Page 34 of Wild Omega

“Hey, Callisto. It’s me, Rickon. Well, you probably know that from the number.” I rest one cold hand against my forehead, trying to ease the hot mess lingering under my skin. “Just, ah, looking to see if you can hang out for a bit. I, um, well, it’s nothing major, really. Text me when you can.”

Beep.I click the disconnect button and shoot him a text as well, but no reply comes back.

“Nothing new,” I murmur. He’s probably buried in case files and won’t even look at his phone until after midnight. “You’re a fool, Rickon Jones. A damn fool.”

The chilly night air freezes the tears pooling on my lashes.

Chapter fourteen

Rickon

Cigarette smoke clings to my skin as I down my fifth glass of cider. Could be my sixth. No one’s here to keep me in check. Something about drinking alone at a bar makes this situation even more pathetic. Right now, I could be fucking the world’s sexiest man alive.

He’s not that sexy to me, though.

Callisto wasn’t in the running, so Brad just got a free ride to that title.

I rest my head on my arm, sticky alcohol gripping my skin. My corset digs in everywhere, not really made for flexibility. I think I’ll regret that when I try to move, but for now I can’t care less. Let it hurt. Let it strip me like acid so I don’t have to be a stranger in my own skin. I try so hard to cultivate my style and be proud of myself, but maybe deep down I’m compensating for my inferiority. My designation is unclear. My parents left me. The man I love doesn’t even look my way, and now I’m jobless.

Just fucking perfect.

At the end of the day, I’m alone. An alpha mistaken for an omega. Anal-mega, as Hudson likes to remind me. Maybe the problem is I keep returning to this base and torturing myself with proximity to Callisto. If I was remotely in control of myself, I’d pack up and move. This isn’t the only movie production hub in the country. Could even try going international. Alphalingo is said to be pretty good for learning a new language quickly. French? Or perhaps Italian?

“You’re kidding yourself, Ricky,” I murmur, flicking a nutshell across the table.

If I could cut ties with Callisto, I would’ve done it eons ago. What I should do is man up and tell him how I feel. Don’t wait for his call; just turn up at his apartment. Let him tear the bandage off my wound so the bleeding can cleanse me.

“Hey, babe. Can I buy you a drink?”

I don’t even look up to see who’s mistaken me for an omega this time. “Is your name Callisto?”

“What? No, it’s Eric.”

“Then fuck off, Eric.” That’s my inebriated tongue running away on me, but I’m so far beyond caring.

I expect the stranger to get mad, but he chuckles, and the table shivers as he slides into the booth. Would a one-night fuck get me out of this funk? I snort. If that was the case, I’d have taken Brad up on his offer.

The man taps a finger on the sticky tabletop. “Yeah, you’re right. But sounds like you’ve had too many to drink. You can’t even lift your head off the table.”

“Can too,” I shoot back, raising my head. My arm’s suction-sealed to the spilled booze like it’s glue instead of sugar. I move too fast, and dizziness hits me, making my stomach roll. I groan and flop back on the table.

He laughs again, the sound pressuring my ears. I press them to check I’m not bleeding, but my hands come away clean. Cleanish.

“You’ve been here awhile.”

I stiffen with the realization this dude’s been watching me and shift so I can stare at him without lifting my head. “Is there a law against that? You stalking me?” He’s a bit of a silver fox, hair spiky on top and graying through his neatly cut goatee. Looks a bit tired. Like me.

He smiles, the action scoring deep lines either side of his mouth. “Sheath your claws, kitten. No law, but it’s nearly closing time. And I’m the manager, not a stalker.”

“Oh.” Closing time means going home to my cold, empty apartment. I sag lower into the booth.

He takes my glass and sweeps a damp cloth over the table. My tortured nutshells whisk off the edge to the floor where they’ll be swept up later. “What’s a handsome fellow like you doing drinking alone at this time of night?”

“I was asking myself the same question,” I slur with a dry scoff.

“Pining for someone?”

I groan. “Is it written on a neon sign over my head?”

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