Page 8 of Feeling the Heat: Part Two
Frustration simmers inside me as I make a premature retreat to the locker room. Lifting is supposed to be my mental escape. Things are simple. You pick things up and put them back down. Progress is measurable. Gains are made through repeated, patient effort. But lately, working out has been more torture than release.
My headspace is far too unfocused, and when it comes to pushing your body to the limit with heavy weights, that’s unsafe. Yet I keep trying multiple times a week, stubbornly bashing my skull against the wall of my body’s sudden weakness in the hopes that maybe that’s the day I’ll go back to normal.
I’m an idiot. I’m never going back to my normal self, and my body is screaming that at me every time I attempt to pretend otherwise. But fuck, it’d be nice if I could just have this. My body has always been the one thing I’ve felt in control of.
The musky tang of body odor and alpha pheromones wrinkles my nose as I make my way to the locker I’ve stashed my change of clothes in. A quick pit check lets me know that I’m not smelling so fresh either, despite my pitiful workout. I consider taking a quick rinse, but loud voices from the bank of showers make me opt for doing that at home. I’m not in the mood to deal with anyone’s surprise when they see my lack of a knot or getting told I’m pretty big for a beta.
I towel myself off and make quick work of changing into my street clothes, but it isn’t fast enough to avoid the group of dudes I heard in the showers. The trio of alphas saunter into the room, all grins and teasing quips, with only their towels wrapped around their waists. I do my best to avoid eye contact as I shove my dirty clothes in my gym bag, and cringe when I hear one of them address me.
“Oh, shit, perfect! Hey, will you help us settle a debate?” The dark-haired, pale alpha asking is tall, with a serious set of abs and decent biceps that are ruined by a truly heinous tattoo sleeve. There’s a small lurch in my stomach as I reflexively think about telling River how ugly they are.
I do my best to smile back, mentally assessing the likelihood that this is some dumb alpha trap where it ends in them mocking me. Not that I give a shit what they think about me. “Uh, depends on the debate, I guess,” I say, shrugging.
“Pshh, there’s no way he’ll agree with you, Spencer. Give it up,” the alpha with a shaved head and medium brown skin that’s been waxed completely smooth says with a laugh.
The third alpha, a shorter White dude with a blonde man bun and a weak chin, nods in support of the bald one.
The first alpha—Spencer—isn’t deterred. “You hear about that old omega?” he asks, directing the question at me.
I already dislike wherever this is going. “Uh, no…”
“Damn, dude, are you living under a rock or something?” The bald alpha looks shocked I don’t instantly get the reference.
“Sorry, I’m not on socials much.” Ugh, why did I apologize? I don’t need their approval. I don’t even want to be part of this conversation.
“Okay, so there’s this omega who was lying about her designation, and she got found out, and?—”
“None of that matters for this,” the blond man bun alpha interjects. “The question is if you’d fuck her.”
I suppress my grimace, though I don’t know why I’m surprised these three are objectifying some poor omega.
“I…”
“Of course he wouldn’t!” the bald alpha replies with a chuckle. “No alpha who looks like him would settle for dried-up omega cunt. Even if her face and tits are decent, she’s a freak.”
Alarm bells go off in my head, and while I want to get the hell out of here and away from these losers, I’m stuck to the spot as dread pools in my gut.
“Not to mention she’s a lying bitch. God, omegas these days think they can get away with so much shit. Act like they’re in charge, even though we all know what happens when they go into heat. Begging for knots and taking anything we give them.”
For a moment, I consider my odds of not getting beaten to a pulp if I punched the smug look off that piece of shit’s face. Probably about 50/50. I hate fighting, but it’dbe worth it. The only thing holding me back is knowing I can’t go into my new job sporting a black eye and broken nose.
I force myself to stand, pulse racing, but Spencer has procured his phone out of his locker and holds it up toward me.
A deep sound that’s as close to a growl as I can get as a beta tears from my throat when I see the image on the screen.
Long red curls brushed over one shoulder, warm hazel eyes, pale freckled skin, and a soft pink mouth that I dream about feeling against mine again every night.
Fuck.
I have to get out of here. Away from these disgusting alphas before I attack them. I have to go to her and make sure she’s okay.
“Whoa, okay, maybe I was wrong,” Man Bun says, eyes widening.
Spencer pumps his fist and reaches out to clap my shoulder in triumph, taking my reaction as a sign of my interest and not a bone-deep urge to rip all of their throats out for saying such vile things.
I dodge out of the way, storming out of the locker room. My ears buzz with the high-pitched drone of my panic. I slam my helmet on and hop on my bike, tearing out of the gym parking lot so fast the quiet morning air fills with the rev of the engine. Given the early hour, there’s not much traffic yet, but I still swerve around the cars that are on the road so that I get to her place before rush hour hits. I’m going too fast and probably breaking multiple traffic laws, but I don’t care.
I have to get to her.
