Page 9 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

And then I realize.

In nine days, I have to be out of the apartment too.

And without Brad to catch me, I’ve got a sharp, short fall to a hard landing on concrete.

* * *

Once Jolie is safely ensconced in her “room,” I give her an excuse about running to the store for desk snacks and disappear.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely over the moon for her. They’ve been dating for two years and she’s noticeably happier with him. It’s this strange contentment, like she’s emotionally lighter despite the heaviness of being in a relationship. Things don’t seem to affect her as much.

I suppose puppy love will do that.

And I seriously consider blocking each and every member of my family on all my social media and in my contacts.

Three messages are waiting for me on unread. It’s like my dads sense when I’m upset. As nice as it is to have them, I know what they’ll think as they listen to my woe is me.

If you finish your degree, you’ll be able to afford an apartment.

It’s vital to secure a bond immediately. You’re 28, Iz. Enough is enough.

We’ll clear out the basement room. You’re coming home.

I can’t handle the conflicting reprimands right now.

Leon’s voice is in my head, drilling again and again that no one should know my status at all. He thinks I’ve committed myself to Brad through disclosure.

Just because Brad can protect me doesn’t mean I should beg at his feet.

I’ve never been in love, never had anyone tell me they love me outside of blood relatives and Jolie, and probably never will. Brad’s a means to my own happiness, not “ours.”

Most omegas don’t find a “happily ever after” anyway. My parents are an exception—as they constantly tell me.

Love is for betas and books.

My siblings, all betas spread across the map, are allowed to be picky.

I am only my status to the Admin, a body to the alphas, and a chit to society writ large.

Which is all just as well because most people don’t like me anyway. When you’ve been raised on paranoia, it’s hard to build lasting, trusting friendships.

The crowd at Fluke’s is thin for a Wednesday. When I shoulder through the squealing door, no one so much as looks up to see who’s come in.

A small group of college kids are playing darts and huddled in a group on the other side of the room. There’s also a pair at a high top, and a single abandoned stout glass waits at the bar for an owner unlikely to return.

Disappointment seeps into my thoughts. I need air. Some energy. Something to fill this chink in my armor after Jolie dropped our living situation on me.

Being in the apartment is a reminder of what’s lost and what’s coming, and I don’t want to be there.

When I slide onto the stool—several seats away from the abandoned glass as a precaution—Dane, the bartender, delivers my usual beer of choice and offers me a menu.

My stomach doesn’t need a second dinner and I shouldn’t pay for pub food. I need to save every penny I can. The only places I can afford a first-last-security on will be crumbling studios with a fifth floor walk-up.

But, hey, that means I won’t have to tag onto Jolie’s gym membership anymore.

“My ass is going to look amazing,” I mutter to myself as I sip on the beer. Dane only raises an eyebrow while dusting the bottles that line the mirrored wall behind him.

“Inside joke, you wouldn’t understand,” I tell him.

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