Page 21 of Knot what I want for Christmas
“Then I don’t think I will.”
“You could hurt yourself,” he says.
I roll my eyes. He obviously doesn’t know that I’m always hurting myself. I’ve broken my right arm twice, the fingers of my left hand once, and I fractured my cheekbone one time as well. I’m accident prone and nothing is ever going to change that. I’ve given up trying.
“Fine,” the Alpha says, and I expect him to turn around and stomp away in a sulk, leaving Annie and me to our singing. He does the exact opposite. And what he does is so quick – lightning quick – or maybe that’s just the drinks again – I don’t see it coming. He leaps forward, wraps his arms around my thighs, and then I’m tipping forward and, before I know it, I’m slung over his shoulder and he’s marching me straight out of the bar. It’s so quick I don’t even have time to protest or struggle or wriggle away.
The cold air outside hits me and then my boots are landing in the snow.
“What the hell?” I say. Or perhaps I slur it.
“You’re drunk,” he says, “and dancing on top of bars is dangerous.”
“Flipping people over your shoulder like that is pretty dangerous too, mister,” I say, absolutely scandalized.
He snorts. “You weigh half that of a new-born calf!”
Which is most definitely not true. I may be small in height but I’m not one of those slim omegas with model-like figures. I’m all curves and big curves at that.
“Why are you carrying me out of the bar and not your sister?”
“Because,” he says, and then falters.
I’m not sure he has a response to that. I tip my head to one side, focusing with all my might on his face because there might now be two of him, two Clay Jacksons standing in front of me. And frankly, one Clay Jackson is more than enough for this world.
A world that spins manically.
I’m wondering if an Alpha really did just sling me over his shoulder and march me out of the bar, or whether this is some crazy drunk-ass dream and I’m gonna wake up back in Rockview any second now.
But unfortunately, it’s not a dream, because in the next second, out of nowhere, I feel a strong rumbling in my stomach and I try my best to force it down, but it’s no good. And then I’m hurling right by Clay Jackson’s smart black cowboy boots, littering chunks of creamy pasta onto the virgin white snow.
He doesn’t even jump backwards in alarm. He just stands there watching me with disapproval written all over his face as I vomit into the snow.
When I’m done, I wipe my hand over my mouth and peer up at him.
“Better?” he asks me.
And actually, maybe I am. There’s only one of him again now. The world is no longer tipping backwards and forwards on its axis, and it’s definitely no longer spinning as quickly as it was a minute ago.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll clean your boots for you.”
“It’s not your fault,” he mumbles. “It’s Annie’s.”
“Oh no, it’s not,” I say. “She just wanted me to have a good time. I haven’t had a good time …”
I trail off, and he looks at me. And then this time it definitely isn’t the alcohol, because all of a sudden there are three Alphas standing in front of me. Only this time they aren’t duplicates of Clay Jackson. They’re his packmates, Nash and Tucker.
“You don’t need to get wasted to have a good time,” Clay says.
“Gee, Dad,” I say. “I know.”
Tucker chuckles, his pale green eyes twinkling with mischief. “I don’t think he meant it that way, Hollie,” he says.
I quirk an eyebrow, because how did he mean it, then?
“I’ll get you some water,” Clay says, spinning on his heels and marching back toward the bar.
Tucker kicks snow over the lovely pile of vomit I’ve made and then pulls me to one side, Nash following us.
