“There,” she said to herself in a satisfied tone. “That ought to put the cat among the pigeons.”
She hummed a little as she glanced down at the black leather pants, and shook her head. With another snap, she pulled more suitable clothing out of the closet in the Airstream, using her magic to transport it through the ether. Although if there was any outfit perfect for hanging out at the local tavern and telling an attractive but clueless shaggy-haired sheriff that his town may have been infested by creatures he didn’t believe in . . . she didn’t know what it was.
*
HE’D DONE IT again, Liam realized, as his gut tightened and his pulse beat a tango against the side of his throat. He’d possibly maybe appeared to ask Barbara Yager out. How did he keep doing that? He hadn’t asked anyone out in years, either accidentally or on purpose, and never said yes to any of the women who’d asked him. He put all that energy into his job instead. And yet somehow, he’d arranged for her to meet him at a bar. She’d said, “It’s a date.” But she didn’t really think it was a date, did she?
No, of course she didn’t. She’d said she had something to tell him about the case, and he’d merely suggested a place they could meet up to have that conversation. That’s all it was. Business. Sheriff business, nothing more. The concern died down, to be replaced by a certain disappointment that he shrugged off with practiced ease. Life wasn’t a fairy tale. You did what you had to do and got on with it, that’s all. And tried not to get trampled as the people around you got on with theirs.
For tonight, that meant listening to whatever Barbara Yager thought she knew—although since she’d just arrived in town, he doubted there was anything she could tell him that would help. Unless she was going to confess, of course. Still, he desperately needed to get a lead on this case and couldn’t afford to dismiss anyone. And perversely, he enjoyed her company. Although he couldn’t figure out why, since she was odd, mysterious, and infuriating.
Not his top three traits in a woman, for sure. It had been so long since Melissa . . . left . . . he didn’t really remember what those three were. But not odd and mysterious and infuriating. He much preferred his life predictable and calm. That’s why he was sheriff in a little corner of nowhere, instead of someplace noisy and crowded.
Although The Roadhouse was certainly both.
Liam eased the squad car into one of the few open spaces of the gravel parking lot in front of the long, mustard-colored wooden building. It didn’t look like much from the outside. Which was probably just as well, since it didn’t look like much on the inside either. Truth in advertising, you might say.
Nonetheless, The Roadhouse was a favorite with the locals, a no-frills country bar with live music on most nights and all the fried food you could eat, including the best chicken wings in the county, if you didn’t mind having the skin on the inside of your mouth incinerated.
He left his gun locked in the glove box, since he was technically off duty, and strolled in through the entrance, wearing the same thing most of the others inside were wearing: blue jeans and a tee shirt. A few of the women were wearing tight skirts and dancing to the band playing bluegrass-funk with more enthusiasm than talent on the platform to the right of the bar. Round wooden tables sat four to eight people each, with just enough space between them for the overburdened servers to slide through with trays of drinks and artery-clogging delicacies. The air was redolent with the scent of old beer, new cologne, and the occasional whiff of pot smoke from a dim corner, which Liam determinedly ignored.
The place was packed—except for the area around Baba, who perched on a stool surrounded by empty space, as if she had an invisible Do Not Approach sign over her head. People were staring at her but trying to pretend they weren’t. He didn’t blame them. She looked damned good.
Better than good, really, in a skinny black halter top that revealed lots of creamy white cleavage and bared her flat midriff and toned arms, and some kind of short, hippie-looking multicolored skirt. Spike-heeled sandals rested on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, and her dark mass of hair swirled around her shoulders and flowed down over her back. A half-empty beer bottle sat in front of her, some fancy foreign brand Liam would have sworn The Roadhouse never carried.
Mouth suddenly dry, Liam walked up to her and noticed something remarkable. More remarkable than the smell of orange blossoms in the midst of a dusty country bar.