Filed to story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
“Well, don’t talk crazy.” Drona twists a rubber band around the tip of the braid and gives Avalon a quick peck before pushing her off her lap to join the others. “Just go for the cash.”
“Cash stinks.”
“You get accustomed to it.” Drona pats her lap and Kadi climbs up, hair tangled and dripping.
“Okay, big sister.” All of a sudden, the weight of the whole day seems to fall on my shoulders. I’m tired. I edge toward the doorway, sidestepping a soft spot in the yellowed linoleum. “Don’t worry about it. It was nothing. I promise.”
“Okay, little pup.” Drona waves me off with a weary smile. “I won’t worry.”
We’re both lying.
I head for the back bedroom. Since my nieces are busy getting groomed, I’ll have it to myself, at least for a while.
I kick off my shoes in the doorway, drop my skirt, wrangle my bra free from my cami, and cram the lot, along with my sweater, into the dirty laundry. Finally, I toss my backpack onto the top bunk of the right-hand bed and hoist myself after.
I flop like a starfish, and sink into the thin mattress, my limbs going limp like noodles. I exhale. I’m home. For a second, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling two feet above me. With the tip of my finger, I trace the stickers that Bevan and Nia found for me.
A dog with a red circle around his eye. A unicorn farting a rainbow. A lazy egg yolk with a butt crack. Humans have wild imaginations.
I slow my breath. I’m still amped from my mad dash to the Bogs, and I’m burning up. I toe off my socks and kick them over the side in the general direction of the hamper. It’s better, but it’s not enough. I peel off my leggings and pitch them after. The air feels good on my bare calves, but my comforter is holding too much heat. I shove it to the foot of the bed. The cotton flat sheet is much cooler.
While I fuss, anticipation is building inside me like a balloon. For the first time ever, I have my own loot. Even my wolf is amped up with expectation.
I roll on my side to face the wall and dig into my backpack, feeling around until my fingers graze something smooth.
First, I take out the watch and lay it on the pale blue sheet, resting my wrist beside it. It’d be big on me. I skim a fingertip across the screen.
It lights up. My heart jumps. It says 8:09.
Only a nob would carry the time on his wrist. Abertha warns me not to look at the clocks at school. They steal life.
I tap the glass face a few times, figuring it out. Nobs text each other, typing messages with their fingers. Sometimes they send smiley faces or little pictures of peaches and eggplants. They do it under their desks during lectures, and when an instructor notices, they call out a scavenger. There’s always one of us chewing on something we shouldn’t. Or licking. We make reliable scapegoats.
It takes me a while, but I find Cadoc’s messages. They’re organized by person. Seth. Brody. Brynn.
My stomach aches. I tuck my knees to my chest. It helps some.
I touch Seth’s name.
Where are you?
Dude, where’d you go?
Your dad’s looking for you.
Dude. Where you at?
They’re all from this evening, the most recent only a few minutes old. I guess Cadoc’s MIA. A frisson of fear, the old terror, slithers down my spine.
He’s not really
MIA. Nobs don’t go for a walk. The alpha’s heir sure as crap doesn’t do a disappearing act. Only scavengers are there one minute, gone the next. That’s our magic.
I scroll through the other names on the watch face. My finger hovers a second over Brynn. What do they talk about? Internships? Galas?
Sex?
My abs clench on an empty heave.
No.
Nope.
Not my business.
I swipe and tap a little more and find his pictures. Jackpot. There are hundreds. I’ve never seen so many at once.
My skin tingles. I am so curious my fingers fumble.
I want to draw the moment out. I want the good stuff to be ahead of me, not behind.
So I set the watch aside for a minute and dig in my backpack for the small white box with the earbuds. I find it easily and flip it open. The tiny gadgets nestle so perfectly in the case it’s like they’re made by aliens from outer space.
I pop them out. They’re clean and smooth. It takes a few tries to get them in my ears the right way, but eventually, they fit. I can’t hear the sounds of the trailer now—Uncle Dewey’s yapping, and the pups squabbling, and Drona snapping at Kadi to hold still. No splashes and slams and drunken howls from the neighbors or the perpetual creaking of the boards. Just the steady rush of my own blood.
I drape the watch over my wrist. It takes a second to fix the strap. It is too big. Even buckled in the tightest hole, it’d slip.
I rest my hand on the bed, my flushed cheek flat against the cotton sheet, and finally, I let myself look at Cadoc’s pictures.
It’s like looking at a human’s life.
There’s another picture of his black Land Rover. This shot is of the rear with the spare tire. I swipe. More Land Rover shots. Side view. Dashboard. Back seat. The engine.
He must really like cars. I’ve only ridden in a vehicle a few times. When we were pups, the Academy would take us in buses to the nearby city to “expose” us to human culture. Someone always shifted and bolted, and we’d have to sit in those sticky plastic seats for hours while the instructors hunted the rogue pup down. Nine times out of ten it was Bevan.
I’m not a fan of vehicles.
I flip a little quicker.
Finally, the car pictures end. Now there are fish. A very nice fat catfish dangling on the end of a line. Then the same catfish flipping on the ground. Now the catfish dead and glassy-eyed, laid next to a fishing rod for size comparison.
Then another catfish. This one is even bigger. Catfish facing left. Catfish facing right.
I yawn at the same time my stomach growls.
Why does he take pictures of fish instead of eating them when they’re fresh? I thought for sure nobs wouldn’t play with their food. They’re always on us for doing it.
I flip through a salmon and a trout, and then my finger stills. My gut drops.
It’s a group shot, probably from the first day of the year. People were posing with the statue of Broderick Moore’s wolf in the Academy’s plaza. It’s tradition. A first day and a last day pic, the same pose in both.
Cadoc is in the middle, gaze level with the camera, unsmiling. To his right are Seth Rosser and Brody Hughes, both trying to look as stern and aloof as Cadoc and not quite managing it. Brynn Owens and Lowry Powell are on his left, posed for best effect, fake smiles from ear to ear.
Cadoc’s arm is around Brynn’s waist, and she’s plastered to his side.
I don’t feel so good.
I press my palm to my cheek. It’s hot to the touch.
And my skin—it’s crawly.
If only we had air conditioning like at the Academy.
If only I could look away from this picture, but I can’t help staring. Brynn’s hair is shiny, her diamond studs twinkle, and with her khakis and fitted button-up shirt, she looks like a grown female, the kind who works alongside the males in the High Rise.
I wrap my arms around my stomach, tucking my wrist under my forearm so I can’t see the watch screen. My throat is swollen tight.
What’s wrong with me?
I’m clammy and irritated and unsettled.
I want to unzip my skin.
I want to punch Brynn Owens and drag her across campus by her hair.