Emerson sat on the low wall that ran around the edge of the campus sidewalk, staring up at one of the dorms. He tapped his foot impatiently until one of the lights came on and Lucy appeared. She gave him a small wave.

He waved back at her, then started his walk home. He hadn’t expected to be out so late, but spending time with Lucy was worth it. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be in the morning anyway.

It had gotten much colder once the sun had gone down. He zipped up his jacket, but it didn’t do much. Leather hadn’t been the best choice for the weather that day. He would just have to deal with it for a mile or two. Normally, the cold didn’t bother him, but with everything going on, the chill in his skin was more than just the weather.

At least he had gotten a good paycheck. He only needed to make up the other half of the rent. Not that it would be much easier to make that much money by Friday either. He bit his lip, deep in thought about what he could do. He could sell some of his stuff, maybe. He could just replace it once he had a new job.

“You’re a fucking moron, Emerson Blakemore,” he told himself.

He shook his head with disgust. What was the matter with him? Why was it so difficult for him to just get his shit together? He’d been given more than enough chances, and all he ever did was fuck everything up in the end. Maybe he’d be better off just offing himself.

No. I can’t think like that. What would Lucy say?

“Emerson Blakemore, you big jerk!” That’s what. And I’d never see her smile again.

He let out a heavy sigh as he turned the corner to the street where his apartment was. It seemed like there was just no way out of the mess he had created for himself.

And things just kept getting better.

He clenched his hands into fists inside his pockets when he stopped in front of the small group sitting on the stairs that led into his apartment building.

“I was wondering when you’d show up, Blakemore.”

“What the hell do you want, Dawson?”

Chase Dawson was, to put it lightly, an asshole. He had been giving Emerson trouble since the day he’d moved into the dorms at Cicada Hollow University. He was nothing but a bully, and part of the reason why Emerson had been kicked out.

“I saw you with Lucy today,” Chase said as he stood. He was half Emerson’s size, but he was the biggest lowlife Emerson had ever met aside from his landlord. Chase was the kind of person who wouldn’t even think twice about stabbing someone in the back, not even his own mother if he was given the opportunity. At least, that’s what Emerson felt about him. “I’m only going to warn you once, Blakemore. Stay away from her.”

Emerson let out a forced laugh. Who the hell did Chase think he was?

“It’s none of your business who I spend time with. Now, get the fuck out of my way. I’m not in the mood for you bullshit today, and I don’t have time.”

“Listen, you pampered little rich boy,” Chase said, shoving Emerson backwards. Two of his buddies held him by his arms, and Chase grabbed the front of his shirt. “You’d better do what I say or we’re gonna have a fucking problem.”

Chase always had a problem with Emerson, especially the fact that his parents had helped him get into the university. Emerson had heard Chase was from a poor family that didn’t give a damn about him, and he had to work his ass off to get into a good college. He’d had to struggle, and was under the assumption that Emerson never had to. So, he took out his frustrations on Emerson without a second thought about it.

“Fuck you, Dawson,” he spat, trying to break free.

Emerson’s ears were ringing before he had even realized what happened. One of Chase’s buddies had punched him in the head, and they threw him to the ground. He didn’t even have a moment to right himself when his breath was taken from him when a foot connected with the center of his stomach.

What could he do? Emerson knew he could take on Chase Dawson alone—he’d done it a thousand times, but now he was outnumbered. He bit his tongue to stop himself from crying out in pain, refusing to give any of them the satisfaction. But he could taste blood as he was pummeled on the sidewalk by feet and fists.

One of the guys grabbed Emerson by the back of his shirt and pulled him up onto his knees. Emerson’s face was bloody, and his breath came out in quick labored huffs. Blood ran down his face from his nose and splits in his lip and brow. Chase was standing over him with a grin that Emerson would have loved to slap off his face, but his body wouldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe or speak.

“Have a nice nap, Blakemore,” Chase said before he kicked Emerson square in the face with his boot.

