Page 58 of Pack Rivals, Part One

"I can."

"Great. It's an assistant job at a firm in the city. Pays pretty well. I'll email you over the details and you can tell me if you're interested."

"I'll take it," I snap. Right now, I'd take a job dressed as a banana in the grocery store. I'm never going to be independent and move on with my life if I have no job and no money.

"You sure you don't want to take a look at the–"

"Does it involve taking my clothes off?"

"Certainly not."

"Exposure to toxic chemicals?"

"Why, no."

"Anything illegal or morally reprehensible?"

"No!"

"Then I'll take it. When do I start?"

"They want someone as soon as possible. Could you start tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Great. Well, I'll let them know and send you over the contract and all the details."

A smile tugs across my face. "Thank you so much."

After I hang up, I switch on the radio, fling the towel onto the sofa and dance around the living room.

There's no one to see. No one to tut at me and tell me I can't dance for shit. I don't care that I have no rhythm. I fling my arms about and yell along to the words until the old man in the apartment below starts banging on the ceiling.

* * *

I spendthe rest of my morning going through my unpacked suitcases, pulling out blouses and skirts I think will be suitable for my new office job. I only have a couple that will do, but perhaps Courtney will have some I can borrow and as soon as I land my hands on that first paycheck, I can go shopping.

There's one thing I need to solve first though if I ever hope to earn that paycheck. I need to get a handle on my body. I'm hoping Doctor Hannah can help with that.

In the afternoon, Courtney rides with me on the subway to the center of the city and walks me up to the clinic.

"Call me when you're done," she says, giving me a hug.

"You didn't have to accompany me here," I say, "and you don't have to take me home."

"Bea, your sense of direction is horrific and this morning you put the cups in the oven instead of the dishwasher."

"I'm still getting to grips with the layout of your kitchen."

"Your cheeks are flushed; your eyes all squiffy–"

"They are not!"

"And you're baking hot. I didn't trust you to make it here on your own. I don't trust you to make it back either. And I don't want some unsavory alpha to make a grab for you." She eyes the few smartly dressed business people passing us on the street.

"Fine," I say, "I'll call."

The clinic is based somewhere inside the city hospital, all silver and shiny and sparkling new. Nothing like the clinic back in Naw Creek with its 1970s decor and ancient equipment.

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