Page 2 of Her Reborn Mate

“Lexi,” I said.

“All right, then, see. We ain’t strangers. You’re Lexi, the mysterious girl from out of town. I’m Izzie, the bartender of Mulligan’s Watering Hole.”

“I’m from Fiddler’s Green,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Well, girl, that ain’t too far. Just an hour’s drive away. I’m from Bangor, born and raised.”

As Izzie poured me another shot of whiskey, I tried to rationalize the events that had taken place within the last few hours. They came back in snippets of sharp, overly-contrasting images.

Will was dead in my arms.

Will was saying Ariana’s name.

A bullet flying through the air.

The glass window shattering and throwing me out of it.

It was as if I had been immersed in some deranged VR simulation.

“Whoa. You need to go easy on yourself,” Izzie said, pushing away the shot of whiskey away from me. “You look parched and starved. Whiskey’s not gonna do you much good. You need food and water. Do you have money? There’s a diner around the corner that serves a mean breakfast platter.”

“These are the last dollars to my name,” I said, handing her two bills. “And I think they’re enough to cover the tab for the drinks.”

“Jesus, girl. Something terrible must have happened to you that you’re drinking this much,” Izzie said, quietly taking the bills. “Tell you what. My belief system does not allow me to let a woman go without offering her help, and you look like you need all the help in the world.”

“What’s your belief system?” I asked, sneakily taking the whiskey shot back from her and drinking it.

“Uh, it’s called being a decent human being. We’re a small movement, but we’re gaining traction as the world goes more and more to shit.”

I chuckled dryly and raised my shot to her one more time.

“What do I have to do? There’s always a catch.” I said.

“How good are you with the dishwasher? We got an industrial one in the back for the weekends when this bar gets really rowdy. On the weekends, we’re short on staff. Maine lobstermen, guys from the smaller cities, business people home from a trip overseas—this place sees it all. Might be handy to have a fry-cook in the house. If you can handle the kitchen, I can give you lodgings and some money to make it worth your while,” Izzie said.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I was like you once,” Izzie said.

“I seriously doubt that,” I began, but Izzie held up her hand.

“I used to be like you. Not so long ago, I was a bartender here. Back then, I was a real meek sort of character who’d let pretty much anyone bully her. Made sense for me to keep my head down back then, now, didn’t it? I was young, didn’t have two pennies to my name, and there weren’t lots of places in Bangor hiring someone with zero experience and nonexistent social skills. Maggie, the previous owner of the bar, took me under her wing. Nurtured me like a mother hen does to her little chicks. Taught me the ropes. Taught me how to stand up for myself. Sooner or later, we gotta take a stand for ourselves. And somewhere along the line, we have to offer a helping hand to those in need. Take my help. Please,” Izzie said.

Why had it been this bar that I had randomly chosen in my delirious state? Did I somehow know that I’d find warmth and compassion within, or was it something more preternatural? Possibly fate?

The minute I had seen the milestone marker for Bangor, I knew that I had to stitch myself up, or else I’d die of blood loss. For some reason, my healing faculties were not working the way they had done before. Behind me, the wilderness gave way to the outskirts of Bangor, which only meant one thing. Even the hardiest of the vampires had stopped chasing me.

A hitchhike from a tow truck, and yet another hitchhike from an overly religious truck driver later, I was deep within Bangor’s downtown, looking like I had walked out of the set of some macabre slasher flick.

Going to a hospital was out of the question.

The second closest thing nearby was a vet’s clinic across the street. Putting aside the moral dilemma of breaking and entering into a clinic for the time being, I snuck inside and sutured myself up while trying not to breathe in the awful smell coming from the operation theater. I patched myself up with bandages meant for dogs and cats and only got out in time before the cops showed up.

From there on, I was lost in a maze of streets and back alleys until my path cleared up in front of Mulligan’s. This strange, beat-up building looked like a seaside shack from the 18thcentury, with an oddly placed neon sign proclaiming that they served fresh Maine lobster there. The aroma of the food and the wafts of smoke coming out of the chimney were all the invitations I needed to step inside, despite looking as haggard as I did.

And here I sat now, contemplating this offer that Izzie had made.

“Listen, kid, I’m not pitying you. I’m offering you a job. That’s how America works, as far as you and I are concerned. You wanna take my offer or not?” Izzie asked a bit impatiently as customers started coming into the bar.

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