“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
I throw the covers back and pull myself out of Liam’s bed.
“Becks. Don’t…”
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “What may or may not be happening in Ash’s past is not the only problem we have, Liam.”
I snatch my coat off the back of his chair and shut his door. My headache’s back, almost like my head is too full of unwanted information. I don’t even flick the lights on in my bathroom as I get the hot water going. A long shower might be the only thing to help me sleep tonight.
Chapter thirty-eight
ASH
TheheaterinPapa’sancient Chevy wheezes as we pull into the parking lot. It’s half-full of motorcycles and dusty pickup trucks that have seen better decades. Country music seeps through the blackened windows. Every instinct I have says to stay in the car, to lock the doors, to sink into the seat until I disappear.
“Just picking up a paycheck, Lynn,” Papa says, with that little hitch that makes me think he’s lying. “Won’t take more than an hour.”
“I can wait here.” I try to keep my voice neutral, reasonable.
“You’re coming in,” he says, and it’s not a request. His hand shoots out faster than I can flinch, grabbing my wrist. “I said you’re coming in.”
“Okay,” I say softly and wiggle my wrist free.
“Fix your face. And your hair.” He flips down the visor with the cloudy little mirror. “You’re an omega, you shouldn’t look this messy all the time with your hair in your face.”
On instinct, I tuck my hair behind my ears and brush my bangs back. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix my face, so I just run my fingertip under my eye like I’m wiping away mascara. He nods once, apparently satisfied with whatever transformation he thinks has occurred.
The door opens with a reluctant groan, and it, well, stinks. Stale cigarette smoke, old beer, and musky dusty alpha sweat. Papa is a beta, so he doesn’t notice. I want to pinch my nose shut. And cover my ears. The music, country music of course, sounds like the speakers are hiding in a metal trash can. It’s all twangy and static-y.
I blink as my eyes adjust to the dimness. The space is larger than it appeared from outside, with a long bar stretching along one wall, tables scattered throughout, and a small stage in the corner where a pole stands like an exclamation point.
“Stay put,” Papa mutters. He points to a bar stool, already moving toward the back room. “Don’t cause trouble.”
I make myself move to the bar, sliding onto a stool at the far end where I can keep my back to the wall and still see Papa out of the corner of my eye. The barstool wobbles slightly, one leg shorter than the others. The wood beneath my hands feels tacky with spilled drinks and god knows what else.
I don’t even want to think about what else.
I keep my eyes down, focused on a water ring on the bar’s scarred surface. I’ve learned that eye contact is invitation enough. Fuck that, my scent is invitation enough. I’ve learned to make myself small in places like this. Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see alphas looking my way and nodding toward me over their beers.
The sticky barstool wobbles beneath me every time I shift my weight. Papa is at the end of the bar. He’s smiling wide, laughing loud. Which means he’s conning someone.
The music clicks off. The bartender curses and struts over to the jukebox and gives it a swift kick. Before the next record starts up I hear Papa. “I’ll get your money. My girl’s working on something big.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. I am the “something big” he’s referring to. Me. My body. My heat.
A mug of beer sloshes down in front of me, chased by a gruff voice and alpha scent that burns my nose.
“Haven’t seen you here before.”
The voice comes from a wiry alpha with tattoos crawling up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar and reappearing on his forearms. His eyes are a pale, washed-out blue, almost colorless in the dim light. There’s nothing friendly in his smile.
“Compliments of the house.” When I don’t reach for it, his smile tightens. “It’s free.”
Nothing is ever free. Not in places like this. Not for girls like me.
“I don’t drink beer,” I say, which is partly true, so I can’t get smacked for lying.
