Chapter Six
Daire alone remained on the construction site, inspecting the newly installed roof and feeling the strain of his swimming in every movement of his body.
His muscles screamed in protest, but he’d improved over last week.
Maybe he should install a hot tub at the cabin.
The one at the gym often helped him. Whatever helped him achieve his goals more than made up for any cost.
Goddess, he missed flying. Visiting multi-story construction projects let him imagine being airborne. Light rain fell, spattering against his nose. While no one would question his being here most days, checking on progress, rain making the shingles slippery meant he’d better get down.
His workers had all left an hour ago, and here he remained, with no family to go home to, no date to get ready for, no group of friends to meet at a bar. He’d turned down so many invitations that his crew stopped asking.
Maybe he could slip in at Joe’s Bar, look around, maybe find some horny country boy for the night—or simply have a beer, surrounded by humanity.
Yeah. That. He missed Isla and Halvard, but most of all, he missed Ywain and his brothers.
What would they think of his situation? Isla would choose partners like someone else might select dinner options off a menu, Halvard would find somewhere to nurse a beer, occasionally growling at anyone who wandered too close.
And Ywain? He’d bask in the adoration he’d surely receive from any nearby humans.
Goddess, Daire missed them. Missed his entire old life.
Elouan would study the people, figure out their motivations, plan strategies for Goddess knew what actions, and Anrai would pine over Teron. Then again, if Elouan were here, Teron wouldn’t be far behind.
Daire closed his eyes, reaching for the inner connection with his brothers. The link still thrummed behind his breastbone, though he’d no way of knowing if they were safe or if they merely still drew breath.
Another splash of rain hit his head, jolting Daire from his thoughts. He turned his face upward, letting the water cool his skin. They needed the rain after a few hot, dry days. The days grew shorter here as the cooler months approached, similar to the cycle of his home world.
He made his way down to the parking lot and climbed into his truck. Did he really want to see people tonight? Joe’s waited only three miles from the cabin. He’d head for home. If he found himself in the bar’s parking lot, then maybe he wanted to go after all.
Country music drifted from the truck’s old speakers, created by instruments Daire hadn’t known of three years ago. He hadn’t quite mastered the guitar, but he’d not run Doc off yet with his playing. The singer on the radio crooning about whiskey decided the issue. Joe’s.
Drive-thru fast food provided a hamburger, french fries, and a drink, things Daire equated with comfort food ever since Doc smuggled a hamburger into the hospital for him.
Back home, he could eat in the barracks' dining room, shift and hunt, or pay his family a visit, enjoying their cook’s talents.
Here, the choices were fast food or his own dismal attempts at cooking.
Well, he could eat at Joe’s. Daire shuddered.
Joe’s claim to fame: cold beer, hot dance partners, and occasionally a clandestine drug trade out the back door.
Good food didn’t make the list, and dragons required more calories than humans.
He ate while driving, shoving the trash into the bag the food came in.
The parking lot appeared nearly full, not unusual for a Friday night, though the sun hadn’t fully set. Ominous rain clouds added to the darkness.
A steady bass beat thrummed through the asphalt beneath Daire’s thick-soled work boots the moment he stepped out of his aging, inherited GMC Sierra pickup. He’d turned his windshield wipers off halfway here, but wet asphalt spoke of the recent rain.
He’d love to see stars, though they were far different here than at High Reaches, where altitude and lack of light pollution made them appear brighter. They formed different patterns too. Now, he used GPS to find his way, no longer navigating by stars.
Trucks filled most spaces, nothing out of the ordinary in rural Alabama, with a few cars and the occasional motorcycle.
Mostly locals—as indicated by a trio of UTVs parked at the back of the lot—and a few out-of-towners in the know.
He’d even seen a horse once, tied beneath a tree. To each their own.
While not exactly a gay bar, Joe’s catered to whoever walked through the door as long as they weren’t a self-righteous asshole, paid their bar tab, and treated the employees with respect.
Drug dealers were promptly tossed out on their asses upon discovery, though they never stopped trying.
Fights were negotiable, depending on the circumstances, the amount of property damage, and whether or not the perpetrator paid for cleanup.
