14. FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
Bastien
I tuck my hands under my head and stare up at the dark ceiling of my bedroom, my conversation with Vera still circling in my head.
I feel lighter after talking to her. My muscles have lost that heavy, dead weight feeling that was making me sluggish.
The same thing that’s made me into a very grouchy bear this week.
Lucky I work alone at this time of year.
I swear every interaction I’ve had with someone since Vera left Mosswood has ended in me feeling like I’d like to tear their heads off. That’s how I know it’s me and not them.
Absently I rub that point in the center of my chest where my rib cage feels too tight, as if my heart is trying to escape and go upstate to find her.
I wasn’t sure after I bit her if the mate bond would form properly since she’s not technically a shifter.
Well maybe it hasn’t formed for Vera, but it sure as hell is alive and well in me.
There’s more to it, though, because when she was in heat, I purred for her, and not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but I’ve sure as hell never had a knot for anyone else.
Because I don’t have a lot of options, I pick up my phone and send a message to my father. I don’t expect a fast answer. If he answers at all it could be days. But he might be able to help here.
Bas: Hi, listen. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some information. What can you tell me about a beta being able to knot an omega? Do you know anyone it’s happened to? I didn’t know who else to ask
As expected, there’s no response. I sigh and put the phone aside.
Not for the first time, I wonder if Vera would respond very badly to me simply driving up there, storming into her dorm, slinging her over my shoulder, and taking her home with me, where she belongs.
Gods, I’m being pathetic. She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want me.
Rolling over I read her messages once again, smiling at the part where she says I helped make her feel better.
She wrote it off as getting sick, but what if she’s feeling it too? The thought of her suffering like this is unbearable, but she’s still fighting it. I feel it—feel her straining against the connection so hard it hollows me out inside.
A message notification pops up, dragging me out of my funk.
Riley: hey man, I’m back in town at the weekend. We should go out and watch the game at The Den.
I grimace. Do I really want to go out to watch the game where it’s crowded and drinks cost four times as much as the case in my cellar?
Bas: Why don’t we stay in?
Riley: So being a homeowner really does suck the life out of you, huh? Come on, why are you acting like such a boomer?
I know he’s just shit stirring, but I can’t even find a smile. I don’t even reply. Instead I go back to the string of texts between me and Vera, reading hers for the hundredth time.
Riley, not to be put off, keeps trying: come on it’ll be fun. I’m not taking no for an answer. You know that, don’t you?
He won’t.
Begrudgingly I agree to meet him Saturday night at The Den, Mosswood’s only bar.
Then I put my phone on charge and try to get some sleep.
That should be easy for me this time of year, but the reality is, I stare at my bedroom ceiling for at least two more hours before finally drifting off.
My bed doesn’t smell right. I don’t smell right, and I know the particular citrusy sweet smell that’s missing.
Just as I predicted, The Den is packed. Everyone is wearing the team colors of black and green. On the tiny TV screen in the corner, the Jacks are warming up, tossing the ball and working through their stretches.
At least I don’t have to listen to the shitty commentators saying how they’re on the best losing streak they’ve ever seen and how they’re certain to maintain their perfect record.
Fuckers.
Our time will come again, I know it.
Riley slides two beers onto the high table in front of me and takes a seat on his stool. “See? Isn’t this better than watching it at home? Feel the atmosphere.”
The air is thick and tainted with phoenix smoke from the gently flaming figure in the corner with his arm slung over the back of the booth. A rowdy chant starts up at the back of the bar where a heavy-set bovine shifter cups his hands around his mouth to cheer for our local boy, Colton Hester.
Riley’s right. It should feel good being out with other Jacks fans. All I can muster when a jackal shifter at the bar loudly boos the commentary scrawling across the screen in the closed captions is a shrug. “Sure.”
My phone buzzes, and I fish it out to spot a message from my father. I blink.
