Page 18 of Gigi and the Gym Rats

“You could use some fattening. You’re getting too thin,” he says, pausing at the kitchen door, and I flinch. Oblivious, he goes on, “And as for the heart… too many things are bad for it. Pastrami least of all.”

And with that cryptic remark, he leaves the kitchen.

Leaves me alone with the pastrami and my choices to wonder if that jab about my non-existent curves had been on purpose or if he’s just so blind to me that he doesn’t realize how it hurt.

Of course he’s oblivious.

We’re jogging buddies. Roommates. He wouldn’t get it. And it’s now painfully clear to me how one-sided this attraction is.

Which is why I’m staying away from him until I work through it and I’m over it. Until I can hopefully be overhimand can go back to being friends again. Chummy roommates. Fellow joggers and jockers.

Time to call the girls and organize that night out.

7

RONIN

Listen, I think Gigi was checking me out.

I can’t be sure. She seemed sort of… lost in thought. And I should maybe be worried about her. Gigi is as anti-white-bread and anti-cured-meat as they come and… this isn’t like her. She’s distracted, that’s all. She probably wasn’t checking me out at all, only gazing into space.

Also, she’s so damn hot, I bet she’s already in a relationship. Betas are like that. Quiet and focused, usually choosing one partner to be with. They don’t like packs and harems. Don’t get the whole I-need-all-these-people-to-love-and-fuck thing.

Which is fair enough, I suppose.

If only my dick got the memo, I’d be golden.

But nope. No, sir. My dick has its own agenda, and it wants into Gigi’s pants.

Badly.

Has done so before I was even properly aware of how pretty she is. And she’s so driven and so easily excited and her laughter is so sweet and… it all makes me hard.

Everything about her.

Goddammit.

It looks like I’ve been friend-zoned from the start, though, and now… Now it’s even worse. It’s as if she’s not even interested in hanging out with me. At all.

Except for that look. As if she was checking out my chest.

Wishful fucking thinking, Ron,I tell myself, disgusted.She won’t even go jogging with you. Probably too busy with her mysterious boyfriend. Maybe the boyfriend is the jealous type and doesn’t want her hanging around other guys.

Nice.Now I have a whole fantasy story going about her. Starting to flesh in the details. In a minute, I’ll go off to find that boyfriend and punch his face. A boyfriend I don’t even know whether he exists or I made him up.

I have to stop.

Right the fuck now.

Only I’m still hard and all this pent-up energy and need are driving me up the wall. I kick at my trash—only a few pieces of paper are inside, hardly satisfying—and throw a sci-fi book against the wall. Didn’t like the story anyway.

So I resign myself to beating one out on the bed. Jacking off hasn’t been much help lately. With all the omega scents around me these past few months, I could go into a rut.

A rut without having a pack.

That’s not good. Not that I’d go batshit and go on a rampage to fuck as many omegas as I find, though I’ve heard of such stories. But I’ll probably have to swallow my pride and contact an alpha-and-omega agency, set up for such cases.

I grip my hair, messing up my faux-hawk. I fucking hate this. Fucking hate how being an alpha means I could lose control at any moment, that my body can take over, get behind the wheel and the rest of me will be forced to ride shotgun, even more if it’s for omegas who aren’t even mine. Not my pack.

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