A Cursed Moon by Cecy Robson, now you can read online.
“Damn it, Bren—wake up!”
“Hmmph?” Someone with a death wish was shaking me. You don’t disturb a werewolf’s sleep; that’s just common f**king sense. The breeze shot through the cracked opened window, bringing a strong whiff of Tahoe’s magic. I grinned and inhaled. That shit was better than witch ganja, and it lulled me back to sleep.
But then Dan flipped on the leg lamp on my nightstand and opened his yap again. “Wake up, I mean it.”
“You can take that werewolf shit and shove it up your ass.”
That made me chuckle into my pillow. Dan swearing was damn funnier than Elmo dropping the “F” bomb. He shook me again, this time harder. I flipped over and tried to get comfortable.
“For crying out loud, put some pants on! I don’t need to see your . . . stuff.”
“It’s my goddamn room. I can sleep naked if I want. And what the hell do you mean by ‘stuff’? What are you, ten?”
Dan ignored me. “Bren, your stupid one-night stand stole all our food, our DVDs, and our laundry detergent.”
I half-opened one eye. “Wendy wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Her name was Natasha.”
“That’s the name she wrote all over my bathroom with her lipstick.”
I sat abruptly, suddenly panicked. “She didn’t take my p**n , did she?”
Dan’s jaw slacked. “Is that all you care about, that she took your p**n ?”
“No. For shit’s sake I’m hungrier than hell. How are you going to fix me breakfast without any food?”
Dan threw his hands in the air, in that same exaggerated way he always did when I pushed him to his breaking point. He kicked my dirty clothes on the floor and paced like an expectant dad. “You have the audacity to think I’d actually cook you breakfast—after what your one-nighter did?”
I scratched my beard. Damn, I needed a trim. “Well, yeah. It’s your job around here, you’re the woman. You’re supposed to cook, clean, and pay most of the bills. My job is to keep your ass safe from humans, vamps, weres, witches, little old ladies, and pretty much anything else you’re afraid of. It’s part of our deal, along with me getting you laid.”
Dan stomped to the side of my bed, stumbling over a pair of my old jeans. “First of all, it was just that one little old lady. I may be human, but I’m pretty sure she was some kind of spirit—especially given the amount of supernatural activity around here lately. Secondly, I don’t need help getting laid.”
I stared at my beanpole roommate. His messy curly hair hung over his thick black-framed glasses, and he tripped over air on a regular basis. Jesus. There were Girl Scouts more muscular and agile than him. “Yes, you do, Dan.”
“I’ve gotten laid a lot lately, all without your help.”
“Ugly girls don’t count, man.”
“Celia’s not ugly.”
I laughed and yanked at my overgrown hair. Damn, I needed a cut, too. But unlike Dan, I