Hunter: don’t get your hopes up, son. You’d have to find your fated mate and even then I’m pretty sure it’s bullshit cooked up by storytellers
No hello, no how are you. I’m too shocked by what his message says to sulk over that, though. Fated mate? Fuck. No wonder I feel hollowed out inside.
Riley takes a sip of his beer and eyes me suspiciously. “What is it?”
I drag my eyes away from the TV to meet his gaze. “Huh?”
“What is it, Bas? There’s something up with you; I can smell it.”
I take a sip of my own drink and tell myself to lighten up. I’d rather avoid the awkward explaining I’d have to do if he pressed me for the truth. “I dunno. I just can’t stand watching them lose again.” I jerk my head toward the screen.
He scowls, jumping off his stool. “Hey now. That’s no way to talk. Wash your mouth out immediately. In fact, drink up. That’s your problem. You need more beer.”
He pushes my beer toward me and won’t let up until I’ve drained half the glass.
“Better.” He nods and climbs back onto his stool. “Now, we don’t have to talk about it, but whoever she is, she’s a loser, OK?”
My hand tightens on the glass reflexively, and I set it down to avoid smashing it. It’s just Riley talking shit, but I have the inexplicable urge to put my fist into his face. “She’s not. It’s just complicated.” Then I realize what I’ve done.
Riley’s brows lift. “Ah-ha! So there is someone. Well fuck her. Or don’t, but I’m glad you’re back out there. It’s been too long since you dated anyone. You know my parents want grandkids, and I’ve always figured you’ll be the one to make them faux grandparents first. You’re the dad type.”
I take another drink to cover my awkwardness. If he only knew. I doubt Riley will ever speak to me again if I tell him I’d like to give his parents grandkids for real.
He’s still talking. “I mean, it won’t be me. I’m still too busy sewing my wild oats, and Vera’s still in school—” He gives me a weird look when I spit my mouthful of beer back into the glass.
“College.”
“Huh?”
“Vera’s graduating college this year. That’s not the same thing as being in school.” It’s messed up that I bit and mated my best friend’s little sister without her permission, but I’m not a pervert. “She’s a grown woman.”
Riley snorts. “Whatever you say. She’ll always be little baby bunny to me.”
I shake my head at the childhood nickname Vera always hated. “You know you’re an asshole sometimes, right? You should be nicer to her.”
“Why? She might be smol, but she can take a bit of ribbing.”
I open my mouth to answer, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I glance down I see it’s a message from Vera.
Vera: 9pm College Bar
I frown as a cold spear shoots down my spine. On one level I’m glad she took me seriously.
On another, every fiber of my being is screaming hell no!
There’s no way I’m letting my goddam mate fuck some other dude. I push off my stool so fast it goes crashing to the floor, and the noise in the bar cuts as if someone lifted one of those old-fashioned arms on a record. “I ah… I have to go.”
It’s five o’clock. If I leave now, I could be in the city by nine if I break the speed limit and drive like a demon out of hell all the way.
“Hey, are you OK? Should I come?”
“No! No. I’m fine. I just. There’s somewhere I have to be.”
Riley shakes his head. “OK, man. Call me if you need backup. I’ve got you.”
Oh, he has no idea. I storm out of the bar and straight to my truck. I start the engine before I’ve even had time to consider what the hell I’m doing. I reverse so fast I almost crash into the car on the opposite side of the parking lot.
Fucked if I’m letting Vera hook up with some rando when I could be making her cum on my cock, on my face, my hands.
I’m sporting a semi just thinking about it and have to palm him down and concentrate on the road. Fuck waiting for her to realize. Fuck worrying that I’ll scare her or make her mad. It’s fate! I’ve got to go get my mate.
My hands turn to paws on the steering wheel, and I have to focus on breathing and imagine the moment when I’ve scared the living shit out of whatever human guy she thinks she’s going on a date with tonight and have her in my arms just to stop myself from doing a half-shift.
This is going to be the longest drive of my life.