When Emerson came to, he was still laying on the sidewalk. Chase and his friends were gone too. His whole body screamed in pain, and he had to use the stairs in front of the building to pull himself to his feet, slowly making his way inside.

He used the wall to support himself while he limped down the hall. Sharp pain went through his ribs with every breath, and he dreaded what his face would look like in the mirror. He just had to make it up the stairs.

He practically collapsed into his apartment because he was leaning too hard on the door. He stumbled into the living room and fell over the arm of the couch. He let out a groan of pain, his face pressed into the cushions.

When the pain in his body had finally faded to a dull throb, he forced himself up to take a shower. He wasn’t going to go to bed while he was covered in dirt and blood. He kept his back to the bathroom mirror while he undressed, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. Fighting with Chase Dawson never ended well.

Oh, well. At least he had half of the rent money. He picked up his dirty jeans and reached into the pocket, and his heart dropped.

The money was gone.

“Son of a bitch!”

Emerson threw the jeans on the floor with a cry of rage. Either he’d dropped the money or Chase had stolen the last bit of money he had, and now he was back at square one. And now he had one less day to come up with the rent. Seething, Emerson got into the shower, barely even feeling the icy stream of water hitting his skin before it warmed up.

What the fuck was he going to do? Ideas twisted and turned in his head while he scrubbed dry blood off his face and neck. His arms and torso were dark with bruises, and every touch and movement made his whole body ache. He scrubbed until skin was red and the hot water had run cold. By the time he got out of the shower, he was too tired to even think about the money anymore.

He didn’t even make it to his bedroom—he only got as far as his couch, slumping down onto the cushions with a groan. Normally, he hated sleeping on the old lumpy thing his parents had let him take to college, but the exhaustion took over. His gaze fell on the stack of “Help Wanted” ads on the coffee table as he drifted off to sleep.

“I don’t see why you didn’t call the cops on that stupid fucker.”

“And say what?” Emerson asked, stirring his coffee with no intention of drinking it. He felt sick to his stomach, and the thought of eat or drinking anything just made it worse. “Tell them that I got the shit kicked out of me by some snot-nosed brat that’s half my size?”

“You’ve got to start standing up for yourself, Blakemore. Take your fucking life back!”

“Just drop it, Wolf. I’m not like you, okay?”

Adalwolf just shrugged, sipping his tea, and Emerson tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.

Adalwolf was always trying to push Emerson to be bolder in the times when it really mattered, instead of just when it was to stir up trouble. Emerson didn’t really like confrontation, though, and shied away from it all. Given the chance, Emerson would run from any fight, but people like Chase Dawson got under his skin and forced his hand. Adalwolf would always rush in, though, ready to defend himself and anyone else. Emerson wished he could be like that, but the truth was that he was just scared.

“So,” Adalwolf said, munching on a piece of toast, “what are you going to do about the rent money then?”

“No idea.” Emerson sighed, staring down at his plate. He felt nauseated, but his stomach also growled, so he ate a few bites to keep it quiet. The potatoes sat heavy in his stomach, or was it his anxiety? What was he going to do about the money? “I guess I could just live under the Cicada Hollow Bridge like a troll and collect money."

"You’re big enough to pass for one,” Adalwolf said with a laugh, and Emerson just shook his head. Everyone loved to tease him for his size.

“I have been thinking though…” Emerson took a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table to his friend. “There’s this.”

Adalwolf raised an eyebrow at him before he took the paper and unfolded it. It was the “Help Wanted” ad that Emerson had found the day before. A dark look fell over Adalwolf’s face as he read it.

“You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” He tossed down the paper onto the table between them, deep lines of concern in his brow. Adalwolf was the seventh generation of his family to go to Cicada Hollow University—he was going to be a lawyer. He was dedicated to it, and it shined through in his personality. “It doesn’t even tell you what the job is.”

“Six-figure salary,” Emerson said, tapping his finger on the ad. “Who the hell cares what it is.”

