Page 2 of With A Little Luck
Honestly, this is a good thing.
I’d much rather know now that he’s an unfaithful dick than to learn it years down the road.
I can’t believe I considered staying here just to be with him.
My hand wraps around the metal door handle, and a whoosh of air smacks me in the face. It’s loud before I even take a step inside the bar, but I refuse to go back to Gran’s house to cry alone.
I’m sure the beautiful blonde who was on her knees for Pete is busy wiping away his nonexistent tears.
I need a beer or two, but definitely not three. Then I’ll call a rideshare, grab some greasy takeout, and eat it at home in bed while lamenting all men are garbage.
Okay, fine.
Not all men.
Just Pete.
Okay, maybe it is all men.
I thought the red eyes, mascara stains, and generalplease don’t approach meenergy I’ve been exuding would get the point across.
I’m clearly not interested, but the two guys who haven’t left me alone since I sat down at the bar don’t seem to be picking up what I’m putting down.
“Come on, darlin’, let us help cheer you up,” the guy on my right says, leaning even closer to my barstool.
His friend took the seat to my left, and he’s a little too close for comfort. They both are, actually. No part of me enjoys being pinned in with one of them on either side.
Their scents aren’t appealing to my senses, but they must be drawn to mine.
It’s the curse of being an omega.
Well, that and having to deal with heats every three months.
I’ve taken suppressants on and off since my first heat started when I was twenty, but they’ve been noticeably less effective lately. As soon as everything is handled here in Vermont, I’m going to have to consider going to one of those omega centers to be matched.
And you almost let Pete talk you into going off suppressants.
How foolish do you feel now?
Huh, Quincy?
More than foolish.
I think I feel a little defeated. It’s not supposed to be this hard for an omega to find alphas, but I’ve had really shitty luck.
“Why don’t you let us take your mind off whatever has your panties in a twist?” the man on my left says with an obnoxious laugh.
I am nowhere near drunk enough for that.
Pushing my feet to the floor, I shove myself out of my barstool and push it back. “Excuse me. I need the restroom.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll watch your drink for you,” the guy on the right says.
No way in hell will I be touching that thing again.
I use the restroom, wash my hands, and try to pull up the rideshare app on my phone. Sadly, I have almost no signal in the bar, and the screen stays frozen until I get frustrated and give up. Peeking out the door, I give a cursory glance around.
It’s only a vague plan, but if they’re waiting for me, I intend to slam the door and lock it before they can get in. Only they aren’t lingering outside the bathroom.
