Page 13 of Power Shift

“I’ll find something else and bring it home.”

“We’ll order something,” he argues, falling in line with Dash and most likely Jasper.

I grit my aching teeth and peel a clump of pasta from my shirt before tossing it across the alley. “I’ll take care of it. My mess, my fix.”

“Too late! I’m putting in an order for donairs,” Dash sings.

I can already hear Coach’s chastising for not sticking to our meal plans. If Dash had it his way, he’d survive off all-dressed chips, ice cream, and Sour Patch Kids.

“Fine. I’ll be home in twenty,” I grouse, my jaw ticking with frustration.

“Bye,” Ronan says before hanging up, not waiting for a reply.

I step out of the alley and thank fucking god that the rush of people has died down. It’s easy to cross the sidewalk to the curb where I’ve parked the giant mammoth of an SUV Jasper forcedus to buy last year.The safety features are the best of the best, he said. Because we takesomany road trips outside of a plane.

The doors beep when I unlock them and hover at the driver’s side, staring down at my red-splattered chest. It’s too easy to strip out of my shirt and leave it on the street. Without it on my body, only two smells linger. The pasta is gone, but the lemon . . . that’s still far too fucking obvious. It’s like it’s been rubbed so deep into my skin that I’m going to be bleeding it soon.

At least I’d be rid of it that way.

Yanking on the door handle, I ignore a surprised squeak from the sidewalk before sliding inside, away from the public eye. I hide behind the tinted windows and start up the engine.

I’m still filthy—even without the soiled shirt—and I’m already dreading the moment Jasper sees the stained seats. I’ve never hated white leather so much before.

Or my own skin.

I roll down both sets of windows to try and air out the scent of that omega. Still rock hard and fighting a battle within myself to go back to that restaurant, I speed off down the street, praying that by the time I get home, the only thing I’ll be able to smell is my pack.

Nope.

Even out of the SUV, all I can smell is lemon shortbread. I’m pretty sure my face is blue from the lack of blood and oxygen in my upper half, considering it’s all in my fucking dick.

I got halfway home before I had to pull over on the highway and jack off. An orgasm only made everything worse. Not only did I come enough to have to use a damn near entire pack oftissues to clean myself up, but now it just reeks like jizzandthat cursed omega in there. Not to mention my hyper-inflated cock that’s so far beyond normal I’m seriously considering calling the team doctor for advice on how to get it soft.

A bleach bath sounds incredible. That or burying my nose in one of Ronan’s tuna salad containers.

“Are you Dash Montgomery?”

I stall on the long, three-car-wide driveway. Bare-chested and with a very short fuse, I turn around and snatch the bag of food hanging from the hand of the teenager staring at me. His eyes bulge as he stands frozen, mouth gaped.

“No,” I mutter gruffly. “But this is my food. Thanks.”

“Yeah—yeah, sure. You’re welcome,” he rambles, still not moving.

I stare at him blankly. “You can go.”

“You’re Landon Montgomery,” he whispers.

It’s the worst outcome for a terrible fucking day.

Dash knows better than to use our last name when he orders anything, let alone to our house. This delivery boy is one minute away from whipping his phone out and recording me on the driveway.

It’s not like we live in some guarded castle, but we don’t exactly livestream on our front lawn with our address for all to see. Privacy is important to me. I had too little of it growing up.

I really can’t do this today. I’m one blown fuse from drop kicking this kid into the neighbour’s yard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I bite out, leaving him there in a rush to get inside.

His footsteps pound on the cement as he chases me. “That’s the Montgomery pack tattoo! It’s right . . . here!”

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