Page 115 of Party Girl: How a Naughty Omega Finds Love
ChapterThirty-Three
WHITNEY
We settle into an easy routine over the next few days. The guys go to work, and Avi and I stay home and hang out. I work on a model car while he tells me about his classes and how he’s planning to use them as a way to help himself recover. Eventually, Avi wants to be a therapist. I admire his drive. Starting over on a new career path is hard, but he’s energized and truly seems to care about helping people process their trauma.
The guest house is fairly secluded, and we hardly see signs of Melanie and her mates. By the time Friday night rolls around, I’ve officially been with the guys for an entire week. It feels like it’s been longer. The pack bond has brought us all closer, and now that Trev isn’t trying to convince the guys that I should go, life is peaceful. I hate that I can’t leave or go to the bank for Granny’s things, but I understand the dangers. Curtis is still out there, and if anyone from the Omega Council spots me, we’ll all be screwed.
“Do you need help?” Avi’s black hair is damp from the shower he just took.
“Nope. I’m almost finished.” He and I have been sharing the cooking responsibilities. Tonight, though, I wanted to make my favorite dish for them.
Blackened chicken. Cheesy broccoli and rice casserole. Sautéed spinach with bacon. And fresh baked chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Nothing too fancy, but I hope they like it. Granny used to make this for me, and I loved it. Avi grabs a beer and sits at the bar, watching me mix up the cookie batter.
“You’re working too hard.”
“It makes me happy.” I shrug.
“Because you don’t have time to think?”
I lift my gaze and look at him. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me again?”
Dropping his eyes, his cheeks turn a little pink. “Sorry.”
“Trev didn’t tell you? I figured you guys would all know by now.” I add in the chocolate chips and stir. There’s an electric mixer, but I’d rather do it by hand. I swear something about the elbow grease used to stir the batter makes the cookies taste better.
“He hasn’t said anything. Trev wouldn’t tell us unless you wanted him to.”
I stop mixing and rest my hands on the edge of the counter. “My mother abused me. She was a bitch and I’ve learned enough now to know I deserved better.”
He sips on his beer. “Did you talk to your therapist about it?”
Snorting, I shake my head and begin searching for the plastic wrap. “Tell the Omega Council snitch Mommy used to hit me and lock me in a cellar? Hell no. They wouldn’t have let me find a match. They don’t like damaged omegas.”
“If you think about it, everyone is damaged.”
“You know what I mean.”
He picks at the label on the bottle. “Yeah. I get it. She’d lock you in a cellar?” The compassion and hurt on his face makes me uncomfortable, so I avoid looking at him.
“It started when I was five or six, I don’t really remember the exact age, only that I was little. Her pre-heat would come, and she’d lie to Granny and tell her I was spending the week at a friend’s house.” The casserole has ten minutes left. I turn on the burner and start coating the chicken in the seasoning. The work distracts me from the truth I’m spilling. “Granny never knew and I didn’t want her to be mad at me too. I never told her.”
“From what you’ve told me, she would have been pissed at your mom.”
I press the spices into the chicken with one hand, patting it to help them stick. “Yeah, well, I was too young to realize that.” I forgot to put a little oil in the pan and a faint burnt smell fills the kitchen. “Shit,” I mutter, grabbing the cooking spray and coating the pan. I turn the burner all the way down. My chest tightens a little, and I can almost hear my mother screaming at me for burning dinner. I take a shallow breath and try to pick up where I left off, but I can’t remember what I was saying. Moisture fills my eyes, but I blink it away, anger rushing through me in a sharp contrast to the sadness.
Goddamn her.
I can’t even cook without memories of how she treated me resurfacing. I was fine telling Avi what had happened. I was detached as I worked, but the stupid hot pan and her ugly words. I take a sharp inhale, hating how weak I sound. Hating how ridiculous I probably look. Hating that she has such a grip on me after all the years and the distance I’ve put between us.
“Hey,” Avi says softly, his fingers closing around my wrist.
“I can’t breathe.”
“It’s okay.” He places my clean hand on his chest and takes a breath, letting me feel his chest expand. “In for three, hold for six, out for nine.”
My eyebrows pinch together, but I follow his count. He holds my gaze and continues counting out loud, walking me through the technique until I get it. I curl my fingers slightly, gripping his shirt and waiting for my body to relax. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the panic that was clawing at my throat subsides.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, releasing his shirt and stepping away.
