7. Andi
Andi
This event is boring. Terribly so.
If I weren’t as emotionally drained and overstimulated from the terrible torture-like process of getting ready, and the overwhelming experience of getting yelled at from all directions on the red carpet, I’d probably feel bad that I’m not paying attention to the speeches more.
This sort of thing is an important cause. I’m sure they’re doing meaningful work, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Not when I did have to go through everything today.
Like stripping out of that restrictive dress in the fucking living room and getting my entire body waxed by a scowling beta woman who didn’t even bother to talk to me.
It was awkward, being butt-ass naked with barely a thin sheet to cover myself and the parts she wasn’t working on with, in a room bustling full of people.
I felt like a piece of meat, like a rotisserie chicken, rotating when instructed, my only purpose being to lie there and take it.
Then came the spray tan. Then the dress fitting. All of which sucked spectacularly.
Now that I think about it, maybe dissociating a little is good. Better than being made to feel like shit about myself or the situation.
I’m sandwiched between Stuart and Ezra at our table once we are seated for the gala. Ezra’s done a good job of making sure I’m never alone with the beta, but that also means that he’s been hovering around me all night.
The Fletcher’s publicist, Carter, is sitting next to Stuart, drawing his attention away from Ezra and I.
Stuart and Carter, the dynamic duo of dour beta men who work for terrible people and aren’t afraid to do their dirty work.
Stuart and Carter would make a good law firm name—probably the name of a firm that defends slimeballs that totally did the crime, but are rich enough to try to get away with it.
I stab my next bite of salad a bit more aggressively than I need to, irritating myself with the thought of the injustice that exists in this world. Lettuce, this time. Not kale, thank God. I’ve had enough kale for the rest of my life.
You’d think it’d get easier to swallow after having it so frequently, but the bitter, almost sour aftertaste of raw kale leaves and the overwhelmingly thick, waxy mouthfeel just isn’t something I think I can get used to.
There’s also actual sauce, and a small filet of fish, too. No cheese, like I’d normally have on my salads, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Ezra cuts a glance towards me before his gaze darts to Stuart and Carter who are engaged in their own conversation.
His fork appears over my plate, there one second and gone the next, leaving behind a bite-sized piece of his steak.
My eyes go wide as my mouth waters. He just responds to my wide-eyed look of gratitude with a jerk of his chin. I’m quick to shove the bite into my mouth while Stuart is distracted, biting back a quiet moan.
Man, how do vegans do it? Utmost respect to them, but the only way I’m giving up animal products is if I’m locked away.
Case in point: my current captivity.
“Good?” Ezra murmurs, his voice pitched low so only I can hear him.
“Fuck yeah,” I nod eagerly.
“Good,” he repeats, his tone soft and relieved.
He continues to sneak me bites throughout the speeches whenever Stuart and Carter are distracted. It almost becomes a little entertaining game between the two of us.
It reminds me of the days we used to sit in our boring earth sciences class back in freshman year and pass notes back and forth to each other.
Maybe trying this friends thing won’t be too bad?
After each bite of steak, I wash it down with some of the bubbly prosecco from the champagne bottle we have at the table. I’m a few glasses deep by the time I’m all done with dinner, and I feel delightfully buzzy and wonderfully full.
Ezra hasn’t touched a sip of alcohol, sticking to the same Diet Coke that I’m sure must be lukewarm at this point. It’s surprising. He’s always been the type to indulge whenever it’s available. Overindulge, to be honest.
It makes something warm settle in my chest, mixing with the flush from the alcohol—something really close to pride.
I’m never, ever going to feel anything romantic toward him again. That ship has long sailed, especially after getting to know my guys. If I hadn’t met them, maybe I would be tempted to get back with Ezra, especially if Gina keeps on shoving us together like this and he keeps on being nice.
But I know I deserve better than someone who’s raised a hand to me at all. And I have better.
Well... I had better. There’s no telling whether the guys will even wait for me with this legal shitshow going on. If Gina had her way, she’d keep me trapped like this for years. Maybe even decades.
How much will the legal system allow her to steal from me? Even if I’m granted my freedom one day, how much of the real me will be left?
