Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Playing: I’m Not Angry Anymore by Paramore
Stacia and I meet on the side of town that we’re not fully familiar with. There’s a shopping center, and the group is being held in an old therapy office. I have anxious jitters when I get there, and Stacia kisses Uriah goodbye as he drops her off.
“I’m so proud of you, Cranny,” Stacia says as we try to find the right room number.
Her praise makes me the tiniest bit happy, but my nerves cause me to sigh. “I just… I don’t want my mother to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“I know. This group will be good for you. For me, too. My therapist says this group is highly talked about by her colleagues and that I could benefit from it as well. Most of the people who go specifically talk about their alpha parents or partners that abuse their barks and have a high sense of self-importance, but she says it works for my situation too—rich, designation-bias parents. ”
I nod, knowing that Stacia trusts her therapist. I think I’m just nervous about reaching out. Possibly speaking about the things my mother used to do. It feels like an impossible step to take.
The support group is both smooth and rocky, but the people are nice enough. The hour flies by, everybody getting a slotted time frame to discuss how things have been and how they’ve changed their habits with the narcissists in their lives.
When it gets to me and Stacia, we introduce ourselves but keep the details a bit vague.
I specifically bring up my mother’s tendency to use her bark and many of the other omegas in the group agree that it’s a narcissist’s favorite form of control.
The advice that follows includes how to deal with the somewhat PTSD of it and how to rewire the belief structure that all alphas abuse it.
Both are very helpful, and I’m already coming up with affirmations to use as we leave at the end of the session.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Stacia comments as we walk across the street to get a coffee. “Do you want to go back next week?”
I just shrug. “If we both have time, sure. We can make it our weekly support group and dinner date.”
We enter the cafe at the wrong—or maybe the right—time because I run right into another customer on their way out. Luckily, they avoid spilling hot coffee on me by pouring it on themselves, the hot brew mixing in with their naturally spicy scent.
Their amber scent.
“Oh fuck.” My eyes widen as Jett hisses at the pain. Hot, boiling coffee just hit him right in the chest, and I know it must have hurt because his t-shirt is thin.
Like, really thin. Like I might be able to see his abs through it right now as the coffee drips further down.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Jett says enthusiastically, but I can see the lie flicker briefly across his features. He’s a good actor, but he can’t get past me.
“Let me help.” I take his now empty cup and throw it in the trashcan, then I discreetly give Stacia my wallet. “Get him a new one. It’s just black coffee. And get yourself something, too.” She winks at me and heads to the counter.
“How did you get here? Did you order a ride across town?” I ask him, curious.
Jett smiles despite the pain and shakes his head. “Dax actually let me drive his car.”
I smile wide. “Oh shit. You guys are at the stage where you can officially borrow each other’s stuff?”
“Technically. And within reason. We obviously have to ask each other. Although he’s constantly stealing my shirts.”
I lose my breath a little bit at that. My omega is a slut for that information.
“Okay, so I can take you home if you want. We can treat your burns,” I respond, changing the subject.
“I don’t have any burns?—”
“Jett,” I warn, giving him a stern stare. “Let me help you.”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes just before he relents. “Fine. But you can’t abandon your best friend. Let’s take her home first and then we can figure out what to do from there.”
I give a firm nod just as Stacia comes over to us with a tray of drinks. When I hand him his own, he glares at me. “You did not just get me another coffee.”
My smile is victorious as I take a sip of my own. “Come on, Stacia. We’re going to get you home and then I’m tending to an alpha’s wounds.”
“They’re not wounds—” he tries to say again but I’m already walking out of the door.
“I’m so glad my roommate isn’t here,” Jett mutters as we head into his dorm room. It’s small and a bit cramped, but I don’t mind as Jett tosses his keys on his desk. His side is the neater one and that makes me happy for some reason.
“Me too. I’ve never seen where you live, so this is a treat.” I look around at the posters on his wall, loving the variety of bands and movies that I see there. His script for class is on his desk, literally riddled with notes and doodles. The personality of it gives me strange butterflies.
“Alright, let’s see those wounds,” I say, turning back to him. He sits down on his bed and opens his mouth like he’s about to argue with me again about the extent of his injuries, but then he closes it and immediately yanks his shirt off for me to see.
The second his shirt is off, I realize what a bad idea this is. The horny omega inside of me makes an appearance, and my eyes glaze over as I look upon his bare chest.
I think back to our heated encounter only days after his scent came back.
The way I fought my attraction to him, how I kicked him out right after we had clutched to each other like glue.
I regret that. The only thing I see now when I look at my scent match is blazing arousal, the pull between us so strong that there’s no chance in fighting anymore.
There are so many moments and opportunities that we missed out on in the past because of our traumas. I’m not going to waste a single moment with him, not anymore.
He looks at me, waiting for me to inspect his so-called wounds—there isn’t even a burn mark present—and a wicked idea pops into my head. I try not to let the smirk show on my face as I step forward and bend down to look at him closer.
I push away any slight anxiousness and adopt the same attitude I use before I get into character on any normal day. The words come out like butter.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, we may have to take some alternative measures to treat you,” I start, feeling giddy inside my chest. “Especially since your insurance refuses to pay.”
“Alternative measures?” he eyeballs me, trying to decipher where I’m going with this.
“More”—I get down on my knees between his thighs—“ progressive measures.”
Then he gulps.