Page 21 of Gigi and the Gym Rats

Like I have been doing to Ronin.

But I won’t be thinking of Ronin tonight. This is the whole purpose of this exercise. No thinking about Ronin, Zayne, or Casey.

To achieve that, I throw myself into preparations for the outing. You’d think I’m going to the Met Gala or something. Goes to show I don’t go out often enough. Truth is, after waking up at five every day to go running, then work, classes and gym, I’m usually dead on my feet by nightfall.

So sexy, Gigi.

No wonder you haven’t had sex in more than a year and you pant like a bitch in heat every time you see a hunk.

And this is Hunkville. It’s like Disneyland but for adults. With hunks.

You could get diabetes from all the eye-candy here.

So I have high hopes for tonight.

Ronin is conspicuously absent tonight—probably because I’m making myself pretty and it’s just my luck he won’t see me in anything else than running clothes or my jammies, ever.

Casey is out as well. Which is fine. Totally fine. After all, did I just say?

No thinking about them tonight.

I’m not really into fashion and I don’t think my clothes reflect my personality, not like my friends’. Bee loves her floral dresses, as do Coco and June, a reflection of their sunny omega side, and Sophie loves her dramaticfemme fatalelong dresses for when she goes out. I favor light, sports clothes, practical and comfortable. My go-to clothes are leggings, running shorts and pants, breathable tops, and running shoes.

You could argue, betas tend to do that. It’s a lifestyle thing. But not all betas spend their days dressed like that. I may not look like a hobo because my sports clothes are good quality, and yet…

And yet tonight I’m too aware that I need to dress differently. Make myself pretty. Sexy. Attractive.

God, has it really been so long since I last went clubbing?

I eventually settle on a short black dress—go classic or go home, right?—and black high heeled pumps. A black pearl necklace—fake, because no oysters will be harmed for the purposes of this outing—and my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and I’m all set.

Let’s do this.

The doorbell rings and I rush to open the door. The girls trot inside and instantly start fussing over me.

“Let your hair down.” Coco tugs on my ponytail. “What is this office uniform you got on? Tonight is about having fun.”

“Let your hair down!” June and Bee start to chant, “Let your hair down!”

So I let my hair down.

“Happy?” I comb my fingers through my red curls and now I wish I had taken the time to straighten my hair or created those perfect curls with the hot iron.

But Coco is now pulling on my hand. “Come on, let’s go. It’s happy hour! Don’t want to miss it.”

We’re heading to a bar Coco swears is full of hunks. And I believe her, like I said. I have the feeling that every way I look these days, all I see is gorgeous beefcakes and elegant omegas.

Surely the betas will make me proud, too.

The girls’ excitement is contagious—though, okay, I’m excited, too, I’ll admit. In big part it’s simply the fact of breaking the routine I’ve been working so hard on maintaining, while at the same time working toward my main goal, that of finding a suitable beta, or if not, at least a suitable man to spend the night with.

Someone who isn’t my roommate or my trainer.

Someone I can say goodbye to after one night and not create a painful situation.

The bar is called The Alpha Bet, and I like the name, if only because it mentions an alpha and a beta, not an alpha and an omega. Sue me if you like. Small victories do count in a world dominated by the other designations.

Go, betas!

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