“Operation Forget Your Shitty Boss?”
“Sure, let’s call it that. I can’t wait.” Because as much as I loved being home, seeing my suitcase there only had me focusing on how pissed I was, and that wasn’t how I wanted to spend my night.
We met up at our favorite hangout, Stan’s. It was halfway between our apartments, affordable, and they catered to omegas and made sure predatory alpha-holes didn’t take no for an answer. It was the perfect spot to let off some steam with my bestie.
Brent and I had been friends for pretty much ever. We lived on the same street growing up, went to the same college, and lived together until last year. If there was one person who could help me get through my bad attitude so I didn’t get my ass fired, it was him.
The music could be heard down the block. Some nights, that would’ve bugged me, but it was perfect. There were going to be no thoughts going through my head other than, “This is loud.” It was going to be a fun night of venting, eating fries, and possibly meeting an alpha to chill with.
One shot, two shots, three shots in, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about work, which I supposed was the point. I was thinking about all the different ways I could have a good time. Also the point, but I may have overdone it just a tiny bit.
At first, it was the normal stuff. I dragged my bestie out onto the floor to dance. I sang karaoke, much to the disappointed ears of many, and played six rounds of billiards.
Billiards was where my bad decisions really kicked in. Each time I scratched, I took another shot. For most people, that was a fine game. One or two shots is no big deal. Only I was the worst pool player in the history of ever and lost track of the number of drinks I downed.
Would I pay for this in the morning? Absolutely. Was it worth it at the time? Also, yes. Was it going to be worth it in the morning? Not even close.
When I woke up the next morning, I hated past me…a lot. My head was pounding. My throat felt like I had smoked seventy-two packs of cigarettes, when I, in fact, had smokedzero. My stomach threatened to get rid of every single thing I had put in it the night before, which was probably for the best, because I might have been still slightly tipsy. And my mouth tasted like death.
I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the steam would help. The sound of pelting water might as well have been someone banging on nails, and I lowered the velocity of the spray and brushed my teeth hoping the toothpaste wouldn’t cause my stomach to revolt. Then, under the water I went. The steam did help. My head was clearing. That’s when I realized I had no clue how I got home.
I messaged my bestie, and Brent sent a video. Of course he did. To him, if something wasn’t on film, did it even happen? Surprisingly, it was an edited video, highlighting far too many embarrassing events of the evening. That ass never did get a hangover. When it came to the end, I saw what I’d done.
“Bunny Foo-Foo, your daddy is a fool.”
I ended the night with darts, a sport I was categorically awful at. Yet, something about all those shots had me thinking it was a great idea to make a wager. If I got the bulls-eye, he would deep clean my apartment while I was gone. And if I didn’t, I’d get a tattoo of his choice.
It wasn’t even close. I didn’t hit the bulls-eye, or the dartboard, for that matter. Nope, I hit the wall behind it.
Suck.
I either needed to get this tattoo or listen to him gloat for the next twenty, thirty, forty years because Brent never let me forget anything. Please don’t let it be an awful one.
Chapter Three
Sothea
“Sothea, you need to get right down here.”
My eyes were still closed, no need to open them just to answer the phone. As much as I loved getting into the shop early when I was working, I loved sleeping in on my days off even more. And everyone knew better than to poke a sleeping bear. Everyone but Greta. “I don’t think so. Tell my brother to get his lazy ass in there.”
“He is here. And he’s not lazy.”
“All right, then. Is there a sudden run on tattoos? Line out the door? Greta, you can help out. You need to keep your hand in anyway. And I need this day off.” We’d been so busy all week, my early mornings had been bleeding into evenings. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Sothea. Open your eyes.”
I did, before wondering how she knew they were closed. “Greta, please tell me why you need me down there. What can’t wait? You guys feeling okay?”
“Someone got your tattoo.”
“Someone got my…from the machine?” I sat up, running a hand through my hair. “Just talk them into something else. Let him have another grab.” Maybe I’d have pancakes for breakfast. Or frozen waffles with blueberry syrup. Now that I was awake, eyes open, I wouldn’t be going back to sleep any time soon.
“Sothea, you wouldn’t be saying that if you could see him.”
Standing, I stifled a yawn behind my hand. “Seen one cute omega, you’ve seen them all. Now, mind if I get back to my day off?” Waffles, definitely. The pancakes would involve mixing and getting a bowl dirty. Just-add-water was more work than most people thought.
“Yes, I mind. You were the most pathetic thing the other day, and now you’re justoh well, if Fate stepped in and this is my omega, no big deal.”
