Page 16 of Gigi and the Gym Rats

He gives me a long, unreadable look, dark brows knitting together. He smells of something woodsy and musky, with a hint of cinnamon. Like Christmas.

“Sorry… sorry.” I don’t even know why I’m apologizing. It reminds me of Casey sitting in our kitchen yesterday morning, waiting to be rejected. Obviously used to it.

My chest goes tight.

Frowning, not sure why my thoughts are going in that direction, I flee to the changing rooms. What’s going on with me? I have my plan. Why do I keep getting sidetracked? Casey seems nice and I helped him, voted for him to stay. That’s it, though. Can’t get more involved.

Can’t allow myself any sort of feelings for him.

Because he’s hot. Unfair but true. We can’t be friends like I became with Bee. Even being friends with Ronin is starting to be dangerous.

You can’t be friends with guys you think are hot. Sooner or later, you’ll lose focus, sleep with them. Think it’s something more than sex.

End up unhappy.

End up wishing you could keep all those hunks for yourself. Wish for a pack, when all they will want is ditch you and find an omega or alpha for themselves.

It happened to Mom.

It might be what led to her marriage breaking down.

Dad’s issues and eventual demise.

My brother’s problems.

Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m not risking it. I don’t take risks. I’m a beta. I own it.

And that’s why I run away from Zayne now.

* * *

B stands for beta. I’m proud of that B on my digital ID.

Okay, notproud,proud. Let’s not get racist here. And let’s be honest, too: when I was younger, I hated being a beta. I was dying to be an alpha. What? I like being in charge. I like planning and organizing things. And I don’t like having my nails painted or wearing frilly dresses, so being an omega was a no-go.

But as the years passed, I decided to accept being a beta. This is who I am and I’m all right.

Moderation, mom always says. Omegas are over the top. Alphas are over the top. Betas are the golden middle, the ones who keep society on its feet.

But after a day of work, classes, and the disastrous end to the gym class, I feel like I’m not too steady on my own two feet. I drag myself home, unlock the door, throw my duffel bag in the direction of my room, and hesitate.

Why do I feel so spacey and unsteady?

I need food, I decide. I’m actually starving. Salads are healthy and good, but sometimes a girl needs a little protein. So I open the fridge and poke my head inside. Sophie sometimes buys salami and pastrami for her sandwiches. Unlike me and Ronin, Sophie loves her curves and loves her food. Sometimes I want to tell her that it’s all fine now while she’s young but later on, she might regret it.

Sometimes I feel like a fifty-year-old in a twenty-two-year-old’s body, all careful and concerned and lecturing others. A fountain of warnings and cautionary tales.

Aha. Jackpot.I locate the pastrami and the bread and haul them out. I’ll replace them, of course. My mouth waters as I close the fridge, already imagining the taste. I will feel terrible afterward, guilty as all hell for breaking my healthy nutrition diet, but it’s as if I can’t help myself.

Straightening, I close the fridge with my foot and turn to place my loot on the table.

And find myself facing a bare, muscular chest. An inked chest. I know who this chest belongs to.

I swallow hard as my gaze travels up and up, over black designs of mythical beasts, dragons and griffins, over miles of sculpted muscle. My mouth is watering now for a different reason, a reason wearing the arrogantly handsome face of my alpha roommate—and no, I’m not referring to Sophie. She’s pretty, if anything, and her chest could never be described as muscular, all right? Also, she usually wears a bra.

No bra for Ronin who decided to wander into the kitchen bare-chested.

I repeat, he’s bare-chested, for those in the back. In case you hadn’t heard the first two times I said it.

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