Spencer Moseley

The Werewolf had put pomade in his hair and some cologne he couldn't pronounce all over himself (including his crotch), before morphing into his Werewolf form. So now he was a Werewolf with a soccer player's head of hair, smelling like a fucking frat boy.  He'd stopped keeping track of the full moons because with how long he'd lived—having them as a surprise made him feel anything at all.  So he wandered into the forest behind his house, tripping over roots and rocks. I'm bushwhacking it, he thought. Great.  Sandra knew about his final form. She fucking knew him. In all his centuries on earth he'd told no one but her about who he really was. And he wasn't sure why he'd done it.  He had been fucking sober when he told her! In his car. She was coked up. But he had just been sipping a Diet Dr. Pepper while parked in his Corolla overlooking some river just north of NYC.  She had finished a small walk with him, and he truly hadn't found her entirely inter...

"I'm so broke," Cara said.  "I know," I interrupted. But she kinda talked over me with, "So I'll totally get you back when I'm like... employed." "I know," I said, forcing a consoling smile and hoping my face looked convincing. I knew she wouldn't pay me back but I'd accepted that before we'd walked into this Star Wars Cantina-looking place.  Why was I was here again? I wasn't feeling particularly homosexual today, so how had I ended up at a gay bar.  Then again this was where I'd found a one-night stand before, I thought.  Why hadn't Cara and I hooked up? I thought, looking at her brunette hair bobbing around as she handed the bartender my credit card. She's nuts, I remembered. She deeply bruised a man's kneecap with a baseball bat from unconfirmed "cheating" rumors. They weren't even dating so when she'd cried on my shoulder, calling him a cheater, I just went with it.  "Yeah, y...