Chapter Two
Altan
Yesterday sucked.
Work sucked.
Everything sucked.
Today wasn’t looking much better.
I didn’t love my job on a good day, but who did? It was fine, I guessed. I could pay my bills and still have fun money, and the health insurance was solid. I could deal with it not being my life’s passion. Most days, anyway.
But after today, when my boss decided, without any input from me, that I needed to go on a business trip? Screw that. And it wasn’t a little trip. Nope, it would be two full weeks and all because Bob, my former mentee, decided to freaking quit the Friday before he was supposed to leave.
There was nothing I hated more than being away from home. I was a homebody through and through. Sure, I could have fun at the club. But when it came time to go to bed, I wanted my own pillow and my cat, not a hotel room with loud people, poor air quality, and no decent place to sit.
Now, I had two days to figure out what to do with my cat, Bunny Foo-Foo, plan what to bring, and get it washed and ready, and, most challenging of all, mentally prepare myself for the fiasco that lay ahead. I was not even good at travel.
After spending the early part of the afternoon in the laundromat fighting for open machines and listening to people’s phones because apparently EarPods were not needed in public anymore, I threw everything I owned that appeared halfway professional into my largest suitcase.
“Good enough.” I picked up Bunny Foo-Foo. “If I need to buy more there, I’m expensing that shit because this is unacceptable.” One of the many reasons I loved my fur baby was that she was really independent but always seemed to know when I needed a good vent and was there for me.
Bunny Foo-Foo was the most stressful part of this trip.
None of the people I reached out to cat sit were available.
I was picky. I knew this. But she deserved only the best, and I was trying to avoid boarding at my vet if at all possible.
Finally, I sucked it up and asked the one person I knew who would say yes, even when it was super inconvenient, Brent.
Once upon a time, we were roommates, but his job on the other side of the city made the commute too long. I was going to owe him big-time.
Hey, I have a favor to ask you.
I had barely hit send when Brent called back. “And what is that favor? Does it involve a sexy alpha you want me to date?” Brent talked big but was super shy when it came to actual dating.
“Can you be serious for a second?” I told him the entire story. “So please, please, please, can you take care of Bunny Foo-Foo for me?”
“First of all, that is the worst name for a cat ever.” He’d been saying that since the day I picked her up at the shelter.
He wasn’t completely wrong, but it was the name she came with, and I felt bad changing it.
“Second of all, of course I will. But I’m probably going to stay at your place because I don’t want to deal with the extra commute of going back and forth on top of getting to work. ”
“Done. I’ll even have a grocery delivery of your favorite foods here before I leave. And, to sweeten the deal, I’ll take you out tonight.”
“Operation Forget Your Shitty Boss?”
“Sure, let’s call it that. I can’t wait.” Because as much as I loved being home, seeing my suitcase there only had me focusing on how pissed I was, and that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my night.
We met up at our favorite hangout, Stan’s. It was halfway between our apartments, affordable, and they catered to omegas and made sure predatory alpha-holes didn’t take no for an answer. It was the perfect spot to let off some steam with my bestie.
Brent and I had been friends for pretty much ever. We lived on the same street growing up, went to the same college, and lived together until last year. If there was one person who could help me get through my bad attitude so I didn’t get my ass fired, it was him.
The music could be heard down the block. Some nights, that would’ve bugged me, but it was perfect. There were going to be no thoughts going through my head other than, “This is loud.” It was going to be a fun night of venting, eating fries, and possibly meeting an alpha to chill with.
One shot, two shots, three shots in, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about work, which I supposed was the point. I was thinking about all the different ways I could have a good time. Also the point, but I may have overdone it just a tiny bit.
At first, it was the normal stuff. I dragged my bestie out onto the floor to dance. I sang karaoke, much to the disappointed ears of many, and played six rounds of billiards.
Billiards was where my bad decisions really kicked in. Each time I scratched, I took another shot. For most people, that was a fine game. One or two shots is no big deal. Only I was the worst pool player in the history of ever and lost track of the number of drinks I downed.
Would I pay for this in the morning? Absolutely. Was it worth it at the time? Also, yes. Was it going to be worth it in the morning? Not even close.
When I woke up the next morning, I hated past me…
a lot. My head was pounding. My throat felt like I had smoked seventy-two packs of cigarettes, when I, in fact, had smoked zero.
My stomach threatened to get rid of every single thing I had put in it the night before, which was probably for the best, because I might have been still slightly tipsy. And my mouth tasted like death.
I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the steam would help.
The sound of pelting water might as well have been someone banging on nails, and I lowered the velocity of the spray and brushed my teeth hoping the toothpaste wouldn’t cause my stomach to revolt.
Then, under the water I went. The steam did help.
My head was clearing. That’s when I realized I had no clue how I got home.
I messaged my bestie, and Brent sent a video.
Of course he did. To him, if something wasn’t on film, did it even happen?
Surprisingly, it was an edited video, highlighting far too many embarrassing events of the evening.
That ass never did get a hangover. When it came to the end, I saw what I’d done.
“Bunny Foo-Foo, your daddy is a fool.”
I ended the night with darts, a sport I was categorically awful at. Yet, something about all those shots had me thinking it was a great idea to make a wager. If I got the bulls-eye, he would deep clean my apartment while I was gone. And if I didn’t, I’d get a tattoo of his choice.
It wasn’t even close. I didn’t hit the bulls-eye, or the dartboard, for that matter. Nope, I hit the wall behind it.
Suck.
I either needed to get this tattoo or listen to him gloat for the next twenty, thirty, forty years because Brent never let me forget anything. Please don’t let it be an awful one.