Page 7 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Was it actually 46 minutes? Hell no. We don’t keep track of that. But it wasn’t gonna help the guy any more than I could and there’s no sense bothering a TM about something they can’t fix.

“And, again, my manager won’t be able to resolve the issue for you either. It needs to be handled by the support team. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you. If you’d like, I can follow up on your ticket personally. Yes, I’d be happy to do that. I understand how upsetting this must be.”

Another minute of coddling and the guy hangs up with profuse appreciation. I set a reminder to check on the ticket in the morning.

Another hour inches by until my shift finally ends. I don’t text Mason back, mostly because I know the flirting session has run its course. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few hours with another outrageous claim, another clearly fake dick pic, another rejection.

It’s a fun, harmless distraction. If I have to let Brad sorta-cheat, then silly messages are no comparison.

A brisk drive home with the windows down soaks cool air into my skin and imbues me with a last burst of energy.

The apartment I share with Jolie is hardly even a one bedroom. My beta bestie’s “room” is a curtained alcove that fits a queen bed and one low barstool for a nightstand. We share the closet and I sleep on the pull-out, although most nights I don’t bother and crash on the couch as it is.

Joline, Jolie, my decades-long best friend, is the only person I’ve willingly chosen to tell about my omega status. Every other person has been because of some kind of O-related necessity.

Paprika and peppers make my mouth water when I come through the door. She’s making my favorite, chicken fajitas, which makes me wary.

Her boyfriend called me weeks ago to help pick out her engagement ring and I’ve dutifully kept it quiet. I collapse onto the couch and try to calm my nerves.

It’s only a matter of time. I have enough saved up that I can afford to sublease the apartment for a few months until I convince Brad to take me in.

My phone screen flashes a notification.

Rolling my eyes, I find precisely what I’m looking for in the privacy tab and send it off.

These have nipple bars. He’s going to love it.

Jolie, her own phone in her hand and a smile on her face, moves the pan to a trivet at the dining table. I add plates and silverware while waiting for his response.

I snort at that and take my seat across from my best friend. He’s lucky Wyatt kept Brad restrained or that might have been a reality.

Jolie finishes tossing dressing on the salad and adds it to the table before sitting down. She’s also fiddling with her phone so I don’t feel so bad for playing with Mason.

I snicker. He doesn’t know how right he is.

Betas can take a knot if they work at it, but a lot of omegas need them to be satisfied. Both designations need a certain amount of time to, uh, release from a knot safely. Yet another reason why I’ve always gravitated toward athletes—so many alphas collected in one easy-to-find location and they’re used to betas open to knotting.

“Still texting with Mason?” Jolie asks.

“It’s only a bit of fun,” I reply as I snap a “before” pick for my Ch@ter and Cl!ck accounts. Later, when we’ve demolished the food, I’ll take a funny after photo to post.

“You need someone long-term, Izzy. You need a pack.”

“I’m working on it,” I reply sourly.

“Are you? Or are you wasting time on a fuckboy?”

“I’m an excellent multitasker.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Brad would be perfectly fine with you sexting the guy he wants to beat to a pulp.”

“Brad has plenty of groveling to take up his time with.”

She lets the conversation drop at that. We eat in an awkward silence, with me stewing in her words and her not knowing how to handle my sulking.

“You know that I love you, right?” Jolie says.

“I love you too.”

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