Her Possessive Beasts

1 RHEA

My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. I roll over, squinting at my phone's harsh glare - 6:43 AM. The empty Doritos bag on my nightstand mocks me, orange dust still coating my fingertips from last night's stress-snacking session.

"Shut up," I mutter at my complaining gut, but it only protests louder.

The textbook I fell asleep on has left indents on my cheek. I peel a sticky note from my face, covered in my increasingly desperate handwriting about muscle groups and biomechanical principles.

Three months feels like nothing when you're staring down a test that'll make or break your entire career.

"This is what you wanted, Rhea," I remind myself, stretching until my back pops. "Dream job, fancy clinic, actual benefits. Just gotta pass this one tiny little exam that covers... everything you've ever learned."

My desk is a war zone of highlighters, energy drink cans, and study guides. I've color-coded everything to within an inch of its life.

Yellow for musculoskeletal system, pink for therapeutic modalities, green for exercise science.

Another stomach growl, this one actually painful.

"Fine, fuck, I hear you." I swing my legs out of bed, kicking aside a stack of flashcards. "Though whose brilliant idea was it to think Doritos counted as dinner?"

The mirror shows the aftermath of my all-night study binge - hair a wild mess of black and purple, yesterday's eyeliner smudged under my eyes. The geometric tattoo on my forearm peeks out from under my sleep shirt, the lines a bit blurry in my morning vision.

"Four months," I say to my reflection. "Four months of this torture and then either I'm licensed and employed or... nope, not even entertaining that option. Failure's not in the cards."

My stomach makes one final, dramatic plea for real food. Time to raid the kitchen and maybe make some life choices that don't involve processed cheese dust.

I shuffle into our tiny kitchen, bare feet sticking slightly to the linoleum. The fridge door opens with a sad wheeze, revealing...

absolutely nothing. Well, not nothing - there's half a bottle of ketchup, some questionable takeout containers, and what might have once been lettuce.

"You've got to be kidding me." I poke at a container, then think better of it. "When did we last go shopping?"

A thump and shuffling sound behind me announces Brianne's arrival. Her usually perfect hair is twisted up in a messy bun, her NASA sleep shirt wrinkled.

"If you're looking for breakfast, I've got bad news." She slumps against the doorframe. "Remember my flat tire last week?"

"Yeah?"

"And then the whole thing with your car's radiator deciding to give up the ghost?"

I close the fridge, crossing my arms. "Hey, don't talk about Betty that way. She's sensitive. Even the elderly get routine checkups for ailments. Same goes for Betty."

"Betty would bring you enough cash to get a nice ass, reliable car at a dealership, maybe even two." Brianne rubs her eyes. "But between those repairs and rent, we're officially on what I like to call the 'broke college student special' until payday."

"We graduated."

"Tell that to my bank account." She shuffles to the cabinet and pulls out two packages of ramen. "Look on the bright side - we've got chicken flavor AND beef flavor. Living the dream."

“Alright, time to face the facts, we’ve got to get a job.”

“Ugh,” Brianne groans, grabbing her laptop.

“I wonder how much feet finder brings? Oooh, or I could sell my underwear.”

She says while plopping down on the well loved sofa.

“Except well, I only have maybe like 6 sexy pairs and It isn’t like I can afford any new ones. Unless there’s a niche for period panties.”

“Ew, god, shut up.” I slurp up another mouthful of disappointingly bland ramen while Brianne's fingers tap across her keyboard. My own laptop screen glares back at me, the job search results becoming increasingly desperate.

"Dog walker?" I scroll past. "Nope, allergic. Professional cuddler?

Hard pass.

“That’s a thing?” Bri looks up from her screen.

“Not interested enough to find out. Oh look, another sketchy modeling gig that's definitely not trafficking."

"At least you're getting results." Brianne pushes her glasses up her nose. "I keep getting redirected to dating sites. Apparently, my search for 'flexible hours' means something very different to these algorithms."

