Page 8 of One Stolen Night with Her Orc

Chapter 6

Koru

Alright. Alright. Whatcomes next?The question is a loop in my mind as I keep myself busy brewing beer and chopping meat and potatoes for today’s meal special. Sleep was never going to come, not after the shitshow of last night. Stepping out of the brewery and kitchen space, I do a loop, ending back at my wall of steins again. Shuffle the steins around so the gap where my trophy goes doesn’t look like a missing tooth in the shelf’s smile.

Bjorn yelled at me on his way out the door for leaving my prize-winning recipe out in the open. As if I don’t have a copy in my safe. It was a decorative token of having won. But having someone else make my recipe, sell it, and then accuse me of proprietary theft would ruin me. All some lawyer has to say is that I magicked the poor schmuck into giving me their recipe, and the gavel would come down against me, despite the scientific proof that orcs don’t have magic.

I joined the beer competitions to get ahead; to make a name for myself on the mainland and expand the reach of my beers. But it seems all I’ve done is put a bullseye on my back and attract scum to steal from me.

No, scum isn’t the right word for Poppy. But I don’t know what the right word is. Rubbing my chest, I think I have heartburn again.

Back in the brewery, I wipe the bottles of beer I just racked and capped, stick the labels to them, and try to ignore the pit in my stomach. The stein and recipe are symbolic. They don’t matter. The parchment is ruined now, and the stein will be waiting for me at the bottom of the creek once the thaw comes.

But she stole it. Why?

And now I’m mad at Bjorn, too. Why’d he have to go and save her? Let her stay with him and August? Just makes me more of an ass. I slam a bottle down with enough force that the bottlecap explodes off and beer sprays all over my ceiling and down onto me.

Wasted beer. A ceiling to clean. Damnit.

The bell over the door rings. Just what I need. A customer. Stomping out, dripping in beer, I spread my hands wide on my gleaming bar top and glare at the newcomer, whom I’ve never seen before.

“Mornin’,” the man says, rocking back on his cowboy boot heels. He’s tall, pudgy in the middle, complete with jowls, and has a greasy air to him. His eyes are too close together and slightly beady. And his scent...is off. Unpleasant.

“We aren’t open yet. Food’s not ready.” Not entirely true, but it is before lunch time. And I don’t want to be being social right now. I just want to fume in my anger and confusion.

“That’s fine. My name is Marcus. I’m looking for my daughter. Thought she might be around here. Didn’t come home last night.”

There. A whiff. Deceit. I cross my arms over my chest. What is he lying about?

“Do you have a picture? A name? Lots of people stopped by last night.” Marcus does a slow circle, looking around the bar and eating area. He stops at the shelf of steins, lips pursed, brow furrowed. Then, he looks back at me with a stupid cocky grin on his face.

“I must be mistaken. I’ll keep looking. Thank you for your time.” He makes his way toward the door. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Something isn’t right.

“Wait. It isn’t safe to be wandering around the countryside this time of year. Lots of thin ice and animals waking up hungry. What did you say her name was?” He pauses to look at me. The fakest smile I’ve ever seen. But it’s a smile I’ve seen before. Where?

“Poppy. Her name is Poppy. But I think maybe she got her town names confused. You know how young folks are. Thanks again.”

The images from last night float through my mind like a movie unfolding. She was afraid when she entered, but not of me. She talked about how I saved her again, and she sounded so happy. Her sweet ass rubbing up against me while I warmed her in bed. Her sparkly eyes when she smiled at me.

None of that is fake. And this man is nothing but fake.

Leaping over the bar, I block his exit. “You’rePoppy’s dad?” Closer up, I can see they look nothing alike. And closer, I can smell his slippery lies and cruel pettiness. Trouble, and not the good kind.

“Stepdad. Sadly, my wife passed away when the girls were young. Poppy never really got over her grief. She’s a bit of a troubled soul. I’m trying to help her. But you know, a guy can only do so much. Some eggs are just bad.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like his daughter is a lemon of a car.

Eyes narrowed, I stare at him. He stares back, shifting from foot to foot. I can see beads of sweat along the edge of his wide, shiny forehead. He’s nervous. Good.

“Where have we met before?” I try to keep my voice cool, though I really want to wring his neck. Regardless of Poppy’s actions, this guy is bad news.

“Gee, I don’t know. I’ve been known to brew some beer before. Maybe at a competition? I don’t make my way over here to Moonfang Haven very often. In fact, the last time was probably a decade ago. You were probably just an orcling.” He chuckles like we’re pals. We will never be pals.

“Great Northern Beer Rack Competition. We met there. You had,” I pause, searching my memory. There were so many beers to be judged. “Some pale ale, right?” The puzzle pieces slide into place in my mind.

“Your memory is amazing.” He shifts again. “Well, I better get going.” Head ducked, he tries to move around me to the door, but I block him. Because I know him now.

---