Hair, Greg - Werewolf 01 Read Free Page A

searching for answers in Ireland, would he discover the connection.
    He thought about the various women he’d met over the years. There were those he met at different places of employment, through friends, and in bars. One in particular stood out, though. On New Year’s Eve, 1993, Landon ventured to a lounge in the East End. The place was small, darkly lit, with the bar placed squarely in the middle of the establishment. In the far corner was the stage where local music acts performed, except for tonight.
    Recently there had been some interest in a new kind of interactive entertainment, karaoke. Landon, intrigued, picked up a Budweiser and a seat at the bar. Currently onstage was a petite blonde busy butchering a song that he didn’t recognize, not that any song sung by her would be recognizable. Nor did anyone care; this wasn’t a competition. Plus she was cute. When the young blonde left the stage to the roar of a cheering crowd, the next performer was called up to the microphone.
    “Next up we have Morgan,” the host bellowed like he was calling names on The Price Is Right .
    Up sauntered a thin, upper-five-foot beauty with the blackest hair Landon had ever seen. Her confidence radiated as she took the microphone while the party at her table whooped and hollered.
    Morgan performed the best rendition of “Seven Year Ache” Landon had heard outside of Rosanne Cash herself. He ordered another Budweiser before he finished his first, got up from his seat, and moved to a chair closer to the stage. During the bridge of the song, their eyes met for a second, her browns catching his blues. She had the voice of an angel.
    He watched her walk back to her friends, then turn and look at him as she sat at the booth. He just kept thinking how beautiful she was. Throughout the evening, each checked periodically to see if the other was looking, and they were, every time. Finally one got up the courage, probably liquid courage, to walk over.
    “Buy you a drink?” asked the woman with the midnight black hair.
    “Absolutely,” Landon answered, flashing his smile.
    She bought him a Budweiser, his seventh of the evening, and sat in the chair closest to him, crossing her tight-blue-jean-covered legs. Some guy named Corey did his best to bring out his inner David Lee Roth for Van Halen’s “I’ll Wait.” Diamond Dave, he wasn’t, but anyone who had enough guts to get up and sing should be allowed to live out the fantasy.
    “Never seen you here before. What’s your name?”
    “Landon.”
    “Hi, Landon. I’m—”
    “Morgan. I know,” he interrupted. It was impossible for her to hide her smile. She didn’t even try.
    “You haven’t gotten up there yet. You gonna pick something?” she asked.
    “No, I’m not the singing type,” he said, tipping the bottle back.
    “Really? What type are you?”
    “I’m the star-performer-in-other-areas type.”
    She grabbed him by the hand, stood, and gave her friends a wink as she led him out of the bar to her Pontiac Firebird. The ride to her house was quiet, neither feeling the need to say anything.
    She turned on no lights as she led him into the back door of the one-level, red brick house. Not that sight mattered; he was so intoxicated, he would have rammed his right knee into the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room anyway. Down the hall, straight into the master bedroom they stumbled, both falling onto the bed.
    The next morning Landon awoke to find Morgan already dressed and sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Her business attire and lack of a facial expression let him know that the good time was over.
    “Going somewhere?” he asked.
    “Yes, and so are you,” she said, not breaking character.
    “What’s going on?”
    “I’m going to work, and you’re going home or where ever it is you go. I had a great time last night, I really did, and you were really good, but…” She trailed off.
    “But what?”
    “I have a boyfriend. We had a fight recently,