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He was my first experience with an Alpha-leaning Beta.
Before my Omega hormones matured, it was easy to identify that behavior as disgusting.
Too bad they kicked in after high school, and even the suppressants couldn’t stop me from being attracted on some basic, primal level to Ben.
Those pills only really prevent my perfume from coming in, making it easier to be around Alphas, which was kind of important if I wanted to live in the city.
I wish I could do something about the hormones.
I really don’t want to keep making the same mistakes.
“I get it. I have bad taste in men,” I admit. “So, what else is new?”
She gives me a wry smile as she untangles the karaoke microphone cables. “You don’t have bad taste in men. You’ve had bad experiences, that’s all.”
“Yeah, okay,” I murmur, not quite willing to believe it’s not my fault.
“It’s not like I haven’t dated some losers.”
“Um, what?”
I stare at her.
It’s not the kind of confession she would ever make.
She’s had some crazy relationships, but she’s never once expressed regret.
“My love life has been … interesting.” She shrugs. “I’m good with that. It’s how I like life to be. It works for me.”
Clearly, it does work for her.
She’s not the one feeling sad and pathetic over a lost relationship that was basically one-sided. I might as well have been dating a cardboard cut-out, or one of those robots built for sex, if they even make those for women.
With the microphone cables untangled, she switches the machine on, and the start screen flashes on the TV.
Scarlett holds a microphone out to me.
“Okay, are we starting with Roar, or I’m Just a Girl?
Ugh. The last thing I feel like doing is singing.
“Uh, maybe we start with more vodka?”
“I’m not here to let you wallow, Saph. Sing. It’ll make you feel better.”
She thrusts the mic into my hand, and my fingers close around it automatically.
“This isn’t even your kind of music,” I protest, knowing full well that she doesn’t care.
Karaoke is a form of therapy for Scarlett. It doesn’t matter what the song is, she just needs to sing something upbeat to blast away whatever she feels bad about. I know that, and I know she’s just trying to help me do the same.
“Well, they don’t have any Chaos Burning songs on this thing,” she says, coincidentally reminding me that I’m not just getting over a break-up.
I’ve also basically been given an ultimatum at work.
If I want to land my dream job, I need to get on a private plane with my twin’s favorite rock band, and somehow survive the experience without losing my lunch or messing up the interview.
My stomach growls loudly, and suddenly those milky cocktails seem like they were a horrible idea.