I snort, nearly choking on my noodles. "Maybe we should've majored in something practical, like professional lottery winning or treasure hunting."

"Hey, remember that time we thought we could start a business selling hand-painted vans and shit?"

"God, don't remind me." I close three more tabs of questionable opportunities. "We spent all our money on supplies and ended up with twenty pairs of what looked like a kindergarten art project gone wrong."

Brianne leans back, stretching her arms overhead. "We need something temporary but decent. The clinic opens next spring, but rent waits for no woman."

"And Betty needs her checkups." I pat my laptop defensively.

"Don't give me that look - she's a classic."

"What about this? Server positions at that new place downtown?"

She turns her screen in my direction.

"Tips could be good." I lean in, scanning the listing. "Wait, isn't that the place that had that health code violation last week?"

"Fuck, yeah it is." Brianne clicks to the next listing.

"Oh wait, here's something." I click through to a listing that doesn't immediately scream 'future crime scene.' "The Undercurrent”. They're looking for bartenders. No experience required, training provided."

"Let me see." Brianne leans over my shoulder, her half-eaten ramen forgotten. "Oh my god, that's perfect for you."

"How do you figure?"

"Look at the pictures." She points at the dark industrial aesthetic of the bar. "All exposed brick and metal. Very edgy, very you. Plus, it's like fifteen minutes from here."

I scroll through the photos. "Just because I have tattoos doesn't mean I belong in some hipster dive bar."

"It's not just the tattoos." Brianne gestures at my general existence. "The whole package. The purple highlights, the nose ring, that 'don't fuck with me' energy you radiate. You're basically their target demographic."

"I don't radiate anything." I touch my nose ring self-consciously.

"I just have a healthy appreciation for self-expression."

"You mean a rebellious streak wider than the Pacific." She grins, ducking as I throw a wadded-up napkin at her head.

I glance at the listing again. The pay isn't terrible, and tips could be decent. "You really think I could pull this off?"

"Are you kidding? You'd own that place in a week." Brianne starts typing. “What's the worst that could happen?"

"Famous last words." But I'm already clicking the link, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "If this goes sideways, I'm blaming you."

"That's what best friends are for." She raises her ramen cup in a mock toast. "To potentially questionable life choices!"

I hit submit on the application, watching the little loading circle spin. "Done. Either I just secured our financial future or signed up to be an extra in the next true crime documentary."

"Both?" Brianne suggests, slurping up the last of her ramen.

My wallet sits on the counter, pathetically thin but not completely empty. I flip it open, counting the crumpled bills. "Hey, put some real clothes on. I've got twelve dollars and some change.

That's like, a feast at McDonald's."

"You had money this whole time?" Brianne's eyes narrow. "While I'm eating sodium-flavored cardboard?"

"Emergency funds." I stuff the bills in my pocket. "And this qualifies. I just applied to be a bartender when the closest I've come to mixing drinks is adding Red Bull to vodka."

"That's technically mixing." She stretches, her joints popping.

"Give me five minutes to look human."

"Take ten, you need it." I dodge the dish towel she throws at me.

"And wear actual pants this time! The drive-through guy still hasn't recovered from your Pokemon pajamas."

"Opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one!" Her voice echoes down the hallway.

I grab my keys, the collection of weird keychains jingling. Betty might be old, but she's got character. And air conditioning.

Sometimes.

Brianne emerges in record time, her hair somehow perfect despite the two-minute brush job. "I want a McFlurry."

"The ice cream machine's broken."

"It's always broken." She grabs her purse. "But I live in hope."

"That's your problem right there." I open the door, bowing dramatically. "After you, my fellow garbage food connoisseur."

"Such a gentleman." She curtsies with invisible skirts. "Maybe you can use that charm at your new job."

"I haven't even gotten an interview yet."

"Details, details." She waves her hand dismissively. "Now come on, those dollar ninety five menu cheeseburgers aren't going to eat themselves."