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“Don’t even think about it, Blakemore. I’d prefer if you lived under the bridge like a troll.”

“I’ve gotta do something, Wolf. I’ve got two days left. I’m going to call this guy as soon as I get home.”

“You’re just asking for trouble,” he told him, shaking his head with disdain. “You’re smart, Em. Really smart. Don’t waste your time with scams like this. It’s probably some kind of pyramid scheme. Why not just come back to school? The semester just started—you could move back into the dorms, and—”

“And nothing,” he interrupted. “I’m not going back there, not with scum like Chase Dawson.”

“I told you to call the police.”

“It’s not gonna happen, Wolf. Just drop it.”

“Fine.” Adalwolf sighed, tucking some cash and the bill under an empty glass. “You know I’d give you the money in a heartbeat if I had it. But I’ve got my rent, car payment, school loans, and—”

“I don’t want any charity,” Emerson said, zipping up his jacket before they went out into the cold autumn air.

He wished he could be more like Adalwolf. Strong, good with his money, always dressed well and doing well in school… They guy had his whole life together and the rest of it already planned out. He didn’t let anyone or anything get in his way. Why couldn’t Emerson do that? He felt like the universe wanted him to fail, but he knew a lot of it was his own fault too.

When Adalwolf drove him home, Emerson just stared out the window while his friend lectured him. He wanted to be somewhere else. Or better yet, someone else. Someone strong and rich who could stand up for himself and be aggressive enough to get everything he wanted out of life.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” Adalwolf called out as Emerson made his way up the apartment stairs.

He hated making everyone worry about it. It was bad enough having his parents on his back every day since he was old enough to walk home by himself. He didn’t need his friends nagging him about his life too.

“I’m fine,” Emerson responded, waving to his friend before he went inside. The hallway reeked of cigarettes and cat piss. Or maybe it was just piss. Emerson cringed at the thought of some asshole taking a leak in the hallway, and held his breath as he headed to the staircase. Before he got there, the door at the end of the hall opened, and Camlin’s fat head poked out.

“Ya got my money, Blakemore?”

“Not yet, Cam,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m working on it.”

“I’m serious this time, kid. I been lenient with ya the last few months, but ya ain’t stayin’ here another minute if I ain’t got that money by Friday.”

“I get it.”

He could hear Camlin grumbling to himself as he slammed the door shut, and Emerson let out a long breath. He was running out of time, and he had no options. He pulled up the number that was on the “Help Wanted” ad before he even got to his apartment—he’d saved it in his phone the first day he’d read the ad.

It rang for what felt like hours to Emerson. Maybe it was just his desperation, but he tapped his foot impatiently while he waited for an answer or a voicemail message. He was just about ready to give up when a deep, gruff voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Sorry to bother you. I know it’s kind of early but—”

“Yeah, yeah, get to the point, kid. How’d you get this number and what the hell do you want? Are you selling something, because I don’t want whatever it is.”

What an asshole.

“No, I’m calling in response to the ad from this week’s newspaper.”

“So, you want an interview? You got any experience?”

“Uh…” Experience with what? He didn’t even know what the job was?

What was Emerson supposed to say? That he’d been fired from six jobs in the past year? That he was nothing but a fucking loser?

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” he finally replied, “but the ad said no experience was necessary, and I don’t know what—”

“It’s not, but I still gotta ask. What’s your name?”

"Uhh... Emerson Blakemore."

“All right… let me see… When are you free? I can get you in at two o’clock.”

“Today?”

“Obviously not,” the guy snapped with a bit of attitude. “It’s already two-thirty, kid. Also, don’t waste my time if you’re not going to show up or you’re not really serious about this. You want a shot at the job or not?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock at Cicada Hollow Public Library. Conference Room B.”

“But—”

There was a loud beep in Emerson’s ear as the man hung up on him, and he just stared down at his phone, completely baffled. That was the quickest anyone had ever responded to him, and Emerson wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He was sure, though, that he was going to be up all night filling out job applications, just in case.

