Chapter 2 #3
“Are you for them or againsht them?” My speech is very, very slightly slurred, and yes, there’s a chance I am a little tipsy, but luckily, I’m one of those people who hides it well.
Branson’s completely oblivious, I’m sure of that.
“For or again…sss…t?” I repeat, to prompt him, when he doesn’t answer.
His top lip pulls up as though he doesn’t understand the question. “I’m for it,” he says.
Ha! For it. We’ll see about that.
Watch. He’s going to walk right into this.
“Annd, why’s that?” I ask, placing my elbow on the table and resting my chin on the back of my hand.
“Because,” he says as though he’s talking to someone who is failing to grasp a simple concept, “I believe all human beings should have agency over their bodies.”
Oh.
Yes.
Well, that’s the correct answer.
I must have phrased the question wrong. “But,” I trill, dragging the word out, “and be honest now, as an alpha, wouldn’t your life be a lot better without suppressants?”
He looks genuinely confused. “How’d you figure?”
God. The poor thing. He’s not very bright. “Because, silly, just think how much ass you’d get if omegas weren’t on suppressants.”
Okay.
Oof.
I heard that, and it was unfortunate. I wasn’t expecting to have to spell it out for him, and I vastly preferred my life before I brought sex into an already uncomfortable conversation with my ex-boyfriend’s alpha brother.
“But, Lucy,” says Branson, expression earnest and somehow devastating at the same time, “I get all the ass I can handle with suppressants. How would a lack of suppressants change anything?”
With that, every topic of conversation that ever existed, now and in the past, drops out of my head.
I sit at the table in silence as Branson clears the dishes.
I watch, wordlessly, as he opens overhead cupboards and selects the largest glass he can find, filling it to the top with water and handing it to me as I make my way to the sofa.
I know what he’s doing and why. It’s a clear and deliberate attempt to dilute aspects of my personality.
Honestly, I can’t say I judge him.
He fusses with the fire, tossing a few more logs on, and sits on the floor near it, legs stretched out, with his back against the wall.
“You don’t have to sit there,” I say. “You can sit on the sofa. I’m fine.”
He waves me off. “Nah, it’s no biggie. I like being near the fire.”
I wonder dimly whether I’ve frightened him, and whether there’s anything I can do about it if I have. As I grapple with that, I sip my water and stare at the space where the TV should be. I find a slight bulge in the plaster that casts a semi-circular shadow on the wall and fix my gaze on it.
I do it until my eyes threaten to water, and then finally, let them drift down to Branson.
His legs are crossed at the ankles. Feet snug in gray mohair socks. Now and again, he rubs one over the other in a relaxed gesture that gives me hope that even though it’s clear I’ve traumatized him, he’s strong. Resilient. Chances are, he’ll make a full recovery. Or at least a partial one.
When I finish my water, he gets up quickly and fills my glass again. It’s obvious he has concerns about my sobriety, and though I’d love to educate him on the matter, I think I’ve done enough educating for one day.
I’m here for three days plus ’bout a week. I have to save something to talk about for the rest of the time I’m here.
I focus on the shadow on the wall and my new glass of water. It’s a cool weight in my hands, slightly precarious, as I raise it to my lips and take a sip.
I try not to look at Branson.
The trouble is, now that I’ve stopped talking, I’ve become aware of his ink.
Not aware of it. That’s the wrong word. Obviously, I know he has tattoos.
He has them all over. They cover his arms and peek out of the V on his neck where his shirt collar opens.
They’re one of the first things you notice about him.
Not the first thing, but the second or third.
The first thing is his height. And the second is his cutting bone structure and amber eyes. Then it’s his musculature. Then it’s his broad shoulders and thick facial hair.
You know what? I don’t know the exact order of things people notice about Branson. I don’t spend my time thinking about things like that. It’s just that his tattoos are all but impossible to miss.
Burning flames and vibrant swirls of color. Flowers and feathers.
I’ve seen them before. Lots of times. The trouble is that right now, I feel deeply compelled to point out to him that he’s heavily inked, but at the same time, I’m aware that it would be the stupidest, most inane, most absurd thing a human being has ever said to another.
It would be right up there with telling someone the sky is blue.
Or that snow is cold.
No. Whatever else happens while I’m up here, I mustn’t mention his tattoos. And for the avoidance of doubt, I don’t think I should look at them very much either.
And maybe—not for any major reason, but just because I feel like it—I’ll take a double dose of my Suppressetine tonight.