"You should have called ."
Penelope’s greeting when I get ho is about what I’d expect.
Dumping my files and heavily loaded purse onto the table, I shake my head. "You aren’t my personal taxi, Pippa. I can afford a taxi. Your sleep and work schedule have already been disrupted enough."
"I’ve been awake for hours. I could have easily picked you up if you called. And then we could have grabbed sothing to eat on the way ho."
"Just order sothing. I’m not hungry, anyway."
I flop onto her pristine white couch, my body sinking into the cushions as if they might swallow whole. A deep sigh escapes my lips, carrying the weight of the day’s events.
Penelope sits beside , smacking my arm lightly. "Alright, spill. What exactly happened? Your texts didn’t explain much.."
I close my eyes, the scene in the lobby replaying behind my eyelids. "Scott’s little side piece played vigilante in the lobby at work. Ca after like a rabid chihuahua."
"That bleached bimbo? I hope you knocked so sense into her empty skull."
"Pretty sure her hair’s natural."
"Trust . It’s probably bleached. Her tits and ass are probably fake, too."
I grunt. "If they are, it would restore a little of my faith in the world." No one should have a body that fit and perfect.
I an, I’m sure they work for it and all, and if I gave up taco nights I could probably look as snatched as they do, but—no. I’m too lazy for that level of effort in body shape.
"So, what else happened? That can’t be all."
I hesitate, still unsettled, but finally flop onto my side to look at her. She’s gorgeous, her red hair perfectly curled and aquamarine eyes all cat-eyed. Between her crop top and booty shorts, I’m pretty sure she’ll make more in tips tonight than she does as the owner of the bar.
"I ran into that Ethan guy."
Her expression clouds with confusion. "Ethan?"
"The creepy vampire SED officer," I clarify, watching recognition dawn on her face.
"Oh." Penelope grimaces. "Him."
"Yeah, him." I can’t shake the unease that settles in my stomach when I think about him. "His interest in you is disturbing. Is there anything we can do about it?"
Penelope snorts, the sound sharp and humorless. "Do? Nicole, he hasn’t done anything except talk to us. There’s literally nothing we can do, especially against an SED officer."
I hum in acknowledgnt, but the frustration lingers. Thinking about creepy Ethan has my mind drifting to Logan. "I don’t understand how Logan can be on my case, even as a rejected mate. Wouldn’t that show he’s biased against ?"
Penelope raises an eyebrow, taking the change of subject in stride. "You do realize SED operates outside the law in pretty much all aspects, right? It’s not exactly surprising."
I frown, my sense of justice prickling. "It doesn’t seem right."
"Have you been living under a rock all your life?" Penelope’s voice carries a hint of exasperation.
I roll my eyes at her, feeling defensive. "I’ve been busy, okay?"
"I swear, Nicole." Penelope shakes her head, a mix of fondness and frustration in her eyes. "I’ll never understand how you can be so smart about security and so sheltered in common life sense."
I wrinkle my nose at her. "It’s not like they teach ’Supernatural Law Enforcent 101’ in school," I mutter. "Besides, I know a lot of things."
"They do, actually, if you go to a supernatural school."
"We didn’t go to a supernatural school, Penelope."
"I know—I’m just saying, if we did, we would have learned a little more about the supernatural enforcent division and all its weird legal loopholes."
"Yeah, well." Propping my head on my hand, I watch Penelope as she checks her phone. "Ordering dinner?"
"Mhm. Thinking sushi."
"It’ll be at least an hour if it’s sushi."
"Damn." Her manicured fingers tap against the screen. "Burgers and fries it is."
"Good. Get a bacon burger."
She turns to eyeball . "I thought you said you weren’t hungry."
"That was five minutes ago. Now I am."
* * *
Click.
The TV screen flickers to another mind-numbing reality show. I groan, tossing the remote onto the couch beside . How many channels does Penelope have, and why is there nothing worth watching on any of them?
I glance at my phone. 8:37 PM. Penelope won’t be ho for hours.
Sinking deeper into the cushions, my soul slides out of with a long, long sigh. This forced vacation is killing . I never realized how much I relied on work to give my life structure. Purpose. Hell, even a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Now? I’m just... existing. Floating in a sea of nothingness. No anchor. No life jacket. Just the sea, the sea, and more sea. Enough to drown in.
Maybe I need a hobby. Sothing to fill these endless hours stretching before . But what? Knitting?
I picture myself hunched over a pair of needles, a tangled ss of yarn at my feet. No, too fiddly. And I’d probably stab myself more tis than I’d actually create anything useful.
Gardening, maybe?
For a mont, I envision a lush backyard oasis, filled with colorful flowers and aromatic herbs. Then reality sets in. I’d have to go outside. In the heat. And dirt. And deal with bugs. Hard pass. Besides, we’re closing in on the snow-filled months.
Cooking? I snort at the thought. Cooking isn’t a hobby. It’s to fill my belly. It’s fine, I guess, but it isn’t a hobby.
Besides, cooking for one is just depressing.
I imagine myself standing before an easel, brush in hand, creating a masterpiece. Then I rember my stick figure drawings from elentary school. Yeah, no. The world doesn’t need to suffer through my attempts at art.
Maybe sothing more active? Rock climbing? I picture myself scaling a sheer cliff face, muscles straining, heart pounding. Then I rember I get winded walking up a flight of stairs. Plus, all that equipnt? No thanks.
There’s always photography. Wandering the city, capturing monts in ti... Then I rember how much I hate tourists blocking sidewalks to take pictures of random buildings. I’d beco the very thing I despise.
Woodworking? The image of crafting beautiful, handmade furniture flashes through my mind. Then I think about the noise, the ss, the potential for grievous bodily harm involving power tools. Nope.
I want to live and die with ten fingers and toes.
Yoga? The idea of finding inner peace and flexibility is appealing. Then I recall the one ti I tried a yoga class. The non-slip mat is not actually non-slip; my sweaty hands sohow slid and I faceplanted during downward dog.
Anything with activity is an automatic no.
Collecting sothing? Stamps? Coins? Vintage teacups? But then what? I’d just have a bunch of... stuff. Taking up space. Gathering dust. Reminding of the void I’m trying to fill.
Who knew finding a hobby could be so exhausting? Maybe my hobby should be coming up with hobbies I don’t want to do. At least I seem to excel at that.
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