“Don’t be bloody stupid,” he muttered and forced himself to approach the bar. The place seemed tidy enough, and music played over loudspeakers. He didn’t recognize the tune. The bartender was clean-shaven, heavyset, and he wore his hair slicked back. He had a tea towel slung over his shoulder.
Ben cleared his throat. “I’ll have a beer, please,” he said.
The bartender’s nostrils flared, and he glared at Ben. He was about six foot and not someone Ben would want to take on in a fight. “We don’t serve your kind in here,” he said.
“My kind?” Ben asked. What the hell was he on about? Surely it wasn’t Ben’s accent? No way the bartender would know Ben was gay, and if he did, well, that wasn’t a good enough reason not to serve him. “Look, I know I’m not from around here—”
“Don’t play the innocent with me.” The bartender leaned over the bar, his glare decidedly much more unfriendly than it had been, something Ben wouldn’t have initially thought possible. “Go back to your bloodsucker.”
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