I already feel like an empty shell of myself, grateful for scraps of steak snuck to me at a charity gala where I’ve been paraded around like a pariah.
How pathetic is that? How pathetic am I?
“You’re thinking a lot,” Ezra murmurs as the auction starts up.
“Hmm? Oh, sorry,” I mumble, taking a few deep breaths and trying to control the bitterness of my chamomile perfume. “Just wondering how much more of this I can take before wasting away.”
Ezra’s expression grows dark as a scowl appears on his face, there one moment and gone the next as he starts tapping his fingertips against his thigh.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight.
I take a deep breath, matching the count of his drumming fingers. I see why he does this; it’s a good breathing technique.
With each inhale, I’m assaulted by the mix of different scents, swirling in the high-ceilinged ballroom of The Beverly Hilton. Lots of alphas, some omegas, and the hint of betas sitting or walking close by. It’s teetering on the edge of being overstimulating, but I soak it all in.
I’d take anything other than the sterile, uncomfortable, isolating childhood bedroom I know is waiting for me when this event is over.
“This works pretty well,” I murmur, trying to make conversation with Ezra, since there’s really nothing else to do now that our plates have been cleared away. I take another sip of prosecco, letting the bubbles hit my tongue.
“The breathing?” Ezra grunts.
“Yeah.”
“It does. Turns out I forget to fuckin’ breathe when I’m pissed,” he says, reaching up to grip at the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “My therapist said something about breathing stimulating the Vegas nerve or whatever.”
“Pretty sure it’s the vagus nerve,” I comment offhandedly.
Ezra lets out a snort and rolls his eyes.
“Nerd. How the hell do you know that?”
“I mean, I’m pretty sure there’s not a nerve named after Las Vegas,” I huff. “And dude, we literally took psychology together in our senior year; how do you not remember?”
“How the hell do you remember? Pretty sure I wiped all that shit from my brain the moment I got my diploma.”
“Fair enough.”
Cheers sound from across the room as someone wins the big auction of the night. Some big art piece I can’t bring myself to care about.
“We’re going to leave soon,” Stuart says, his voice grating against my nerves, even though he’s speaking normally.
He could be telling me the winning lottery numbers right now, and I’d still want to punch him in the face.
Probably because every word out of his mouth is useless.
It’s not like I have the power or freedom to go buy a lottery ticket, even if I did know exactly which numbers to pick to win the jackpot.
His words don’t help my rising anger.
Leaving means going back to that godforsaken cage that is Gina’s home.
I’d much prefer boring and overwhelming to that.
“There’s still the rest of the night,” Ezra says, seeming to sense my roiling emotions. They’re probably not hard to decipher, considering the way my scent telegraphs my emotions like a neon sign—that tends to happen when I’m tipsy.
“It would be best for Andromeda’s image not to be seen partying the night away as her first public outing, after her very publicized mental breakdown,” Stuart says slowly, almost like he’s treating Ezra like a child asking for ten more minutes at the park.
Guess Stuart’s not just an asshole to me.
“I’m sure you can agree, since you seem so... invested in her well-being.”
Ezra’s jaw works, and it honestly looks like he’s swallowing back a few choice words he wants to fire back at Stuart.
“Fine, then we won’t party,” he bites out. “But just give us some more time. It’s been forever since I’ve seen her.”
His words come out possessive and a little needy.
To my surprise, Stuart lets out a tired sigh and then nods.
“Thirty minutes,” he says, his gaze cutting down towards me. “But you are not to dance or be photographed doing anything that would reflect badly, understood?”
I offer the beta a two-finger salute, the wordless sarcasm practically dripping from me and the motion. It takes everything in my power not to flip him off.
“Thanks,” Ezra nods before reaching out and tugging my chair closer to his. It slides along the carpeted floors smoothly.
“The hell are you doing?” I hiss under my breath.
“Trying to buy us time, dumbass. Don’t look at me like that. You looked like you were gonna fuckin’ throw up all over the table if they’d pushed us to leave right then and there,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
An angry sarcastic quip is on the tip of my tongue, but it stays there as I blink at him.
“What was with you acting all possessive?” I ask, my voice coming out small and uncertain. “I already told you—”