Chapter 26
chapter
twenty-six
Absolute Hell, Day Five.
Also known as Wednesday.
I’m not sure exactly what happened, but ever since the weekend, things between Bridget and the guys have been weird. First, she and Dante were awkward after whatever they did Saturday night. Then, Adrian and Jesse came back from their shopping trip with obsessive gleams in their eyes.
And, apparently, a whole new nest-room thing that arrived yesterday.
Along with a new fucking car .
Apparently Bridget didn’t have one. Which made no sense—we gave her money. Has she seriously been riding that ridiculously bright bicycle around for… ever?
Adrian told us she spent the cash to buy a vehicle for someone else. Which really puts a damper on my “she’s a gold-digging sociopath” narrative.
Although, the sociopath part would have been shot to hell by now either way, given how damn nice she is. Making coffee every morning, leaving leftovers out for us in the evenings. Taking groceries to her elderly neighbor. Teaching extension courses she doesn’t get paid for.
She does it all with an undefeatably upbeat attitude that sets my teeth on edge. So far, I’ve coped by calling her Bubbles in my mind—and maybe in a few conversations with her stupid tabby cat.
I don’t want to hear it, okay?
I’m here alone all day while everyone else works. Except for the two hours I spend arguing with my in-home PT every morning, I don’t talk to anyone . And Munchies is just about the only living creature too dumb to realize what an insufferable asshole I’ve become.
Today’s torture session—or “physical therapy,” allegedly—bled into early afternoon. I’m still sweaty and pissed off when the side door rattles. Munchies meows and jumps off the pink sofa I’m marooned on.
“Traitor,” I mutter, reaching for the book that’s been keeping me busy this week.
It’s from Bridget’s collection. Some anthology of political biographies featuring different powerful women in history.
I hold it in front of my face so whoever walks in doesn’t get any ideas about striking up a conversation.
The second I hear a cooing “Psp, psp, psp,” I know it’s Bridget.
I hate myself for lowering the book just enough to peer over the edge. Sure enough, our omega is on her knees next to the kitchen door. Wearing one of her insane outfits—a dark red dress with puffy sleeves and heart-shaped pockets stitched prominently in pink.
From the sweat darkening the roots of her pink-bowed pigtails, I’m guessing she didn’t take Adrian’s firm suggestion to call daily Ubers until her car gets here.
I’ve been watching her all week, noticing that she takes her bike each morning after the guys leave.
I haven’t ratted her out yet, but if she keeps being so damn annoying …
Munchies trots off, and Bridget watches him go, blowing out a silent sigh before turning her attention to me. Pasting on a fake smile to go with her fake engagement ring.
“Oh, hi!” she chirps, perky as ever.
I nearly slip and call her Bubbles, but strangle my reply into a grunt.
“ Women Who Changed the World ,” she says, reading the title of my borrowed book aloud. Her eyes narrow in faux-suspicion. “You stole that from my shelves, didn’t you?”
“Borrowed it,” I grunt.
Her lips twitch. “Without permission.”
“I borrowed it,” I repeat, ignoring her, “And when I’m done I’ll put it back. You’re a librarian . This concept shouldn’t be new to you.”
The obvious amusement on her face lights a fire in the pit of my stomach. She smirks, eying the book in my hands.
“That’s a good one,” she shrugs. “I think I liked Not-So - Well Behaved Women more, though. I’ll loan it to you if you want; that way you don’t have to steal it from me.”
Damn it all to hell . I do want to read that. I won’t admit it , though.
“I’m fine.” My eyes glance at the clock on the wall next to her back door. It’s not even four. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “Isn’t school out at three-thirty?”
Bridget stands and strolls over. Her thick-soled sandals are as pink as her bows and adorned with small daisy charms. Not that I’m looking at her dainty feet or the thick, shapely legs attached to them.
“School gets out early on Wednesdays. Duh.” Bridget pays no mind to the crutches leaning against the couch. She moves them to my other side and takes the seat next to me.
I drop my book to my lap, scowling. “I’m sitting here.”
She smirks. “Yep. Here. In my house. Small world, huh, Salty?”
My molars grind. “Salty?”
I watch her snort back a laugh. “Yeah. You smell salty like the beach, and you also act like a salty old man, so it sort of works on two levels.”
