Page 30 of Pack End Game

Lucky for me, I have two sugar daddies in the form of professional athletes with long-running careers and very nice contracts, so I don’t really have that concern. They could never play another game, and even our great-grandchildren would have extra comfortable lives.

Wait, does Mia want children? We need to move that question to the top of the list.

“Freddie,” Spencer says slowly, like he’s talking to someone fragile, “we just built that house.”

Ah, yes, Sugar Daddy Number One with his rational thinking. Unnecessary at the moment, but I shall entertain him nonetheless. He did tell his therapist two sessions ago that he wishes I’d slow down and listen to him more often.

He doesn’t actually want that; he just wants other people to think that they don’t cave to my every request. So I’ll roleplay for him.

“Yeah, I know. We wrote a check, signed some papers, and we were really excited about it.” I say. “And?”

They know as well as I do that there is very little chance of us ever telling that gorgeous ball of chaos, “no.”

Zak lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “And it cost a lot of money. You can’t just buy and sell homes on a whim.”

I snort. “Okay, Mister I Spent Sixty Grand On a New Car.”

“It’s a safe and spacious luxury SUV that retains value and will be a long-term reliable vehicle for our pack,” Spencer comes to his defense with facts that mean nothing to me.

“We don’t need more than one vehicle. We should always be together anyway.” I reason away expertly with a wave of my hand.

“Having a second or even third vehicle for the pack is not an asinine purchase, Freddie.” Zak pinches the bridge of his cute, crooked nose.

“Still doesn’t make any sense,” I shoot back. “And what about that private gym membership you have us all on, even though we have equipment at home?”

“Because the three of us travel a lot during the year, and not every hotel has good enough security to ensure that we won’t be filmed or even touched when trying to work out. It’s a membership for a prestigious brand of gyms all across the country, where we can get on a treadmill without a video of my ass going viral.”

Zak throws out more insanity, but because his tone is mature and calm, it sounds less ridiculous.

“That happened like one time,” I mutter with an eye roll.

“Seven times,” Spencer corrects me. “Besides, we get reimbursed by the team for the membership, so it doesn’t even matter.”

Okay, alpha math.

“Well, don’t even get me started on all your little toys in the garage,” I add, pointing at him. “You don’t even play with them, you just like saying you have them!”

“Do you mean the tools?” he asks, his delivery deadpan.

“It’s called a dust collection.” I cross my arms, knowing I’m victorious in this battle.

Zak chokes on a laugh, then immediately tries to cover it when Spencer cuts him a look.

I smile, feeling very reasonable. “All I’m saying is we waste money on dumb stuff all the time. Moving wouldn’t be dumb. Buying a new house would actually fix something.”

Spencer exhales slowly, like he’s counting to ten in his head. “Even if we entertained that idea,” he says, voice tight, “it’s the middle of the season. We don’t exactly have time to go house hunting right now.”

“That’s what people are for,” I say. “We can hire someone to help weed out the bad options. Ask Terry to do it; clearly, he doesn’t have any other tasks to worry about now.”

There’s a long pause where they pretend not to know who I’m talking about–the guy we hired to find our scent-match who turned out to be no match for fate. He really needs a new role since he failed epically at the last one.

Zak shakes his head. “Do you mean Trevor?”

I shrug. How should I know?

“Okay, maybe you’re on to something, but what do we do in the meantime? We can’t all just crash with Mia for months, and she clearly wants nothing to do with our house. Not even for a few hours.” Zak’s chest deflates as he lets out a long exhale of exasperation.

Alphas. Always acting like everything is an impossible crossword puzzle and the world is demanding they write in pen.