Page 15 of Captive Omega

The drunk rears up and goes back to his loud singing, like someone switched off his battery and then just as suddenly switched it back on again.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Karl orders, shooing him away with his free hand. Both men are visibly twitchy.

One wrong move and this drunk is paying for it with a bullet in his brain. The surprisingly handsome blond man beams at Karl, giving him a salute so sloppy he smacks himself in the head before he veers my way.

“Jusht a ssshecond…” the drunk slurs, fumbling with the front of his pants.

He doesn’t seem to notice the guns my pursuers are holding. I do. It’s why I have my back glued to this freezing wall.

Please tell me he is not about to do what I think he is.

I wince as I hobble-step out of his way. It’s like walking on razor blades, but it’s move or be mistaken for a wall and get pissed on.

At the last second, he trips and stumbles right into me, pinning me to the wall. “Uh!”

I was expecting throw up in my mouth homeless man stink. You know, BO, piss, liquor, or a disgusting combination of the three. I’m pleasantly surprised.

This beta smells of fresh lemon and musk, sweet, woodsy, and a little sharp. He’s also more muscled than I was expecting, though lean, like a runner. Probably a veteran fallen on hard times. Still, that doesn’t mean he has permission to piss on me.

I shove him off me, but he’s like dead weight, impossible to move.

My two pursuers raise their voices, then immediately lower them. There’s a reason they followed me down this alley and it has everything to do with what I did to their employer’s son.

Again, I try to shove the drunk off me. “Get off.”

He isn’t budging.

I’m getting ready to knee him where it hurts when he angles his head and whispers in my ear. “You feel that thing poking your thigh, beautiful? I need you to put your hand?—”

My god, this day just keeps on giving.

I swear the sound of my spine stiffening echoes down the alley as I hiss, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

My two pursuers take a step toward me, raising their guns.

The drunk continues in an inaudible murmur. “It’s not what you?—”

“I don’t want to know about your boner,” I snap, and my two pursuers snort out a laugh, the tension leaving their bodies as they amble toward me. “And if you think I’m touching it, you have another thing coming.”

The drunk’s tropical sea-storm blue eyes are suddenly not the least bit drunk. They’re amused. “I have a literal gun in my pocket I’m eager to use on those two fools blocking the alley. Pull it out, put it in my right hand, then drop and cover your ears. Bessy, my Beretta, is a loud bitch and you’ll be up close to her. Got all that?”

He says it quietly, and he speaks fast. I struggle to believe it, but I get it.

Which is when I realize he’s not a nut-job looking for a hand-job. This guy is serious.

“You name your gun?” I speak in a whisper as my two pursuers close the distance.

“I do. Time’s running out.”

I know that. We’re both liable to wind up with holes in our heads and our bodies in the stinking dumpster if we don’t act soon.

“Which pocket?”

“Left.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Yours.”

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