Fang 12

Gypsy

“So you and Fang, hey?” Bobby, the Drunken Otter’s former bar manager and my newest recruit, flopped down into the chair opposite me, stretching his long legs out under the table. He had a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in his hands.

Usually, I would have a problem with any member of staff helping themself to the liquor on my shelves, but after what had been the shift from hell, I was just glad he was there.

As much as I hated to admit it, Bobby was a good fit for us. He knew the bar, was friendly with the regulars and was burly enough to deter even the most intoxicated asshat who thought they could smash up the place.

For the most part anyway.

That night had been a little different. It seemed it didn’t matter whether it was a town or city, drunk college boys were the absolute worst.

My legs ached, my arm was bruised where one particularly persistent man child had grabbed at me and I was in need of a very large drink.

I raised my eyes to him. “Me and Fang what?” Motioning wi