My Alpha lurches upright, both of us outraged. But before I can even get a snarl out, Bridget’s face brightens. She nudges my arm with her elbow and wags her auburn eyebrows. “Speaking of: Betty, the old bitch down the street? She said you have a shot. Want me to swipe right on that for you?”
Is this real life? Is she seriously this clueless?
Instead of withering under my glare, she deflates into the cushions, gazing up at the ceiling as she goes on, “You two would probably be blissfully unhappy together. You both love loungewear. And complaining. Betty isn’t big on reading, though, so you might want to learn how to play Mahjong.”
No . I am not going to smile goddamn it .
Bridget must sense she’s making me somewhat less murderous because she quirks another small smile, still staring at the orange bubble chandelier.
“Of course, she’s a Leo and you’re a Scorpio. Great sex, but communication is gonna be a bitch. On the upside, you’ve definitely got the whole ‘stubborn pain in the ass’ thing in common.”
Sunlight from the French doors fills Bridget’s soft, pert features. It must momentarily fry my brain, also, because I offer her the barest lift of my brows. “Meaning?”
Bridget waves her hand, its painted fingernails glittering. “Weren’t you supposed to be off those crutches this week? And out of your sling?”
Well. Thinking I might not hate her was nice while it lasted. All forty seconds of it.
“I already had physical therapy today,” I grumble, kicking out the leg trapped in a corrective boot. “I don’t remember calling for a second opinion.”
Bridget cackles. “ As if I’d only be your second opinion.”
She doesn’t scold me for running off the first four trainers—she doesn’t have to. Her taunt is true, and we both know it. Hell, she may even have a point about me being salty.
Back in our penthouse, it was easy to ignore how dark shit had gotten. The days started to blur together—and with our pack’s constant sniping and tense silences, my general attitude fit right in. But now? Here?
Bridget makes sure I know exactly how sullen and exasperating I’ve become. Every single day.
She doesn’t even have to say anything. It’s obvious . The way she hums while she fixes her hair, the cheerful array of shoes piled beside the front door. Random, hilarious penis figurines in every color casually dotting her shelves. The dumb, purring cat who won’t leave me alone.
As if it never occurred to the idiotic furball that anyone could be anything less than delighted to see his hairy orange ass. Because his owner is a ball of pure fucking sunshine .
This whole house feels tailor-made to point out just how miserable I am. Right down to the lemon-cheesecake scent currently smothering me.
And the way it makes my knot twitch.
Bridget’s amused expression doesn’t help. She pokes my good leg with the toe of her pink sandal. “C’moooon, you know you can do it! What if I sit here and cheer for you?”
Something painful stabs my gullet, then squirms down to my stomach. I picture myself trying to get to my feet and falling flat on my face. The image is one I’ve envisioned a million times at this point, and it’s the reason I refuse to try whenever the PT is here.
But if that happened in front of Bridget?
My teeth grit. “No.”
She narrows her blue, blue eyes. “What if I need help getting a book from the top shelf? Would you seriously say no to that?”
I make a show of sitting back and spreading my good arm across the cushions—which definitely has nothing to do with my knuckles almost grazing her shoulder. Obviously. “I’d say you’ve been living here alone for a year. Surely you have some way of getting your books down, Bubbles.”
Damn it.
DAMN IT.
Bridget’s gaze sparkles. Her elegant brows quirk. “Bubbles?”
There’ll be no living with her now. I’m going to have to move out. Go on the lam. Shave my head.
The omega refuses to look away. Excitement brightens her pretty face, betraying just how long she’s been waiting for me to slip up and give her a glimpse of my inner workings.
Jesus.
Bubbles?
That’s the thought she gets insight into?
I have to work to keep my voice from edging into a growl. “You’re… bubbly .”
Bridget’s smirk slowly blossoms into a grin. “I am bubbly. Just like you’re salty.”
Does she have to be so funny? And right ? I wave a hand as carelessly as I can. “There’s another couch, you know. Get your book and sit over there. Maybe, if you’re quiet, you won’t be quite so annoying.”
Bridget sticks her tongue out at me. “Whatever, Salty. You stink anyway.”
I’m sure. Showering with crutches has been an ordeal, and I did PT for two hours today. My own salted sandalwood scent is noticeable to me, muddled by sweat and the dank must of these three-day-old clothes.
