Chapter 7
Seven
Truett
“ I don’t know, Truett. Where did you say you got this name?”
I cleared my throat. “It came up as a person of interest in a case that I’m working on.” Which wasn’t a lie. It had come up in OJ’s case.
“Definitely military, but his file is locked down tight. Was discharged six months ago, though no fixed address, according to his VA records. He was pretty severely injured by an IED, and has more metal in his body than the Terminator. No records between the time he enlisted in the Marines to the time he was discharged. A ghost in the wind, basically.”
My buddy Tim over at the VA had done a search on the name Lance Alcott for me, and I wasn’t really surprised by those results. There was an underlying feeling of danger around OJ’s new housemate, and it had set all my senses tingling, despite his designation.
“Tim, you sure this is our guy? How old is he?”
“Caucasian, aged thirty, six foot three. Sound about right?”
My jaw tensing, I made an affirmative noise. Who the fuck did OJ have living with her? “Yeah, that’s him. Anything in his file that suggests he might be mentally unstable?”
Tim laughed. “We’re all a little unstable, Truett. But whatever he saw, they gave him a service dog to help, so yeah, I’d say he has a good dose of PTSD.” He paused. “Actually, the service dog is a retired MWD. That’s a military working dog.”
Yeah, that sounded like the antsy German Shepherd who’d eyed me like he wanted to rip my arm off at the front door.
“Thanks, Tim. I appreciate the help, man. We should have drinks sometime this month.” We made a little more small talk before I hung up, slumping back into my office chair.
Corporal Lance Alcott from Wisconsin. What was he doing here in South Carolina, and what was he doing in my best friend’s childhood home, befriending his stepsister?
I went back to looking at the police report from OJ’s arrest. As Frankie Gunnar had told me over the phone—when he’d giddily informed me he’d taken her to lockup—she’d been caught fleeing the crime scene with a half-dead chicken under her sweatshirt. Frankie had said that if it had just been him, he would’ve let her go. But his partner was a hardass and followed the rulebook like it was his religion, so Frankie had been forced to take her in.
The investigation around the cockfighting was rushed and hasty, and if I was representing one of the ringleaders who’d been caught in the bust, it would be easy enough to pick it to pieces. However, I was fairly sure that OJ would skin me alive if, while getting her charges thrown out, I got everyone else’s thrown out with them.
I had to find a way to extract OJ, and somehow use her to solidify the remaining charges. I needed to convince the DA’s office that it would be more hassle than it was worth to pursue baseless charges.
Which meant talking to Strat Wilmington. Pompous asshole. There was something about his good old boy, affable nature that always pissed me off. It wasn’t because he was an Omega, either. I was totally okay with Omegas in the workforce. Respected it. Citrine was like a mother to me, and she would beat my ass with a Manolo if I ever suggested that Omegas shouldn’t get higher education and a chance at their dream careers, just because of their designation.
Stretching, I rolled to my feet with a yawn. OJ wasn’t the only one who’d been up all night. But despite my tiredness, when I lay down on my bed in my penthouse apartment, the only place I wanted to be was back at the Chalmers estate with Sonny and OJ. I wanted to be wherever her chaos was.
I contemplated messaging her, but instead, I texted Sonny. If I tried to talk to OJ again today, she’d probably find a way to castrate me.
Me: How’s Juice?
Sonny: Annoyed. Maybe a little guilty. She’s playing barbershop with her white knight.
Me: My contact at the VA says he’s a former Marine. PTSD. He needs to get out in case he snaps and hurts her.
I felt like an asshole, but I would fucking piss off every person between here and D.C. to protect the people I considered mine.
And Otillie-James Baler was definitely mine.
Sonny: He seems all right. I’ll watch him, though. Maybe we should make sure one of us is here whenever he’s around. I have some leave saved up anyway.
Yeah, OJ was probably going to be the one to snap if we were around all the time, but I didn’t care. Her safety came first.
I grinned at the idea of riling her. Fuck, she was something to behold when she was angry. You could almost feel electricity crackling off her skin and you didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss you or punch you in the face. She was passionate, and in our world, that was something rare. In high society, they bred women the same way they bred frou-frou dogs—even-tempered and with a good pedigree.
