Job Interviews

I toss my bag down at the foot of the bed, yank the hobo hoodie off and chuck it into the far corner of the room. Then I collapse onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

I've gone on a bunch of job interviews these past few weeks. Today made number seven, and I could tell within seconds that this place wasn't interested either.

It's not like I'm shooting for anything impressive here. Forget corporate ladders, I'd happily flip burgers at this point. At first I was applying online, but the last two days I just wandered around downtown and popped into any place with a help-wanted sign taped to the window.

The hobo hoodie sits crumpled on the floor like some discarded rag. I stare it down for a solid minute before groaning in frustration. Honestly, it's a love-hate thing between us. Complicated doesn't even cover it. I want to dump it forever, except I can't. I want to torch it, except I won't. Yeah. Complicated.

Problem is, nobody's handing out jobs to a girl dressed like a hobo. I'd ditch it in a heartbeat, except I'm pretty sure I spotted a Night Shade Pack member on campus that very first day, during lunch, weeks back. Just a flash, gone in a second. Coward that I am, I bolted immediately. No interest whatsoever in reconnecting, making small talk, or swapping numbers with that guy. Hard pass. Caleb confirmed the next night that they really had been around. So, hate it or not, this hoodie's my security blanket.

Caleb keeps insisting I hold off on job hunting since it isn't safe yet, but I refuse to keep mooching off my own cousin forever. He's constantly feeding me. Turns out this whole house is his, and he flat-out won't accept rent from me. A week ago he drove me to campus and handed over a bus pass covering the entire semester. Last week, after yet another rejection, he tried giving me cash and I nearly had a breakdown over it. He just shook his head, told me I was weird, said he'd never met anyone who spiraled over free money before, then dropped the bills straight into my swear jar and walked off.

Honestly, it was never really about money. It's about wanting my own life back, one Night Shade Pack doesn't get a say in. Why can't they just back off already? I crave normal. Werewolves, and whatever else is out there, complicate everything. Some days it's genuinely exhausting, no matter how much gratitude I try to force myself into. Caleb and Corbin are pretty much the only "not normal" people I'm willing to keep around right now.

After showering, I throw on an oversized tee and pajama shorts and shuffle into the living room. Past eight already, still nobody else home. Total silence, total darkness except the glow leaking from under my bedroom door. I flip on the lights and TV, sink into the sofa, and attempt to read.

Waste of time, really. My brain won't quit circling back to a certain not-quite-human golden god. Julian, apparently, that's his name. God, even his name sounds like sin. Girls won't stop talking about him. It's been weeks since I first laid eyes on him, and I still catch sight of him once a week in that same lecture hall, plus a handful of times wandering campus. He's usually flanked by three ridiculously gorgeous girls, none of them human, turning heads everywhere they walk. When he's not with them, human girls swarm him instead, all competing for a scrap of attention. Some of them are painfully obvious about it. Sometimes he seems bored out of his mind by the whole spectacle, other times he clearly eats it up, his gaze dragging over cleavage barely contained or legs bared by skirts so short they might as well not exist. Ugh. Repulsive.

Maybe this one's on me though. I should quit staring. Feels creepy, honestly, but I can't stop myself. Still, I refuse to become one of those pathetic girls fawning all over him, no matter how stupidly attractive the man is.

He won't leave my thoughts alone and it's maddening. Why does he get under my skin like this? Sure, he's gorgeous, fine, but this is ridiculous. I don't want this pull toward him.

Hang on, is my book upside down? I hurl it onto the cushion in irritation right as Caleb's Jeep rolls into the driveway. Headlights sweep briefly across the living room through the blind slats. Engine cuts off, and moments later he's walking through the door.

"Ordering Chinese. What do you want?" he asks, striding past without so much as a glance my way. Classic Caleb. Greetings and pleasantries simply don't exist in his world.

"Whatever you're getting works." Since I'm not paying, requesting anything specific feels rude anyway. Besides, I'll eat literally anything off a menu. Easy like that.

He vanishes into his room, and I catch the murmur of him placing the order before his door shuts. Twenty minutes pass before he reappears, settling onto the couch beside me, hair still damp from a shower, comfortable in tan shorts and a grey tee. He leans over me to grab the remote and starts flipping channels.