward him.

The bouncer took a quick step back. His heel caught one of the stool’s legs, making it scrape against the floor.

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