Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I just want to look at it, though. Take my time with it. Push the buttons. Try on the watch. What would it feel like? A band that touched Cadoc Collin’s wrist, wrapped around mine?
Jitters dance in my belly.
I want to know really bad—which is crazy.
I don’t covet stuff like the other scavengers. Or rather, I want different things—organic, not mechanical.
But I’m also from the Bogs, and the impulse is strong and bright. Biology is destiny, right?
Take it.
I squeeze my fist tight, my arm hovering in the air over the alpha heir’s phone. I’m not going to lift it. That’s bonkers.
Borrow.
Is that my wolf? What’s she doing up? She’s a sleepy girl during the day. She doesn’t usually stir for anything before sunset unless it’s on four legs and smells like dinner, but yeah—she’s wide awake. And talking.
Come on. I want it.
She’s serious. This is weird. My wolf is not bossy.
She and I are best buds. She’s waited patiently for our first shift, never pushed to get out. I picture her in my head as my co-pilot, riding along in the passenger seat, snout out the window and ears flapping in the breeze.
She doesn’t ever try to take the wheel, but now she wants me to lift a phone?
Take it. We’ll give it back.
I shouldn’t. I won’t even be able to unlock it. What good will it do me?
Unless somehow I can figure out the code—
My belly warms, a tingle fizzing outward and down my extremities.
I want to see what’s in Cadoc’s phone.
It’s probably nothing but wholesome and carefully posed pictures of his friends, family, and packmates. Cadoc Collins is on brand at all times. Clean cut. In control. Future alpha and CEO of Moon Lake Capital.
I bet it’s boring stuff. Boring and fake.
I want to see.
Suddenly, the door under the scoreboard bangs. I jump, and then with a stealth I didn’t know I had, I scoop up his phone, watch, and earbuds in one fell swoop and tuck them in the folds of my shirt as I stroll on toward the locker room.
My heart knocks against my ribs. Packmates and humans stream back into the gym, amped and talking at the top of their lungs. I keep my eyes straight ahead. My palms sweat.
What if I drop the stuff? The phone is going to crack against the waxed hardwood floor in front of everyone, and I’m going to be torn to pieces by Cadoc Collins like a rabbit who wandered into the path of a pack run.
What the hell am I doing?
I speed walk through the locker room door, making a beeline for the back row. I throw open the yellow metal door with too much oomph, and it slams right shut. I force down a breath, and I open it again, nice and calm this time. My hands tremble.
I unzip my ratty black backpack just enough to shove in my haul as females flood into the room, filling the space with shrieks and laughter. They’re in a great mood. Must’ve been a good show.
Oh, Fate. What kind of asshole am I that I completely forgot that Bevan was getting whupped?
Nia trudges up beside me. Her face is blanched white.
“How bad was it?” I ask.
“Could have been worse. Cadoc took it easy on him. Bevan probably doesn’t have any broken bones. It would’ve ended a lot earlier if Bevan had stayed down.”
“What was he thinking?” I know the answer. We’re talking about Bevan. He wasn’t thinking.
“I don’t know. Showing off for that human probably. She’s not gonna want him now. She’s seen him puke and cry.”
My stomach lurches. I hate this pack. I hate it down to my soul.
Then Nia’s mouth curves, and the little diamond studs above her lips twinkle. She leans to whisper in my ear. “Bevan was totally putting it on. I’ve seen him take worse from Uncle Dewey on any given Saturday night. It was like watching pro-wrestling.”
That makes me feel a smidge better. “Did Cadoc make him bend his neck?”
Nia sniffs. “Of course.”
“Did he make him kneel?”
“Yeah. The whole nine yards.”
“What does that even mean?”
Nia flicks the back of my head. “Don’t you pay attention in Human Linguistics at all?
“Not often. Do you?”
Nia shrugs and peels off her gym shirt, no hesitation, no rush. Nia has a great body, and she flaunts it. Sometimes when she catches a ranked female watching, she slaps her own ass.
“Mr. Riley is hot.” She winks. “If I was gonna go human, I’d hit it.”
Not me. Mr. Riley smells like cleaning products. Laundry detergent, hand soap, deodorant, disinfectant, whatever he uses in his car that clings to his jackets with the elbow patches—it’s foul. If I don’t crack a window in that class, I end up having a sneezing fit.
Not saying that shifters always smell the best. Nia is my girl, but right now, you can definitely tell that she’s been eating venison as her wolf and not brushing post-shift.
It’s weird—despite the sweaty socks and sprays the nobs are squirting everywhere, I can actually still smell Cadoc. It’s faint, but it’s seeping in through the vents or something. I inhale and try to nail the scent down. It’s a combination—fresh cut pine shavings, tree bark after a few days of rain, old bookshelves in the library that have soaked in sun.
I sniff the collar of my handknit sweater as I pull it over my head. I smell overdue for the laundromat.
Around me, the fiction that we’re a unified group is falling away. The ranked females put on their business professional in preparation for their internships after school. The humans don khakis and button downs. They have internships, too, but they’re assigned to less important departments, not the top floors. They don’t have to wear ties or heels.
You’d never mistake a scavenger. Not only do we cluster together in the back rows by the showers, but we’re mismatched. I’m the least eclectic in a rust red sweater Auntie Madwen knitted, a pair of violet leggings from the donation box, and a patchwork skirt that my older sister outgrew when she had her third pup.
Nia is wearing a male’s white dress shirt, faded jeans rolled at the ankles, a gray silk vest, and a black fedora with a red feather.
For some reason known only to herself, Enid Wogan is wearing bright yellow galoshes, and she has an umbrella with a crocodile head on the handle. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.
The forecast is actually perfect for the next few days. I can’t wait ’til after study hall. It’s ideal weather for foraging. Cool, but not too cold. Relatively windless so you can get a good whiff in all directions.
As soon as the bell at the end of the day rings, I’m heading up to Abertha’s. She won’t be there. She went on walkabout a few weeks ago, and she told me not to look for her before the solstice. She didn’t specify which solstice, and knowing her, it could be either.
I’ll feed her cat and check our plant clippings before I go out to the woods. Make sure none of the nobs have been poking around and helping themselves to potions they know nothing about.
Maybe while I’m there, I’ll play a little with Cadoc’s phone. Just for a few minutes. To see if it’ll do anything without a passcode. I’ll give myself five minutes, and then I’ll pitch his crap in the marsh, and never tell anyone I lost my sense on a random Tuesday afternoon.
I slip on my backpack, shut my locker, and when Nia’s ready, we walk single file toward the exit, heads down.
“Tell your boyfriend sorry about his teeth,” Brynn Owens calls out as we pass. Her posse laughs like hyenas.
Nia and I keep going.
My stomach sours. Maybe I’ll stomp Cadoc’s phone before I throw it in the river.
After I’m done looking.
I bet he has music. My brother, Glen, worked in the pack garage before he went for his long walk. He said the nobs all have satellite radio and apps that know what they like and play whatever they want. They don’t even need to switch stations—the app just knows.
I love music. We only get the one radio station out of Chapel Bell, and only on a very clear night, but it’s wonderful. I stay up until dawn to listen.