Page 53 of The Omega Verse

I know they’re old words, a formality, but I swear my heart does another loop-di-loop. And then Cass arches under me, her eyes going out of focus. It’s the power boost, running through her blood like an electric charge. Tom strokes her hair as she comes back to herself, then turns hooded eyes my way. “When you switch back, I can bond you, too. It’ll tie us together even tighter as a pack.”

“Fuck, yeah.” Maybe I should stop and think about his Cro Magnon jaw chewing on my neck, but my thumping heart is all the way in.

Cass

Tom has another shift, so Silva comes into town with me to do a few errands. After buying a new phone and getting three extra sets of keys for the house, we head to my place to grab a few things. The streets are crammed with tourists in town for the surf competition, all the sunscreen and beer irritating my sensitive nose. It’s a good excuse to keep close to Silva’s side, his arm wrapped around my shoulders as he takes the brunt of the jostling crowd. No one is being hostile; they’re all just rowdy on festival vibes, and since they’re only really interested in the pubs and cafes in the town centre, soon enough we have the footpath to ourselves.

“I just need to check things in the kitchen,” I tell him as I let us into the shop through the front door. To my relief, everything looks good both in the shop area and the kitchen, although I pause when I find a sheet of paper tacked onto the noticeboard in the office.

Cass,

if you’re checking in, your old phone number isn’t working. What’s up with that? You still skiving with the sexiest drummer on the planet? Hope so, and don’t want to ruin your fun, but Mayor Fuckface came by to talk to you. He was as slippery as usual, but asked where you’re staying and who you’re with. Nosy bastard. If this is legit about catering, I say we spit in his cannoli and charge double.

Your eternal dish bitch,

Dusty.

PS. Lisa says this is a borderline sackable letter, and she had nothing to do with it.

I smirk, even as I start to stew about what Greg might want. I seriously doubt he was here about a catering job. There’s always a big party at the end of the surf competition, but he gets an expensive firm from the city to cover it. More likely he’s heard something and me and Tom and just stopped by to make trouble.

Ugh.

“Who’s Mayor Fuckface?”

I groan, knowing this conversation is probably necessary since Silva plans to stick around. “It’s Greg Murphy, and he’s both the mayor of our town and a fuckface. He’s the guy I dated, only to find out he considered it more of an open relationship.”

Silva’s nostrils flare. “Well, he can go stick his cannoli, right?”

“Not really.” I wince at the dark gleam in his eyes. God, I’d pay to see Silva go toe-to-toe with the cheating bastard, but… “Greg controls all the business in this town. One bad word from him at a city council meeting and the bakery would be ruined.”

Which is why I never let Tom go after him. Greg really is that influential around here, since most people only know him as the charming son of the region’s richest landowner. And anyone who has the misfortune of discovering Greg’s slimier side usually doesn’t stick around for long.

“He also owns the Retreat where the other guys are staying.”

Silva folds his arms, looking even more pissed. “Which is why you seemed so uncomfortable there.”

“Well, that, and because it’s the scene of our last date. While I was serving up dessert, he was getting a blowjob from one of the other dinner guests. I only found out because I went into the bathroom to wash my hands.”

“Fuck, what a turd.” He whips his fancy phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call the guys and tell them to start trashing his place.”

I squash down the little burst of vindictive pleasure in my belly. For some reason, the idea of the guys going berserk on Greg’s ugly rental makes me all gooey inside. “Thanks, but I really don’t want to have a run-in with him.”

But Silva grabs my chin, frowning down at me. “I’m not joking. I could call up my boys and really go to town. The Scare Crew are banned from a bunch of hotel chains because our lead singer was such an animal. That was before he found religion and moved to a yurt in the desert, but Ticker and Squab still got the moves.”

I laugh, some of my tension easing away. “Rock bands still do that kind of stuff?”

“Punk bands do.” He shrugs cheekily as I grab the note off the board and start upstairs. “Kobi might think he’s got a direct line to God, but my punk arse can get away with murder....”

His voice drifts off as I push the door open and stare at the wreck that was once my apartment. From the doorway, it looks like a particularly nasty cyclone has ripped through the place. The sofa bed is arse-up with the stuffing pulled through the back, the TV is in a broken pile on my coffee table, and all the kitchen pots and pans are strewn across the room. Every drawer and cupboard has been upended, and the contents of the fridge are dripping off the walls.

As soon as I can get my feet moving, I hurry towards the bedroom, Silva on my heels.

“What the fuck is that?”

I take a shaky step towards Cookie’s bed. The comforter has been slashed with a kitchen knife, the mattress gutted, and all the pillows are destroyed. And in the centre of this destruction are my clothes. Every single thing in the wardrobe and dresser are torn to shreds and soaked in a massive white pool of… something. I lean forward and take a hesitant sniff. “I think… it’s my shampoo. And maybe some bleach.”

“Jesus,” Silva breathes. “Who the hell could have done this?”

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