Page 2 of Seduced By the Werewolves

“Yep,” I say, hoping the waiter will stop by soon. “That’s all true.”

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” Mom asks, clearly annoyed that I’ve dodged her pointed insults.

I gave up on online dating a long time ago. I did my best to represent myself accurately in my photos, to be open and interesting in my profiles, but guys would still walk into the bar, see me waiting and turn right around. The ones who did show up—who did stick around—usually only wanted one thing: a hookup with a big-titty girl.

“No, I’m just going on like usual, Mom,” I say, turning my gaze on her. “And I’m doing fine.”

She lets out an impatient breath. It always goes this way: she aims barbs at me, and I do my best not to let them under my skin. But sometimes the burn gets so intense that I want to scream, to snap and let her know just how much it aches.

At last, the waiter arrives, and I ask Mom about her work instead. She can go on and on about her coworker gossip, and sure enough, once I open the floodgates, I spend the rest of the meal learning all about how Paula from accounting is sleeping around with the sales guys.

I’m mentally exhausted by the time I get back to my apartment. I drop my purse onto the floor and stumble to the couch, then flick on the television to watch something mindless before bed.

Despite what I said, there are times I wish I could come home to someone, a person who would kiss away all my mother baggage, all my anxiety about Mr. Bosley, and take me off to bed. But that person hasn’t appeared yet, and I doubt they will anytime soon. Not when this world doesn’t fit me. Not while it demands so much, while never truly letting me belong. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to mold myself into a shape that’s acceptable to other people, not to my mother or Mr. Bosley. And I know it means I’ll be alone, maybe forever.

But I’d rather be alone than force myself to become someone I’m not.

Every morning before heading to work, I go on a two-mile jog to try to stuff down all my burgeoning uneasiness about the day ahead. What will Mr. Bosley have to say today to tear me down? Where will I fall short of his expectations again?

That’s what the run is for. I can forget, just for half an hour, that I’m a pig headed off to slaughter.

There’s a nice neighborhood up the street from my apartment where I like to run along the sidewalks toward the park. Rich people live on well-manicured streets in big, three-story houses with sprawling green lawns. Some even have automatic gates blocking their driveways, or big hedges to keep the riffraff out. Whenever I jog past the gated house with the big stone lions posted outside like sentries, I give them a friendly nod. I try to spot the koi fish in the pond someone put in their front yard. At a few homes, harried families load their kids into big SUVs, trying to get to work on time. I feel comfortable jogging here in my shorts and tight sports bra because nobody takes a second look at me. They’re too preoccupied with their own lives.

It’s hot out, even this early, so I feel bad when I spot a crew truck in front of a house, the workers already digging in the dirt. The side of the truck reads LUPINE LANDSCAPING, and there’s a wolf’s head in the logo. Four guys are hard at work in the front yard, making huge holes in perfectly good grass to put in who knows what there instead. Maybe another pond.

I slow down as I pass, because two of them already have their shirts off and it’s only eight in the morning. And boy, they are not difficult to look at. All four are tanned from working out in the sun all day, and the two shirtless ones—a tall guy and a guy with a baseball cap—are built like tractors. Then I see why when one of them goes to the truck to lift a bag of cement like it weighs nothing. The man’s biceps flex as he hefts it over his shoulder, and then when he bends down to drop it... my eyes are drawn to his ass where it strains his jeans.

I think it might very well be the nicest ass I’ve ever seen.

A gentle wind blows past me, pulling some of my hair free from my ponytail. As I reach up to retie it, the four men freeze. Their eyes shift toward me, their heads turning as if all of them are tied to a single puppet string.

Fuck. The last thing I need is four hotties jeering at me. That’s why I stay in this neighborhood—there’s less chance of strangers seeing me and deciding I need to hear their opinions about my body.

I turn and jog away as fast as I can, because after meeting with Mom last night, I don’t know if I can handle any more rejection. But as I book it in my squeaky sneakers, I hear a sound from behind me.

“Awoo!”

I glance over my shoulder to find all four of them calling out the same way. “Awoo! Awoo!”

What the fuck? My brain shorts out for a second. They’re howling? Who does that?

Oh, I get it. They’re teasing me. Mocking me.

My face burning, I run away as fast as I can, their howls echoing in the air behind me.

I still haven’t recovered from my run-in with the landscaping crew when I make it back home. My legs are trembling, and whether it’s from how hard I pushed them or from my anxiety, I don’t know.

I hop in the shower, change quickly and head off to work, still thinking about their huge, shirtless bodies, complete with curly, dark hair. They weren’t bus stop advertisement models. They were men.

My chest constricts. I’ve never had someone howl at me before, but leave it to the opposite sex to get creative about being shitty. Tomorrow, I’m going to find a different route. Who knows how long they’ll be there, working on that yard project? I’ll just avoid it until I’m sure they’re finished.

When I get to the office, Mr. Bosley is exceptionally irritated, though I did remember to pick up his coffee on my way into work. Around lunchtime, he comes out of his office, his cheeks red with fury.

“Did you take a call yesterday from Archie West?” he demands.

I blink. “No. No one by that name called.”

“He says he did, but no one answered. Where were you?”

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