Page 15 of Peripheral Vision (Tethered in Darkness Duet #1)

Chapter

Ten

DYLAN

L ooking around, I take a moment to absorb the finished state of my new home.

The muted hum of the city beyond the windows feels distant, like a life I haven’t quite stepped into yet.

A chill runs up my spine, not from the weather, but the memory of that package a few days ago.

Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn, recalling the hours I spent hunched over the toilet afterward, my body purging something more than just bile—fear, perhaps.

I had spent the rest of that day buried in bed, my covers a futile shield against the intrusive thoughts.

The air in my room had grown stale, thick with inaction, and I knew I couldn’t stay like that.

Rotting alone felt like giving in. So I forced myself up, one heavy step at a time, tackling the chaos around me until I carved out this small semblance of order.

Now, the house looks complete—organized, lived-in, even cozy.

But my list of things to do remains glaringly unchecked.

The weekend stretches ahead of me like a countdown clock.

I have to resume classes soon, and before that, I need to find a job.

With a sigh, I return to my room to change into clothes becoming of someone job searching .

I change into a simple yet polished outfit: a crisp dusty pink button-up shirt tucked into black jeans, paired with clean white sneakers.

It’s nothing fancy, I’m only searching for a job on campus after all.

But it strikes the right balance between casual and professional nonetheless—enough to make a good first impression over the dozens of other students I’m sure are needing a job.

As I adjust the collar in the mirror, I take a steadying breath.

My reflection stares back, my hazel eyes shadowed with fatigue but determined.

This isn’t just about a job; it’s about reclaiming some semblance of normalcy, finding stability in the whirlwind my life has become.

Grabbing my bag, I double check the contents: copies of my resume, a notepad, and a pen.

Prepared enough, I tell myself, and I sling the back over my shoulder.

With one last glance around the house, I head out, saying goodbye to Alaska first, my steps carrying the weight of uncertainty.

But there’s something else present as well—the faint hope of progress.

It isn’t as if I need to get a job on campus, but it will give me the opportunity to get my bearings and become more familiar with the layout.

And I’d prefer not to drive any further than I have to, my schedule is busy enough as it is.

Or it will be once I start my studies again.

I make a mental note to tour the buildings where my classes will be held.

Before starting my truck, I pull out the list I printed off for my fall courses, smoothing it against the steering wheel:

CHE 3114 - Fluid Transport

CHE 3124 - Chemical Engineering Simulations I need to focus on what’s in front of me.

The engine roars to life as I start my truck, the low rumble grounding me.

It takes me less than fifteen minutes to arrive on campus, which is bustling with student life and the energy of a new semester.

The parking lot is alive with movement; people hauling backpacks, making haste with coffee cups in hand.

Others are talking in small groups. The hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter blend with the noise of traffic surrounding the campus.

I park my truck near the student center and make sure to haul my bag over my shoulder, double checking my outfit and my makeup.

Confidence feels elusive, but I square my shoulders and step into the bustling crowd.

I think I’ll do a job search first and then locate my buildings later, because the way the campus is feeling larger than it should and how the buildings are towering around me, my anxiety is already starting to get the best of me.

I ground myself with a deep breath and then I’m off.

I have to dodge this way and that to avoid bumping into people as I walk, searching for restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and the like, before I resort to jobs specific to the school.

I walk for about twenty minutes before stumbling upon a cute little dive called Sins and Sons.

The exterior is marked by a flickering neon sign representing what I assume is part of their logo: a devil’s pitchfork crossing a halo.

The bricks have been stained black to give it more of an alluring charm.

Even though it’s only the middle of the day, the open sign is lit up and I can hear the steady hum of rock music as it spills into the street.

Pushing through the door, the atmosphere inside is intimate, the lighting low with red and gold hues casting a warm glow.

The decor combines modern character with gothic undertones, between the walls that are adorned with vintage and macabre photos, antique trinkets, and arcane quotes as well as the tarnished brass fixtures and dark wood paneling that looks like it’s been intentionally painted black.

The furniture is a combination of both leather and velvet bar stools and booths placed at metal and mahogany tables.

The centerpiece, however, is what really draws my eyes—a long and polished mahogany bar with an array of spirits on shelves behind it from top-shelf bourbons to smoky tequilas true to their name.

The shelves have been backlit to create an uncanny glow.

Despite looking small from the outside, there is quite a bit of space on the inside.

There are a few patrons that are lingering, some sitting at the bar, some in a booth enjoying small talk over a drink.

On second glance, there’s even a jukebox.

The bartender breaks me out of my observation with a soft but deliberate cough and that’s when I realize I haven’t moved from where I stand in the doorway.

“You gonna stand there all afternoon or are you gonna order something?” he asks, a hint of amusement and curiosity in the smooth lilt of his voice.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as I approach the barstool in front of him and sit down. “I actually didn’t want anything to drink, but I was hoping I could talk to somebody about potential work?”

The bartender peruses me for a few moments before saying, “See, but how could we possibly trust someone who wants to work here if they can’t even order a drink?”

My face heats and I offer him a small smile of embarrassment. “I—well, I just?—”

“Calm down there, love. I’m only giving you a hard time. You’re new here, aren’t you?” He braces his forearms on the counter, leaning forward and waiting for me to answer.

I stare down at my hands where I’m pinching at my wrist to avoid the intensity of his gaze. “To campus, yeah. I’ve actually been attending online the last several years but just transferred in.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re job searching. New to the area and already diving into the local economy.” He straightens out, going to pour a drink for another patron that’s been lingering at the bar for a few minutes.

“I mean, if I could survive on ramen and optimism, then I would. But I can’t.

” I lift my eyes, connecting with the blue-gray tint of his own as he settles back against the bar, crossing his muscular arms over a hidden, but obviously well-defined, chest. He smirks when he notices me vetting his physical appearance.

He flicks his head, his chestnut curls rearranging themselves on his forehead.

“True. Optimism is hard enough to come by these days as it is, though. And with the course work, you need to fund those late-night overpriced coffee binges too.”

I let out a small laugh despite myself. “Pretty much. Though I was hoping to skip the overpriced part. Probably should have sought employment at a coffee bar instead. Looks like I still might have a chance though with the way this conversation is going.”

“Financial despair looks the same everywhere, sunshine, at least you’d get drinks on the house here.” He flashes a grin that's equal parts teasing and inviting.

“On the house? Is the owner that generous?” I quirk my eyebrow up.

He chuckles softly, replying, “Oh, not at all. The owner is a grumpy fuck who only makes time for counting the counter at day’s end and griping about how obnoxious kids are these days.

I just meant that with” —he pauses, making an hourglass shape with his hands and whistles— “customers would be buying you drinks nightly.”

I feel the blush crawl up my neck at his insinuation. “I’m not sure which sounds scarier, your boss or the patrons.”

He flashes me his pearly whites once again, pleased with my reaction.

“Take it from me, the boss is predictable. The crowds? Always a wildcard. But I think it keeps things interesting. And I think you are equally as interesting.” I blink at him, unsure how to respond to that and he catches onto my silence.

“Anyway, we are hiring.” He grabs a clipboard from under the bar with job applications clipped to it.

He pulls one from the clip and slides it across the bar to me.

“Fill this out and bring it back tonight. Boss likes to keep things simple. We can do your interview when you return. ”

I grab the application looking from it to him, warily. “Just like that?”