It finally occurs to me how disgusting I probably look. My hair is down to my shoulders, my beard in full effect. Both are greasy and lank, with dried perspiration at the roots. I’m sure my skin isn’t any fresher. And, at the moment, I don’t even have my usual baseball cap to cover any of it.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to stand under hot water and actually scrub myself without balancing on a metal prop or sitting in a shower chair. I refused to even bring the one from the apartment when we moved in here.
Scowling, I pull my arm into my body, crossing it over my sling.
Bridget bounces up, chatting about her school day while she scans her bookshelves.
She tells me about a fire drill during second period and how she caught four girls vaping under the stairs after they asked to go to the nurse’s office for tampons.
I have to admit, her stories are funny. For three days in a row, she’s come home and given me a run-down of the absurdities associated with teaching high school kids. Almost like she can see under the glower on my face and somehow knows the stories really do amuse me.
I’m aware I’ve basically vowed not to have any positive feelings for this omega, but fuck. She doesn’t make it easy.
She pulls a painted footstool from under one of the end tables and sets it in front of her shelves, giving away just how she usually gets her own books down.
It’s a few feet tall and clearly something she found in whatever thrift market she bought her silverware from.
When she steps onto it, the legs groan, and my pulse stutters.
Because Adrian will skin me alive if anything happens to her on my watch , I decide.
Not because I care .
Shut up.
The stool stays put. Bridget stretches as far as she can, reaching for a book on the very highest shelf. Her fingertips graze it. She bites her lower lip and strains a little further…
I don’t notice I’ve moved to the edge of my seat until she balances on her tippy toes and hops .
My heart jumps at the same second she does. Crutches , I think. I need to ? —
Scrambling, I start to reach for the metal sticks, but it’s too late. Bridget loses her balance. She shrieks. A book goes flying behind her head as she misses the top of the stool when she tries to land. She careens backward, arms flailing?—
And then I’m there .
Here. On the floor. On my knees.
Only barely managing to get one arm under her head before it hits the floor.
The rest of her goes down pretty hard, though. I growl in frustration. “Fuck, are you okay?” My hand skims the side that hit first. “Let me see.”
Bridget’s face makes no sense. She’s wincing, clearly in pain, but her plump pink lips pull into a crazy grin. “Colt?—”
“No,” I grunt, rolling her uninjured side onto my thighs so I can lean over her. “You might have bruising. We should get some ice.”
“Colt,” she tries to protest again.
I flash her a snarl. “Can you stop talking for ten seconds while I make sure your damn limbs work? What about your shoulder? Can you move your arm?”
Her smile only grows as I prop her neck in the crook of one elbow and use my left hand to bend her right arm.
It seems fine, but this weird look on her face is a little concerning.
Am I sure I caught her upper half before she hit her head on the floor?
Is inappropriate grinning a sign of a concussion?
“ Colt ,” she says again, nearly using an omega bark. I freeze automatically, my hand hovering over her chest, hunting for a heartbeat. My eyes snap to hers, finally taking in the… smug expression there?
What the hell?
Bridget nods at me. Specifically, at the empty sling dangling uselessly from my neck.
Oh . I stood up?
No , the self-satisfied look on her face tells me—I lunged . And darted across the room. And caught her.
And she planned the whole damn thing.
Her brows tweak as she takes in my gape. Her voice drops into a murmur. “Are you okay?”
I… am. My leg is still in the boot, and there’s a dull throb blooming in my shin—probably from putting my full weight on it for the first time in months.
My knees are creaky and in need of more stretching, but my shoulder barely aches.
The soreness almost feels like relief —similar to taking off all my catcher’s pads.
As if I’ve kept my body compressed for too long.
None of it should surprise me. This is what the doctors and therapists have been saying for the last three weeks. They told me that eventually the sling would do more harm than good. And promised that I could bear weight on this leg.
I was just too stubborn and embarrassed to try. And risk failing.
Risk finding out that I would never play baseball again.
But Bridget figured me out. Forced my hand.
The curvy, gorgeous, evil genius sits up, then wordlessly gets to her feet. When she pauses, the smile she offers is much kinder than the one she wore a minute ago. Her dainty fingers skim the top of my head in a reassuring touch.
“Don’t worry, Colt,” she hums, already walking away. “I won’t tell.”