Maybe you would have done better on the Psychology section of the SATs.
RG: :>
Sam: There is no Psychology section of the SATs.
RG: :<
Sam: Has it occurred to you that maybe there’s a reason why this guy is a jerk to everyone?
RG: No. There’s no good reason to be a jerk to anyone.
Sam: I didn’t say a good reason. I said a reason.
RG: What reasons could this guy have? He’s bee rich his whole life. He’s always had everything handed to him. If there’s one guy who should be making out with the universe in gratitude, it’s him.
Sam: Maybe you shouldn’t judge people by the surface things you know about them.
RG: Sometimes the surface is enough!
Sam: Is it? Do people ever take one look at you and get everything right?
RG: That’s different. I make a point to hide who I really am.
Sam: Then you shouldn’t be surprised when other people do the same thing.
I’m about to text him back something scathing and brilliant when the midnight silence is interrupted by a harsh scream. I freeze, balling up under the covers. A robber? A werewolf? A robber accidentally coming to our penthouse at the same time as a werewolf and getting into an epic wolf versus man fight? Now I kind of want to go watch.
A second cry bursts out, savage and desperate.
I’ve always imagined I would be the intrepid confronter in the face of a break-in. No cowering in the bathroom with 911 on the phone, filling the tub with my tears. No, I’d arm myself with a frying pan or preferably a machine gun, storm into the living room, and then the local newspaper would run a story on me and all the feminist blogs would pick me up as their new mascot—
A third noise comes, a yell like someone getting stabbed, and this time I recognize the voice.
Cohen.
Oh hell no. Nobody messes with my clients but me. I grab the nearest murder weapon, which happens to be a pillow, and fly out of my room and across the apartment to his.
“Get away from my rich jerk client, werewolf bastard!” I shriek, throwing open his door with the pillow held aloft. “Or I’ll smother the shit out of you!”
My eyes adjust to the darkness. The only other human figure is Cohen’s, a silhouette twisted up in blankets. I drop the pillow and rush to his side. My noble entrance didn’t wake him, incredibly. But there’s something wrong. Even as the idiot side of me swells and dies forever at the sight of him shirtless, splattered with moonlight and shining with sweat, the normal side of me processes his heaving chest, the twisted expression on his face.
“Cohen…?”
He cuts me off with another cry. This time it’s words.
“No—please—”
Nightmare. My heart sinks. I grab his shoulder and shake it, hard. “Cohen! Wake up! It’s not real!”
He jolts awake with a spasm, the muscles in his stomach clenching. His eyes find mine, wild and unfocused. He’s going to hit me. No, he’s not. The insanity melts away.
“Rae…?” he says weakly.
I let out a long breath. “Uh, yeah. You were yelling. And thrashing around.”
He presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “I thought I told you not to come in here.”
Yup, he’s fine. “You’re welcome for waking you up and saving you from the imaginary tiger that was trying to eat you. That’s what it sounded like, anyway.”
He grunts. His muscles are taut. The hand at his forehead is shaking a little. He’s still terrified. What kind of dream could make Cohen Ashworth cry out like he was being tortured?
I sit at the edge of his bed. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No, I do not want to talk about it,” he spits.
“You sure? Because talking can really—”
“Get out.”
“I’m just trying to—”
“Get out ,” he snarls, removing his hand from his face and looking at me with deadly eyes. “I want to sleep, not deal with your nosiness. I don’t want you in this room.”
That stings. I get up and back away, about to say something cold
RG: :>
Sam: There is no Psychology section of the SATs.
RG: :<
Sam: Has it occurred to you that maybe there’s a reason why this guy is a jerk to everyone?
RG: No. There’s no good reason to be a jerk to anyone.
Sam: I didn’t say a good reason. I said a reason.
RG: What reasons could this guy have? He’s bee rich his whole life. He’s always had everything handed to him. If there’s one guy who should be making out with the universe in gratitude, it’s him.
Sam: Maybe you shouldn’t judge people by the surface things you know about them.
RG: Sometimes the surface is enough!
Sam: Is it? Do people ever take one look at you and get everything right?
RG: That’s different. I make a point to hide who I really am.
Sam: Then you shouldn’t be surprised when other people do the same thing.
I’m about to text him back something scathing and brilliant when the midnight silence is interrupted by a harsh scream. I freeze, balling up under the covers. A robber? A werewolf? A robber accidentally coming to our penthouse at the same time as a werewolf and getting into an epic wolf versus man fight? Now I kind of want to go watch.
A second cry bursts out, savage and desperate.
I’ve always imagined I would be the intrepid confronter in the face of a break-in. No cowering in the bathroom with 911 on the phone, filling the tub with my tears. No, I’d arm myself with a frying pan or preferably a machine gun, storm into the living room, and then the local newspaper would run a story on me and all the feminist blogs would pick me up as their new mascot—
A third noise comes, a yell like someone getting stabbed, and this time I recognize the voice.
Cohen.
Oh hell no. Nobody messes with my clients but me. I grab the nearest murder weapon, which happens to be a pillow, and fly out of my room and across the apartment to his.
“Get away from my rich jerk client, werewolf bastard!” I shriek, throwing open his door with the pillow held aloft. “Or I’ll smother the shit out of you!”
My eyes adjust to the darkness. The only other human figure is Cohen’s, a silhouette twisted up in blankets. I drop the pillow and rush to his side. My noble entrance didn’t wake him, incredibly. But there’s something wrong. Even as the idiot side of me swells and dies forever at the sight of him shirtless, splattered with moonlight and shining with sweat, the normal side of me processes his heaving chest, the twisted expression on his face.
“Cohen…?”
He cuts me off with another cry. This time it’s words.
“No—please—”
Nightmare. My heart sinks. I grab his shoulder and shake it, hard. “Cohen! Wake up! It’s not real!”
He jolts awake with a spasm, the muscles in his stomach clenching. His eyes find mine, wild and unfocused. He’s going to hit me. No, he’s not. The insanity melts away.
“Rae…?” he says weakly.
I let out a long breath. “Uh, yeah. You were yelling. And thrashing around.”
He presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “I thought I told you not to come in here.”
Yup, he’s fine. “You’re welcome for waking you up and saving you from the imaginary tiger that was trying to eat you. That’s what it sounded like, anyway.”
He grunts. His muscles are taut. The hand at his forehead is shaking a little. He’s still terrified. What kind of dream could make Cohen Ashworth cry out like he was being tortured?
I sit at the edge of his bed. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No, I do not want to talk about it,” he spits.
“You sure? Because talking can really—”
“Get out.”
“I’m just trying to—”
“Get out ,” he snarls, removing his hand from his face and looking at me with deadly eyes. “I want to sleep, not deal with your nosiness. I don’t want you in this room.”
That stings. I get up and back away, about to say something cold
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