Chapter 2: The New Haunt
1012 Words
The rest of my day went by normally, and I'm again super grateful that the public library is on my way home from work.
However, acidic guilt still churns in my gut from earlier. I can't shake the encounter of walking past a man wearing a purple, yellow, and green striped T-shirt and mardi gras beads, holding a ripped 'Lycans Matter' sign.
He went to the Lycan Rights march, and he wasn't even a Lycan.
I don't know how people find the courage to go to those things. Maybe I'm just too hung up on what happened to my dad, but I can't even bring myself to follow any of the LycanPride accounts because I don't feel proud that I am one.
I just feel scared.
From the Shiftok video I watched, everyone was just walking, holding signs, and wearing purple, green, and yellow mardi-gras beads around their necks. Then the video shook and people screamed. Red-wearing LyCan'ts had ambushed the protestors.
Even though the video was blurry, I saw a bearded man's eyes glow emerald green, a sign the LyCant's had almost provoked him into shifting. However, he remained in control and I'm relieved.
My phone vibrating on the plastic-covered hardback mystery romance novel I checked out from the library pulls me out of it. I just can't wait to get home, curl up into my spot on my worn-out sofa, c***k open a beer and just pretend I don't have to do all of this again tomorrow.
My car squeaks to a stop at the red light in front of my apartment. The speakers are pumping Hayley Kiyoko's 'Girls Like Girls' when a purple, green, and yellow neon sign flickers on down the road.
My pulse quickens in curiosity, and before I know it, I turn on my turn indicator.
The lit sign read 'Lycantina' in green cursive with a purple crescent moon above it and a yellow pool cue running through it. I can't believe that someone had the balls to open a Lycan bar in Centerburg of all cities.
The light turns green, and I breeze through the intersection and park next to a motorcycle in the small lot. I let my blue Mazda idle and flip down my car's visor to check my reflection. For once my blue eyes don't look bloodshot from staring at monitors all day.
“Okay, if it's scary, I can just leave," I give myself a pep talk, turn off the ignition, and get out of my car.
My mother would say this was totally normal, but my father would tell me I'm being stupid.
'Don't let anyone know your secret. Nothing good comes out of being special. Stay under the radar and stay alert.' My dad says whenever he's had more than one whiskey soda.
I pause at the door, my hand trembles on the black painted door handle. I can't hear anyone inside. I sniff, and the lack of the smell of sweat, liquor, beer, and food tells me it's not crowded.
If that human could go to the Lycan Rights march, I can do this.
I grab the handle again and push.
A bell alarm jingles, one too quiet for a human to hear, as I enter what just may be the coziest dive bar I've been to. The lights are dim, and the exposed brick walls decorated with street art pull my mouth into a small smile. My pulse slows as I see the solid, worn wood bar in front of bottom-lit liquor bottles that sparkle in all different hues of reds, browns, ambers, and even blues.
It's not the wide selection of liquor that relaxes me though, it's the buff, tan-skinned, dark-haired man with his back to me.
My nose tingles. He smells like amber, welcoming and warm.
He's a Lycan.
“Hey, welcome to LyCantina! It's our soft opening, and the audio system isn't rea—" he says with his back to me, then turns around, his eyes behind his glasses widening.
“–You're a Lycan too!" he exclaims.
He looks sort of familiar, but I swear I've never met him before.
“Uh, yeah."
Any sort of witty response dies in my mouth because I can't remember the last time I met a Lycan who was around my age in Centerburg. Growing up, I didn't have any Lycan friends, and no one knew I was one, especially not Donovan.
A part of me is excited to talk to him, but another part of me still thinks this place is too visible. What if someone from work sees me, or my car?
“Hey, I'm Ramon, sorry if I was rude. I moved here a few months ago, and I didn't expect the whole, 'if you build it, they will come' thing would work." Ramon apologizes with his hands up.
He looks earnest and kind with a lot of tattoos across his bulky forearms.
“No, you're fine. I'm just… not out? I don't know. I'm not very good at…I need a cheap drink," I stammer, but commit.
“Now those, I can do. What can I get you…?" Ramon pauses and I realize he's waiting for my name.
“I'm Mackenzie, Mack for short, and I'll just have a vodka cran." I swallow my doubts and sit in a dark green high-top bar chair.
I love bars where the stools have a back rest, and this place even has purse hooks! I put my book and my phone on the bar.
Okay, I'm sold.
“Comin' up, Mack." Ramon grins through his beard.
The big muscles and beards aren't really my thing, but he manages to pull it off without looking too intimidating. Ramon takes out a bottle of vodka that definitely isn't cheap. I must've made a face because he puts out a finger.
“Don't worry, I'll use the good stuff and charge you for the cheap swill." Ramon smiles and mixes the drink.
“Oh, thanks, Ramon." I unlock my phone and see some notifications from Hannah.
[ Hannah Bestie
- Writer
