Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 230

Ch. 3

Cassandra

Six months ago I walked out of Ironwood with my pride barely intact and absolutely nothing else. At the time, i thought if I at least had that, I could deal with anything. Pride, as it turns out, is a terrible currency. When you’re a rogue, no one gives a shit about your pride.

Another important lesson I learned the hard way: For not having a pack, rogues are surprisingly territorial. When your survival depends on the kindness of nearby packs, and those packs have limited resources to share, those currently benefitting from their generosity do not want you sticking your hand into their piece of pie.

I’d been run off from more pack borders than I cared to count before finally a place here, at the Ashford border settlement. It’s far enough out that very few of my kind have traveled this far. And those that have seem happy enough to have me join them. So far anyway.

I have no illusions about my tenuous place here though. The Ashford pack runs on transactions. It’s not charity, it’s not community, it’s an exchange. They have administrative tasks and other labor needs that their pack members find beneath them. We have nowhere else to go. Everyone gets something. Nobody pretends it’s more

than that.

I’ve been here for four months. The longest I’ve stayed anywhere since Ironwood. And hopefully, as long as I pull my weight, they’ll let me stay a lot longer.

“You’re early.” Geraldine, the office manager, comments when I arrive at my assigned post for the day. “You know you don’t have to be here until 8am.”

I’ve been assigned to several different jobs since joining the settlement but for several weeks now, they’ve been sending me to the administrative office which suits me fine. It’s indoors where it’s warm, out of the elements. And Geraldine lets me eat lunch with her in the pack dining room every day. These days, I’d do just about anything, no matter how boring, for a decent meal.

“I know. But I wanted to get caught up on the filing.” A sentence the old me would never have deigned to utter. The irony is not lost on me.

“The eastern suppliers are responding faster.” She observes.

“I standardized the request format,” I admit a bit hesitantly. I didn’t actually ask permission to do that. “Clearer ask, faster answer.”

She looks at the stack, looks at me, looks at the stack again. “You’re efficient,” she shrugs and moves on. It’s probably the highest praise I can expect from her.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” she deadpans. “It was an observation.”

She leaves without waiting for a response and I tell myself it’s fine. I’m not here to be liked. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go. I’m here to be useful, because useful is the currency that keeps me fed and not sleeping in my car.

It’s enough.

It’s really not enough. But I’ll keep telling myself it is for as long as it takes to believe it.

On a positive note, I’ve made a friend here. He’s a rogue like me and his name is Garrett. He’s been rogue for eleven years. I’d almost rather die than live this way for the next ten years, but I’d never say that to him. I don’t

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say a lot of things I wouldn’t have thought twice about before.

heard you reorganized the filing system.” He mentions when he stops by to deliver the mail to the office.

“Wow. They must really be hurting for gossip around here if that’s the topic of conversation.” I tease.

He laughs with me then explains. “Geraldine’s been less terrible since then. Everyone’s noticed. Usually she’s worse when the work piles up and the assistant she’s assigned gets behind: You’re keeping her off our backs.

I look up from my task to find him grinning at me. He’s older than I initially registered-mid-forties, maybe,

with the particular weathered quality of someone who has been outside a pack’s protections for long enough that it shows. Not rough. Just-worn. Like something that’s been exposed to weather for too long.

“Eleven years,” I blurt out, because apparently I have no filter and my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Twelve in the fall,” A shadow falls over his face as he answers.

“By choice?” I probe with another intrusive question.

He shoots me an incredulous look. “Is it ever?”

“Isn’t it?” I’ve met quite a few rogues recently and some of them seem more than content with the lifestyle.

“Not for twelve years it isn’t.” He shakes his head, then narrows his eyes at me. “What are you running from?”

I should have seen that coming. I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut. Don’t ask invasive questions, Cassie and no one will think they can ask them of you.

“I’m not running from anything.” I deny, probably a little too quickly to be believable.

“Everyone here is running from something. That’s what rogue means.” He shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just saying-whatever it is, it follows you. That’s the other thing rogue means.

He doesn’t press it further. But I sit at my desk and think about what follows me long after he leaves. Then I make a conscious effort not to think about it. I’m good at not thinking about things.

Mistakes were made at Ironwood. I’m self-aware enough to admit that. I made a play for the life I thought I wanted. It was the wrong play. It only took me about two hours after I left to realize that. I had a goal. A goal I couldn’t see past, wouldn’t let myself see past. And the methods I used to pursue it were-selfish, hurtful, despicable.

Those are the words I try hard not to think too much about. I tell myself I’m working on it but the truth is, I’m not sure I am.

Looking in the mirror is hard when you don’t like what you see.

Cara Anderson Author

Thank you for reading!

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