Grabbing my laptop, I took it into the living room and tossed it on the couch, before pouring myself a couple of fingers of whiskey. I loved my apartment, but tonight, it felt empty. I mean, it was kind of empty; the interior designer had called it minimalist.
Sonny and I had been talking about buying a Packhouse for a while now, but while it was just the two of us, it hardly seemed necessary. We could wait until we found an Omega, and she could choose where we lived when we started our Pack life together. Still, tonight I wished that we’d taken the plunge already.
Slumping down on the couch, I turned the TV onto the news channel and opened my laptop to view the files sent to me by Frankie. I’d put in the formal request, but Frankie had helped me out by getting it to me earlier.
It seemed pretty basic, as far as an investigation went. Kind of run-of-the-mill police work. After three complaints by a member of the public—no awards for guessing which member of the public that was—an investigation had been opened in coordination with the ASPCA. There were notes about conversations with informants, followed by a little lapse in any groundwork before the animal welfare officer contacted the police with information about a possible event being held last night.
The reports from last night’s raids were all pretty succinct. At least twelve people had been picked up, but they’d clammed up almost immediately. Some had previous charges, ranging from assault to animal cruelty, which wasn’t a surprise. There was also a note about a suspect being arrested in possession of a bird, and I rolled my eyes.
Damn Otillie-James Baler.
There were just lists of names. Eventually, more accounts would come through once I got the official reports, but in the meantime, I stared down at the list of names and mugshots. None of them meant anything to me, but it wouldn’t hurt to do a little research. I sent off a request to the district attorney’s office to get a meeting with Strat Wilmington, then shut my computer.
Strat and I had been in the same year at Berkeley, competitors in every way, despite being in the same frat, the same classes, the same everything, except I was an Alpha and he was an Omega. Not that his designation hindered him in any way. We competed for grades, girls, and extra-curriculars.
No one had been more surprised than I was when he became an assistant DA, but I had no doubts he had something bigger planned. This was just a rung on whatever ladder he wanted to run up, probably to become a judge. Or maybe President. Strat always had some lofty goals, along with the cunning to achieve them.
Fucking dick.
Exhaustion raced through my body, and I laid my head back on the overstuffed cushions of the couch. It had been my only demand of the interior designer. I didn’t want to sit on some skinny, hard couch at the end of a long day. I wanted something soft that molded to my body.
I snorted. What I really needed was to get laid. Opening a designation-only dating app on my phone, I spent thirty minutes flicking through profiles. They all looked the same—a reflection of what society thought men wanted. They were mostly Betas, but there were a few Omegas on there, even a couple of ballsy Unshowns.
But no one was right.
Who was I kidding? They weren’t right, because they weren’t my best friend’s stepsister. I was so fucking screwed.
So for the millionth time since she’d landed in my arms as a teen, I found myself opening my pants and pulling out my cock. Spitting on my hand, I stroked myself to the thought of Otillie-James Baler.
Her plush mouth. Her curvy little body. Her lush tits.
I imagined her on her knees in front of the couch, licking her lips as she eyed my cock in my hand. I’d tell her to suck me, and her eyes would flash with defiance, warring between wanting to taste me and telling me to fuck off. And then, when she was good and ready, she’d take my cock in her mouth and swirl that pretty tongue around my head. She’d suck me down until I hit the back of her throat.
Gripping my dick harder, I pulled it almost violently. Spreading around the precum, I imagined pulling her onto my lap, pushing myself inside her, my face right between her tits.
Fuck. Fuck...
I stroked harder and faster, my imagination getting more and more depraved as I imagined all the ways I wanted to fuck her. Imagined placing my teeth on the curve of her shoulder and biting down, claiming her as mine.
My release shot up my spine, and too soon, I was blowing my load all over my abs. I let my head flop back onto the couch again, sighing as the pleasure gave way to the guilt chaser that inevitably followed.
We weren’t that far apart in age, but something about jerking off to OJ always felt forbidden. Like I was sullying something good and perfect.
Sighing, I used my shirt to clean myself up and hauled myself to the shower.