Rosie narrowed her eyes. “I know that it’s become commonplace to pass out candy spiked by Sensors, but Jake doesn’t like that mess in his place. I personally don’t touch that stuff. It gives me the willies to think about feeling someone else’s emotions.”
Sensors were paranormals who, like Shifters, lived an extended lifespan. While some did investigative work, most earned their money by harvesting emotions and selling them to buyers looking for a thrill. Sometimes they drew in business by imprinting emotions on candy so people could sample their wares. Their customers would experience arousal, elation, anger, an adrenaline rush, and other emotions—except in a subtle and controlled way. Just enough of a taste to decide if they wanted to call the number on the wrapper and schedule a transfer.
I poked my fork in my salad bowl and took another bite. “It doesn’t cost the bar anything since it’s promotional advertising for the Sensor, and Jake can charge a small fee for each piece of candy. There’s nothing illegal about it.”
Rosie waved at a gentleman leaving the bar and sighed. “We had an incident two years ago where the distributor didn’t give us what we requested. He wasn’t a professional and put too much into the candy. People went crazy and we had to shut down for two days.”
“Wow,” I said, chomping on another cucumber. “You don’t have to explain further.”
“Well, you just don’t hand out anything to a bar full of drunken Shifters. That’s all I’m saying. We had a fight break out, and one guy almost died from a bite to the jugular when he fell unconscious and couldn’t shift.”
I’d never dealt with a Sensor because I’d heard stories about it leading to sensory addiction. Those with less-than-exciting lives would spend all their money reliving an emotional experience in their life, or one that they purchased. I had good vibes about working in a bar that took pride in their establishment, so I dropped the subject.
“Where’s your family?” she asked. “Did they move here with you?”
My stomach knotted and I sipped on my ice water. “We’re estranged. Sibling rivalry and all that. It’s a long and uninteresting story.”
“Sorry to hear,” she said, her attention already elsewhere. Rosie was a woman who had undoubtedly heard it all. She looked older—maybe in her early forties. In Shifter years, there was no way to tell how old she really was. Everyone aged differently, and sometimes it depended on their animal.
Suddenly, two hands covered her eyes and a handsome man kissed her on the head. “How’s my Rosie?”
She giggled like a smitten teenager and reached up to fix her hair. “Denver, stop. I want you to meet the new girl.”
He stole the chair on my right and gave me a dazzling smile.
“This is Izzy Monroe.”
Then his smile waned. “Izzy Monroe?”
“That’s what they call me,” I said, taking a monster bite of salad.
He studied my hair and then narrowed his eyes.
“Izzy, this is Denver. He’s pretty to look at, but don’t let those baby blues fool you. Denver’s all talk.”
I set down my fork and leaned back, crossing my legs. I caught him looking down at them before he erased his interest.
“Your name is Izzy.” It wasn’t a question.
“And you’re Denver. The bartender, right? I saw you come in last night at the end of my shift.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”
I stood up and patted his back. “And you’re smokin’ hot, Denver. Can’t wait to start having babies with you.”
As I walked off, I heard Rosie giggling hysterically. “You really need to work on your game, Denver.”
***
Just after midnight, the band arrived at Howlers. They swaggered through the front door and heads turned, but I kept my attention on the customers. Rosie wasn’t kidding. The scantily clad women showed up in droves, wearing tight-fitting skirts and do-me pumps. Some had hiked their G-strings above their low-cut jeans. I vehemently hated that look. Those were always the girls who swung an attitude my way, made me work extra hard on their table, complained about my service, and never left a tip.
Someone did a sound check on the mic and tapped it a few times.
“Denver, two daiquiris and three margaritas,” I called out.
“Doesn’t anyone just want a man’s drink? A beer? Anything?” he shouted, holding his hands up and staring at the ceiling.
I laughed and stood on my tiptoes. “In a bar full of women? They want fruity drinks. Suck it up and keep your blender on standby. While I’m waiting, I need another pitcher for table nine, handsome.”
When I turned around, a napkin floated to the floor. I dipped down to pick it up and after placing it on the bar, came face-to-face with Handlebars.
Super.
“That’s quite a move,” he said in a leathery voice. “You’re a real pro. I can tell you’ve been working tables a long time… or maybe a pole.”
I glanced down at his black jeans where he had been shot.