Emerson didn’t have any nice suits. Hell, he didn’t even have any nice shirts. So, he opted for the nicest sweater he owned and a pair of cargo sweatpants. Passing the large windows of the library, he shook his head. He looked more like he was going to a boxing match, not a job interview. He made a mental note that if he got the job, to try adding more color to his wardrobe too, instead of all gray and black.

He knew Conference Room B very well. It was where he’d had all of his disciplinary meetings before he was thrown out of Cicada Hollow University. He wondered if going to the interview was a good idea, feeling increasingly tentative as he approached the large wooden doors. After all, he still didn’t even know what he was being interviewed for.

It was too late, though, wasn’t it? He was already there. So, he swallowed his fears and pushed the door open.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Blakemore.”

Two people sat at the farthest end of the table, staring at Emerson expectantly. He lingered in the doorway, not sure if he should just bolt. He never did well with job interviews. As the door clicked shut behind him, he swallowed hard and nodded. No turning back.

The pair didn’t get up from their seats, or even motion for Emerson to sit with them. They just stared at him critically, and Emerson felt like he was on trial for a crime he never committed.

The man, whom Emerson assumed was the one he’d spoken on the phone with, was wearing a very expensive-looking white suit. He was clean-shaven and his hair was neatly cut. Everything about him shouted that he was rich and in charge.

His companion gave off the same air of money and class, although her outfit was a bit more provocative. Her long red hair fell around her bare shoulders, and she wore a green dress that was a bit too revealing for Emerson, and he averted his gaze. She tapped her long red fingernails on the table, staring at him with intense brown eyes.

“He’s much bigger than I expected,” she noted, eyeing Emerson from head to toe. “At least he dresses well.”

Emerson glanced down at his outfit. These people were in clothes that probably cost more than his rent, while he was wearing the least wrinkled thing he could find in his closet, and the woman thought he dressed well? His mother had probably bought his sweater for him. What was this woman on?

“He’ll need a real wardrobe if he’s going to be with the Employer in public, though. He’ll also need a haircut.”

“You,” the woman said, snapping her fingers to get Emerson’s attention. “Come, sit.”

Emerson scowled, and didn’t move from his spot. What the hell did she think he was, a dog? There was no way he was going to be taking orders from someone when he hadn’t even signed a job offer. If that’s what she thought was going to happen, she had another thing coming to her.

The man beside her laughed when Emerson stayed by the door, then nudged her with his elbow.

“He’s got a little fight in him, eh? That’s good. When’s the last time anyone refused to do what you told him?”

The woman rolled her eyes, brushing her hair out of her face. She tried again, giving the most artificial smile Emerson had ever seen.

“Would you please come join us, Mr. Blakemore?” she asked in a fake, sickly sweet voice.

Even though it was forced, Emerson felt better about it now that she had asked politely. Maybe his defiant attitude was what kept him from getting or keeping jobs, but he wasn’t going to be anyone’s pet.

As he approached them, a stapler flew at his head, and Emerson had to knock it out of the air to prevent it from hitting him square in the face. The woman had a hint of a smirk at the corner of her mouth, and Emerson stared at her in both shock and anger.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Good reflexes,” she said, nodding in approval. “Please sit, and we’ll begin the interview.”

Emerson kept a cautious eye on her as he took a seat, perched on the edge in case anything else came flying at him. The man straightened a small stack of papers and cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said. “My name is Donovan, and this is my partner, Evangeline.”

“I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you both,” Emerson said, "but she just threw a stapler at me.”

Evangeline was the one to laugh then. It was calm and quiet, and Emerson couldn’t help but feel like he was being mocked. Who did she think she was? This was how she expected to hire someone? It was no wonder why they’d had to turn to “Help Wanted” ads in the local newspaper.