Daire’s kind of place. Yes, Isla would’ve fit right in. He’d finally gotten to the point of remembering old friends fondly, refusing to believe they'd died or that he’d never see them again. No, instead he imagined Isla with her picks for the night.
He gathered humans weren’t as open about sexuality as dragons, but he’d learned to spot like-minded individuals long ago, though he’d never felt a true kinship here. Not with humans.
Country music poured from the building, sound waves carrying through the blacktop.
Heat also radiated upward, making his lower legs decidedly warm, the rain not enough to cool things down yet.
No violins, lutes, or flutes at Joe's, but Daire had learned to like guitar, banjo, and fiddle, though he stood no hope in two realms of playing any of them with skill.
Doc had brought him a gaming console. Daire might not be a proper musician, but Guitar Hero let him pretend. He could also play along with the radio, or the streaming service Doc hooked him up with.
The scent of hamburgers and fries grew stronger the closer he got to the door, but his hunger lay elsewhere.
Besides, he’d tried Joe’s food. Once. Tonight, he wanted a man.
Most of the vehicles were familiar, and he’d gone home with a few of the owners, but they’d mostly been snacks to tide him over, not the full meal he craved.
What he wanted most? He wanted a man with firm muscles to grip without fear of bruising, unleash his cravings on without worrying he’d hurt someone. To let his passion run wild, not holding back. Losing himself in feeling with no need for thought. In a word: beta. A warrior.
“Griff!” the jovial bouncer greeted him, reminding Daire that the local humans thought of him as Griffin Hodges or Griff.
Sheila leaned back against the wall by the door, her muscular arms crossed over her chest in her don’t-think-I-can’t-kick-your-ass-because-I’m-a-woman pose.
Joe’s head bouncer stood a few inches shorter than Daire’s six-feet-two and wore a tight black T-shirt with ripped-out sleeves to accentuate a body built apparently by bench-pressing Mazdas.
A long braid dyed rainbow colors hung down her back.
Her picture probably appeared in the dictionary under “badass.” She’d have made one hell of a beta dragon.
Daire would’ve fought back-to-back with her anytime.
She’d known him long enough not to stare at his face, or question why he wore long sleeves in September, when daytime temperatures sometimes still soared, and nighttime wasn’t much better, especially not with the oppressive humidity.
Sheila didn’t need to ask—she knew and wasn’t prone to shoving her pierced nose into other people’s business.
Her spotted, wrinkled skin showed signs of sun abuse from her day job in road construction.
“How goes it at the highway department?” Daire asked.
Sheila flexed her hand in a so-so gesture. “Ah, you know. You’ve see one asshole too lazy to move roadkill, you’ve seen them all. I added a new photo to the wall of shame over the bar.”
Daire winced. “What now?”
“Snapping turtle. Asshole painted straight over its back.” The photo joined similar shots of dead possums and raccoons with road stripes painted over their little shriveled corpses when a road crew didn’t bother to sweep the asphalt before putting down lines.
Sheila hiked a thumb over her shoulder toward the bar door.
“Mostly regulars tonight, with an occasional tourist or two. Be on the lookout for the selfie-takers. Rett lost a full tray of drinks. They don’t watch out for anyone. ”
Her expression brightened. “Oh, one guy here with his girlfriend keeps ogling the bartenders, so if you can break up the set, you might stand a chance.” They both laughed.
“We do not need a repeat of what happened last year.” Infidelity, a few drinks, an explosive temper, and a jealous streak a mile wide made for a fiery combination. Who needed such excitement? Certainly not Daire.
“Yeah, I lost a night’s sleep explaining to the cops and filling out reports when Miss Possessive got pissed about her boyfriend going out behind the bar with another man.”
“A man and a woman, if I remember right,” Daire commented. Yeah, Isla’s kind of place. “Don’t worry, I’m too old and wise for drama.”
Sheila snorted. “You can’t be old, because I’m older than you, and I sure the hell ain’t old.”
Daire recently turned twenty-six by human reckoning and Griffin’s driver’s license. Sheila must be nearing fifty.
She smiled, a twinkle in her eyes highlighted by scrunched crow's feet. “A lone biker came in a little while ago, hotter than blacktop in July. Looks like he might want more than a Harley to ride tonight, if you get my meaning. He’s been looking, but no one’s caught his eye yet. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”