Page 5 of Unexpected Temptation

Ducking my head under the low doorway, I walk into the basement of what appears to be a bunch of different call centers. Heck, I’ll take anything at this point.

A man sits at the front desk. I guess he’s maybe in his mid-twenties, but I’ve never been very good with age. He’s got his feet on the desk, legs crossed, chewing a cocktail stick. His hair is slicked back, and when he smirks, there’s a hint of silver at the back.

I notice it because, well, it’s noticeable. He smirks as if to say,Ah, you’re impressed, but I’m not. I could sell that and pay for some of Mom’s bills.

“Hello,” I say, using my polite voice. I must’ve handed out at least one hundred resumés, maybe more at this point. “I was wondering if I could leave a?—”

“A job, yes? Work?” He leans against the desk, lightly rapping his knuckles against it as if he wants me to hurry up. “A girl like you, you could have any job you wanted.”

He looks me up and down in a pretty obvious way. But the thing is, I’ve never been the prettiest girl. I’ve never gotten the attention of boys or men. I’m just not the standard of beauty the world wants with my curves. And if Riley’s right, and I can read people, this man is mocking me but thinks I’m too stupid to realize it.

“Oh, you think?” I say.

I can’t have an ego. If he thinks I’m a ditz, let him. Maybe it’ll make me more memorable, and he’ll pass my resumé on instead of throwing it in the trash like at least half the other places must’ve done. Who am I kidding? It was probably more.

“One hundred percent,” he says. “Have you modeled before?”

I almost laugh at this, but I haven’t got the energy for an argument. He might think I’m insulting him. “No, never,” I say while silently adding,obviously. I don’t think I’m ugly. I mean, what is ugly or pretty? I don’t dislike my appearance. I’m just not in the habit of deluding myself, either.

“Oh, wow,” he says, leaning back with a big, broad smile. I wonder if he honestly believes I don’t see right through him. Or maybe he knows I can. Perhaps he likes it. “You have just the … style for it. Why don’t I give you a flyer? We’re having auditions tonight. A girl like you could make alotof money.”

“Could I hand you this too?” I say, gesturing with my resumé.

He scowls as he takes a flyer from a pile next to his keyboard and starts scrawling some words. “Why would a tasty girl like you work in a place like this?”

Cringedoesn’t even come close to describing the feeling washing over me when he says that. Tasty? Seriously?

“I need the money. My mom is sick. She’s dying. I just want her last few months—or maybe even year, fingers crossed—to be as comfortable as possible.”

He’s focused on scribbling with the pen the whole time I talk. I don’t think he even knows I was talking. When he looks up, he’s got that same smirk. “Come here tonight. Shake those … brains, hey?”

He basically shoves the paper into my hand.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, stuffing it into my pocket and walking away.

It’s pretty obvious what sort of deal this is. Girls come here thinking they’re going to get some legit modeling gig. Next thing you know, the sleazeball comes out, and then what? Stripping? Worse? Leaving the building, I reach into my pocket, meaning to throw the flyer in the trash.

But what if …? I mean, it’s pretty sick to even think about it. What if things get really bad one day, and there are no hours at the restaurant, no jobs, and I need to make money? Am I really above this when I get right down to it? Can Iaffordto be above this?

I keep the flyer in my pocket, then take out my phone and search “Nearby Businesses.” That’s all I’ve been doing, and it’s worked so far; at least, it got me the waitressing gig. My heart does a funny shudder when I readTristan’s Tails: Dog Sanctuary. That’s the same place that’s on Loki’s tag.

Once, I thought about applying there, but I went on the website and saw how far from the restaurant they were and decided against it. If my search has brought me out this far anyway, I’ll probably have enough time to dart back across town for work. I decide to give it a try. What can it hurt?

CHAPTER FIVE

TRISTAN

“Easy, Tiger,” I say, patting the German Shepherd on the head. He’s got an almost feline look, mostly in his eyes and snout, but also his lighter-than-usual color. He grumbles but lets the arm pad go, then backs up for another round.

We’re in the Pit—the training grounds. Loki watches from beyond the mesh fence, the weaving so tight it doesn’t hurt their claws. He yaps as he leans up to look through the reinforced bars.

The Pit is on the slightly raised area of our piece of land. I can look down over my little paradise, so damn different from those burning black fields and those screams and my dog, my boy, the bleeding, and after, but none of it matters now.

I watch Winston, the Bulldog, sprawl out with a contented snore, his wrinkled face and sturdy build a funny contrast to his slumber. Luna, the Dachshund, stretches elegantly nearby, her slender body resembling a sunlit ribbon against the greenery of our faux grass. Max, the Golden Retriever, splashes playfully in our nearby “stream.” (A hose pipe coming out the wall is goodenough for him.) His golden fur glistens in the sunlight as his wagging tail keeps time with the rhythmic splashes.

Meanwhile, Coco, the Poodle, reclines with regal grace under the shade of an “oak tree” (a large painting on the furthest wall, the shade coming from reused umbrellas).

I pick up the toy gun and then aim at the target. Tiger leaps into action and dives on my arm. Luckily, I’m padded up, but I can still feel his teeth trying to tear through the fabric. He’s a strong beastie. He grumbles when I saydown.

---