Page 82 of Feeling the Heat: Part One
The image sends a thrill through me, though my omega “helpfully” replaces it with me at his feet instead, my hands going to his belt.
I shake away the pornographic thought and brush off Lauren’s flattery. “River won’t do that.”
“Ooo, is he River instead of Mr. Marlowe now?” Lauren waggles her brows at me.
I laugh to hide my reaction to her teasing. “We can bet on it, if you want. Odds have been in my favor, though, so it’s probably not a good idea.”
She shakes her head and chuckles. “Fair point. Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But just know that if you ever want to talk about things, River or otherwise, I’m all ears.”
“Thanks.” That feels like far too little of a thing to say when this is the second time my new omega friend has helped me while I’m spiraling. “Really. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, smiling back at me. “Justremember how nice I am when I need a huge favor from you,” she adds.
“Absolutely. Any time you need to bury a body, I’ll be there.”
We both laugh, and as we head back to the office, I feel lighter than I have in days.
27
A frown curvesacross my lips as I step back to survey my painting.
Dammit. It’s still not right.
No matter how many times I’ve tried over the past week, I can’t seem to put my vision to the canvas. The art I’ve attempted is crude and uninspired, even for an amateur like me.
I’d hoped that this would be a good low stress hobby to pick back up, but apparently not.
I used to love painting. Growing up, it was the one thing I didn’t have to be perfect at, and I didn’t care about the end result. Mostly because I never told people about my paintings. While some kids were hiding their drugs and hooking up behind their parents’ backs, I was squirreling away shitty art supplies and dabbling with a paintbrush while they weren’t around.
The thing is, I didn’t have to hide it. My parents wouldn’t have been mad at me for being artistic. Not at all. If they’dknown, they would’ve enrolled me in classes and pushed me to practice whenever I had a spare moment.
Still, I needed something for myself. Something that didn’t come with any judgement but my own.
I’m sure I’d be a lot better by now if I hadn’t kept my art a secret. But, as my therapist Dr. Alley reminds me, “allowing yourself to be bad at something is good for you.” Or at least it is for someone who has spent his entire life pressuring himself to be the best at everything and not fall short of others’ expectations of him.
Doesn’t mean I like being bad at things.
With a frustrated sigh, I set the canvas to the side in the small pile of rejects I’ve accumulated. At this rate, I’m going to run out of funds for supplies before I get anything worth keeping.
Usually I’m able to get myself out of my self-critical headspace after a day or two, but it’s persistent as of late. I’m not obtuse enough to be confused about why that’s the case.
Waiting to know if I’ll get the chance to see Camille again is fucking with my head. Logically, I know that if she doesn’t accept our pack’s courtship offer, it isn’t my fault. I had no part in the way River acted or their working relationship. But logic doesn’t come into play when there’s a nasty voice in my head telling me at least part of Camille’s rejection would be because of personal failings. Because no one wants to be with a goofy pain in the ass beta for anything more than a bit of fun.
Ugh, enough. Time to get my head out of my ass.
I scoop Dolly up as I leave my room, and we get geared up for a walk. The mid-morning sunshine feels good after being cooped up inside, and the sight of my sweet pup’s ears bouncing as she happily makes her way down the sidewalk never fails to make me smile.
We’re halfway around our usual small circuit of theneighborhood when my phone rings. I fish around in my pocket, pulling it out with a slight frown. It’s probably just a spam call, but I should check in case it’s my parents.
I startle and trip a little over my feet when I see the name on the screen. Dahlia looks up and cocks her head at me, confused by the abrupt stop. Heart racing, I pull over out of the way of other pedestrians and I fumble my phone a bit before answering the call.
“Camille?” I cringe a little at how breathless and excited I sound.
Her hesitant voice comes through from the other end. “Oh! H-hey, Jackson.” There’s a brief pause as she clears her throat. “Sorry to call. I didn’t think you’d pick up. I was going to leave you a message. Hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Don’t be sorry! I’m so happy you called me. You’re not bothering me at all. You can call me any time. You’d never be a bother!”
I have zero chill as I word vomit my enthusiasm, but I can’t get myself to stop.