“Let’s just get into it, shall we?” Donovan flipped through his papers until he seemed to find what he was looking for. He took a pen out of his pocket, then cleared his throat again. “Question one… Have you ever handled a knife with a blade longer than the palm of your hand?”

“Um… no.”

What kind of question was that? He gulped as Donovan wrote something down, wondering exactly what kind of interview he’d gotten himself into. Would he be handling weapons for someone?

"All right, question two… Have you ever handled any firearms? If so, have you ever shot anyone?”

“What? No!”

“Are you trained in any martial arts?”

“I… I don’t know. I took a few karate classes when I was a kid. Sorry, but what kind of job am I being interviewed for?”

Donovan didn’t answer, and he gave Emerson a hard stare for a moment before going back to writing things on his paper. Emerson couldn’t see what he was writing, but he was sure it wasn’t good.

“How many times in your life have you gotten into a fistfight?”

“I have no idea, dude. Fifty? A hundred? I lost count after a while.”

Donovan raised an eyebrow, still scribbling away on his papers without looking up at Emerson. It was making him antsy and frustrated, especially since he wouldn’t tell him what the job was.

What kind of job asked about weapons and fighting? Was he meant to be a bodyguard? Emerson could do that, but why wouldn’t Donovan just tell him?

“Have you ever—”

“Hold on,” Evangeline said, placing her hand on Donovan’s arm.

Donovan lowered his pen with a sigh as Evangeline leaned over and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and they both turned their attention back to Emerson.

“Mr. Blakemore,” she said, tapping her fingernails on table again. “You are unaware of what this job interview is for. The ad in the newspaper didn’t specify it either. And yet, you called us, you showed up, and you haven’t stormed out of here yet despite your obvious frustration.”

“What’s your point?” Emerson questioned. He thought about getting up and leaving right then and there, but he really needed the money. He just wanted to know what he had to do to get it.

“Why are you here, Mr. Blakemore?”

“Look…” Emerson sighed loudly, running his fingers through his messy hair. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t have a lot of options right now. I just got fired, I’ve been expelled from the university, and I’m about to be evicted from my apartment. I’m desperate. I don’t care what the job is—I just need a job. So, if you’d just tell me what it is, then—”

“You won’t receive those details until after you’ve signed the contract.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” Emerson stood up, his hands clenched in tight fists. "You can’t expect someone to sign a contract with no idea what they’re signing on for!”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Blakemore, but that’s the deal. I thought you were desperate.”

“Not that desperate.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the conference room. His whole body felt hot as he stormed out of the library, and he pulled his sweater off as he crossed the street. He didn’t even bother looking, and ignored the loud honks of cars that screeched to a halt to let him cross.

His breathing was short and raspy as he stalked down the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment. What kind of idiot did they take him for? Signing up for a job without a proper contract… one that would tell him what he was actually going to be doing? Bullshit. He’d rather be homeless.

“Emerson Blakemore!”

On a regular day, Emerson would stop at the entrance to Cicada Hollow University and wait for Lucy to get out of class, but he was still seething from the interview. He didn’t even hear her calling out his name or realize she was trying to get his attention until he had to stop short to keep himself from running straight into her.

The whole world came back to him then. He was on the sidewalk in a tank-top, outside of the university walls. The autumn wind bit at his bare skin, and Lucy was there. She was looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes and the rest of her face bundled up in her pink scarf. She had her hand on his arm, and it sent a shiver up to his shoulder.

“Emerson Blakemore, you are to freeze to death!”

“Lucy,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on himself. “I’m fine.”

The last thing Lucy needed to see was the kind of person he used to be. He didn’t want to be that angry man anymore. She didn’t deserve to deal with the reason why Emerson had gotten himself kicked out of school or thrown into rehab to avoid going to jail. He wasn’t that guy anymore—he couldn’t be, especially not with her around.

“You’ve got goose skins!”

Emerson couldn’t help but smile at Lucy’s attempts at English sometimes.