Sadistic Mates: A Dark paranormal reverse harem

Imogen

The sun is barely breaking through the windshield of my beat-up Honda Civic as I groggily wake up. My body aches as I stretch, trying to get into a comfortable position. I have been living in my car for nearly three months, and my body is protesting my living predicament.

Sitting up, I shield my eyes with my hand from the brutal sun and tug my blanket around myself, trying to warm my freezing cold skin. An empty vodka bottle rolls off the seat and onto the passenger side floorboard. Now, I know what you probably think - I'm an alcoholic. I'm not, nor do I ever, drink and drive.

The first night I had to sleep in my car, it was minus three degrees. I was in danger of freezing. Luckily for me, my mother's drinks had helped save the day. My trunk was half full of spirits. I wasn't lying when I said she liked a drink.

I was going to dispose of it but was glad I hadn't that horrendous night—her bestie, vodka, seconded by her equally harsh friend, tequila. I've never been much of a drinker; watching her was enough to deter me from taking that path. But on that freezing night, I decided, why not? I grabbed a bottle, hoping to help myself sleep and forget that I was now homeless and living in my car. My life was already at a pretty crappy crossroads, so what would one more vice hurt?

That night I learned that alcohol could get you through the bitterest wintry nights. You don't feel the sting of the air when you're intoxicated. In fact, you feel little of anything. My alcohol tolerance has become rather impressive. I don't drink myself to oblivion, but on nights like the first night I spent in this cramped car, I knocked a few back to help chase away the cold like last night.

Exhaling, I watch the sun slowly rise over the horizon, bringing its warm rays to chase the chills away, the heat filtering through the windshield. There is one plus side to living in your car. I am always on time for work; it helps that I live in the workplace parking garage, making me never late. No one knows that little secret except the janitor, Tom. A sixty-year-old man, balding on top, with kind eyes, a cuddly figure, and a grandfatherly nature.

He stumbled upon me sleeping in my car one night. I told him it was only temporary, so he kept my secret. My bosses just think I am an eager and enthusiastic worker. I'm always the first to work besides Tom, who opens the parking garage and the building, and I am always the last to leave. I'm not about to correct them. They can assume whatever they want. I need this job.

Reaching for the ignition, I turn my car on; my phone instantly lights up and charges through the lighter socket while my engine growls in