Page 20 of A Shot in the Dark
Boots shifts in his seat. Adjusts his grip on the steering wheel.
“Tell me this is all just wildly hypothetical.”
Boots says nothing; he keeps driving.
Petey’s voice becomes strained. “Boots. If this isn’t hypothetical, you have to make a choice. It’s in therules, man.”
“I respect the rules,” Boots grinds out from between his clenched teeth. He puffs out a breath. “So,hypothetically, how can I be certain if one’s in heat?”
“How sheltered were you? You’ll know. You’lldefinitelyknow.”
“Great. And…when they’re in heat they can still consent, right?”
“Uhhh… This sounds less and less hypothetical…”
“Answer the question, Petey.”
“You know how it is with bitches. Leadership says a yes is a yes, no matter how it’s obtained.”
“Ah, the bedrock on which our legal system structures its interrogation methodology.” Boots pauses, taps the steering wheel. “Leadership says that, but…?”
“Depends on who you read.”
“What if I’m behind in my reading?”
“It’s debatable. Engage your best judgment. If you have to engage an omega in heat, the key is to keep them from running off and fucking or being bonded to anyone available, and that requires you keeping their temperature down and keeping them under control.”
“Which is accomplished by…”
“Fucking. Regular and repeated fucking. The bond can take some of the pressure off, though.”
There’s a pause and Boots reaches beneath his glasses with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his other hand’s wrist resting on the steering wheel and keeping us on course.
“But, dude, I’m looking at your schedule and, as much as I like chatting with you… You’re on a Red Riding Hood delivery run right now, aren’t you?”
The word drags out of Boots: “Yeaaahhh.” He adjusts his cap. “I’m working on it..”
“Well, don’t fuck it up and miss your deadline. Eyes on the prize. There’s only three of you at your rank with perfect scores and leadership is starting to consider promotions again. You might finally get dragged out of the basement and get a glimpse of the sun, my friend.”
Boots hisses. “Livin’ the dream. Eyes on the prize,” he repeats, and ends the call.
I adjust my headphones and am left with more questions than answers.
Two hours later the warmth is building in me again, reaching a boil that threatens to soften my bones. “I think I have a fever,” I grumble.
“You don’t have a fever.”
“Prove it. Come back here and take my temperature,” I tease.
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Iknow.” He turns down the music. “If I pulled this car over right now, would you want me to fuck you?”
I don’t appreciate how quickly my body softens, reacting. “Yes,” I say earnestly.
“If I stopped at some grimy rest stop and dragged you into a dirty bathroom stall with no door—where people could watch—maybe join in—would you like that?”
