Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mal
Exposed
I know, I know. That’s backstory. So how’d I end up here, on the run in a shitty hotel room?
Well, that’s where the careless part comes in.
Miracle of miracles, my bike was still there. Mom had to help me load it into her trunk because I was on bottle number two of Tully at that point and falling-down drunk.
Quite a feat for a shifter. I wanted to relish it because I knew I’d be sober again in an hour or two.
We did more shopping on the way home. She stopped by the bank for a cash withdrawal and then bought me a new laptop, tablet, and phone.
I had a feeling the reason was so Dad wouldn’t have a chance to put tracking software on any of them.
And while the new phone was in her name, it wasn’t on the same plan as the others.
By the time Dad and my brothers returned from their trip, I had a haircut and new clothes. Lana Chastain visited our house twice with just me and Mom to talk, and we laid down the ground rules of this little charade.
No, Lana wasn’t any happier about this arrangement than I was.
Except on her end it was worse, because her parents wanted her to marry me and start popping out Sterling grandpups as soon as possible instead of “wasting time” going back to college.
Her parents were in the dark about Dad’s offer, I guess.
At least, that’s what she and Mom thought.
Honestly? I wasn’t so sure. I’ve been screwed over enough by the old man to assume there were hidden levels to this that I didn’t know about. Like he let me have enough rope he could easily bind me and Lana together so we couldn’t escape.
Especially if he was planning a run for Congress.
Tom, Dick, and Harry—as I refer to my brothers, whose real names are Thad, David, and Harrison—are all married. Thad’s wife, Brynnella, is pregnant with their first pup. As I understand, David’s and Harrison’s wives are trying to get pregnant.
From little things I’ve heard, however, I have a feeling they aren’t trying nearly as hard as my brothers think they are.
Like a conversation Mom didn’t realize I overheard where she gave David’s wife Carleen information on natural concoctions she could use to help keep her from catching.
Dad wants a whole stage full of family behind him for promo ops during his campaign, I’m sure. Wouldn’t do for the leader of the Atlanta Pack to not have a houseful of grandpups so he can pretend to be a doting grandfather, right?
My three Alpha brothers are nearly as cut-throat as my father, except for one crucial element—they’re dumb as rocks.
No seriously, they are.
The only reason they graduated high school and, later, university was my father’s pull and pocketbook. They work for Dad. Everything they have is because of him.
The ultimate nepo babies, right?
The problem is they’re annoying shitheads who think they’re smarter than they really are, and to their credit they do a pretty good job of pretending.
I think that’s something else my father resents. That me, the omega son, got all the brains. Empirically, I am smarter than them, from my test scores to getting away with shit that they’d never dreamed of doing.
The omega son never needed, much less asked for, help from the old man. Never needed a tutor. Got into trade school without needing money.
Was working independently, never asking for a single penny from him or Mom, not since I was a kid.
A few weeks after my unwilling return, my father started spending a lot of time away from home working with his campaign consultants.
I dressed the part around him, pretended to do things with Lana—I mean, we were out doing things, but not like he thought we were—and kept my head down to lull him into a false sense of security.
Which is where I screwed up.
Big time.
I’d started frequenting a club just northwest of downtown, and had never scented another shifter there of any kind.
A predominantly gay club.
My father thought I was going out with Lana on those nights, her parents thought she was with me, and we were both mutually doing our own things on those nights but staying in touch via text in case we needed to get our stories straight.
I went to the club seven times, hooking up with guys—humans—and having a blast.
Unfortunately, it was the eighth time when I fucked up. What, only nine days ago?
God, it feels like forever.
I’m only 5’-10” and 180 pounds, but this adorable little guy was even twinkier than I am—that’s a word, right?—and I had him pressed against a wall, swapping spit with him in preparation of asking if he wanted to go somewhere else, when a hand painfully clamped onto my shoulder.
I spun, ready to throw punches, when I froze.
Because the hand belonged to Dad’s guy, Paul.
Motherfucker.