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That's my reality, and yeah, I'm okay with escaping it once in a while to live in a better one. One where love is real, and it's okay to be different, and everything works out okay in the end. If you wanna judge me for that, fine."
I've lived on this planet for twenty-two fucking years and I've never seen someone's eyes twinkle. Something is very, very wrong with this place.
Where the fuck is Heartland, again? Pretty sure it's in Texas in the book, so I guess it’s true what they say about people being friendlier down here. If I were back in Massachusetts, I’d have been flipped off six times by now, minimum.
The intensity of his stare is unsettling, to say the least. I'm pretty sure I've never looked at anything or anyone that way, except maybe a twenty-ounce sirloin at Longhorn.
No way I'm sticking around for this shit. I wanted to finish the book, not live in it. That's what I get for reading. I'm sticking to action movies with oily shirtless dudes and WWE from now on. Nothing good ever comes from literature.
"Is that the shit you say to Catalina when she's pissed?" I snap. "Because even I know better than that, dude. Relationships 101—never tell someone who's mad to calm down unless you wanna get neutered."
"Brad Miller," he answers, hiccuping as he takes another swig of beer. My God, he is so enchanting.
"Catalina?" My nose wrinkles. That's not a very growlable name at all. Not like Brad. "Isn’t that a salad dressing?"
"You know about omegas, then?" I ask. "Sure I do," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "Submissive, doe-eyed little werewolves with daddy issues and tight pussies that put off magical pheromones once a month that drive you and all the other alphas batshit, so the vamps are always trying to take them like some fucked up game of capture the flag."
He slams the empty glass down on the table and says, "I'll drink you under the table anytime, anywhere, you fleabitten mofo." All I can do is gaze at him, a strange warmth stirring in my chest. "You are a charming creature, Brad."
All I can think as I black out is how I'd better wake up in my own world, or at least one where I can be a space pirate or something cool. This omega thing is absolute, complete fucking bullshit.
Fucking hell, maybe I am a little bit gay. Like... one percent. Maybe one and a half. He spreads my cheeks and his tongue slides up my crack and it immediately skyrockets to five percent.
"Great," I mutter. "Just what I've always wanted. A magical, lube-dispensing asshole to turn alphas on."
