Page 14 of Broken Bonds
Except now the gaping hole in my plan makes itself known.
Okay, so Dad hasn’t made it public knowledge that I’m gone. No impassioned pleas to the press to help locate his “beloved son.”
Did you hear me gag? Because I definitely implied that.
I’ve milked cows before, manually and with milking machines.
A place like that might could use an extra hand who isn’t afraid of hard work.
My worry is that an enterprising person with a need to pad their bank account might happily sell me out to Dad if he offers a bounty.
The problem swirls through my mind while I kick back with a bottle of water and a sandwich to ponder it.
By the time I finish, I decide on a version of a story with some honesty—I’m gay, my dad threw a shit-fit, and I refuse to be forced into a marriage I don’t want to a woman I barely even know. And I have a genuine fear for my safety.
If they press me too hard for details, like my legal name, in a way that I feel uncomfortable with, then I skedaddle.
If they’re sympathetic to my plight, maybe it buys me a few weeks to catch my breath.
Another problem soon hits me—Florida weather. I just make it to the Bushville City intersection and duck into a farm and feed store when the bottom drops out of the sky. I’m standing inside the door staring at rain so heavy I can’t even see across the parking lot.
“Help you, wayward one?” a voice asks from too close behind me, making me shriek and jump as I turn.
Oh, he’s a shifter, all right. Old one, some sort of canine, but not a wolf.
He stares up at me, squinting. I’m 5’-10”, and he’s a good three or four inches shorter than me, and at least fifty pounds heavier than my lithe 180. Shifters age more slowly than humans, and he looks to be in his seventies, so he’s got to be older than that.
I swallow hard and fight the urge to bolt, but he’s not approaching any closer than the four feet separating us. There weren’t any vehicles in the parking lot, so I don’t know how many other people might be in here with us, maybe employees parked out back.
“I… I…” I swallow hard, my throat dry. Words fail me.
His gaze narrows even more. Deep lines in suntanned skin frame green eyes the colors of rain-kissed ferns. His hair is mostly grey but looks like it was black, and his bushy black eyebrows hardly have any grey in them.
His focus goes to my bike, which I’d wheeled inside with me because there wasn’t a bike rack outside and I didn’t want it to get wet, then back to me. “Where you running from, pup?”
I finally manage to whisper, “I’d r-rather not say.”
He cocks his head. “From the law?”
I shake my head.
His gaze softens slightly. “Asshole family?”
I swallow again and nod.
His demeanor relaxes and he waves at me to follow. “Bike too,” he says.
I follow him around the back counter. On the wall behind it, a chalkboard lists prices for hay, feed, and other items. I hear chirping, and we pass three pens of baby chicks on our way to a tiny office with an ancient desk. He indicates for me to leave my bike propped against the wall and follow him in. Then he closes the door and now the faint scent of other shifters—including wolves—tickles my nose and raises the hair on the back of my neck.
He lowers himself into the chair behind the desk and leans back as I sit in the only chair in front of it. “Without giving me your name or identifying info, tell me a few words that will…frame your situation for me. Take your time. Nothing I don’t need to know right now.”
I think about it and don’t sense any rush about him. There’s a small bank of four monitors at the end of his desk, which is pushed against the wall, and I realize there are four video feeds on each one, including the parking lot and front door. That’s why he’s comfortable coming back here with me, I guess.
Hoping I’m not making a mistake, I say, “I’m gay. Accidentally outed. Homophobic Alpha dad and three older Alpha brothers.” A breath shudders through me. “They’ll kill me,” I whisper.
“You’re an omega, aren’t you?”
I nod.
