I heard movement in the kitchen, the clattering of dishes and the whistling of the teapot. Probably Mac. He was the only weirdo who drank tea as if that would do the job of a hangover curative in place of the more sensible espresso. Someone was humming; the sound floated to me from somewhere in the house. Bet it was Tray. The asshole was far too chipper in the morning, even if he’d stayed up partying until the wee hours. Depending on the time, Dixon would either still be sleeping or in our gym. He spent most of his free time either lifting weights, rubbing one out, or trying to meditate to those stupid guru tapes recommended by the therapist. I didn’t have the energy to face anyone yet. I buried my head deeper, blocking air, waiting for my lungs to ache.
Our mansion used to be a zoo. Grand Central Station for nonstoppartying. If you hit a button near the bi-folding patio doors, the entire place turned into a night club—thanks to strobe lights descending from the ceiling and the stereo system blaring to full, ear-splitting life. I couldn’t remember the last time we hosted a wide-scale party. None of us had the desire. We were a sad sack of four trying to survive now. Couldn’t even remember the last time any of us thought about bringing a girl home. Our den of iniquity, replete with anything our fantasies might require, had been locked since its last sanitization.
“Get up and have an espresso,” Mac’s voice carried to me.
“I’m dead.” My voice was muffled by the couch cushions.
“Grow up,” Mac didn’t sound amused.
I still didn’t move. Not on my own accord. It took Mac grabbing the blanket I was partly on top of, jerking it harshly, and sending me tumbling to the floor to get me to relent.
"Fuck you," I groaned, sprawled on my back, staring at the ceiling. The movement had sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. I'd drunk enough to kill a small horse last night after everyone had gone to bed. Somehow, I'd convinced myself that if I drank enough, that girl—that fucking ghost—would finally leave me alone.
She hadn't.
"You did that to yourself," he replied, not unkindly. Mac was never cruel, just direct. He offered a hand, and I took it, hauling myself to my unsteady feet. “Now come wake up properly.”
“I am awake.” I rolled over on my stomach, arms sinking into the shag rug. The entire room was spinning, and I wasn’t totally convinced I wasn’t going to puke.
“Just stop being a stubborn, self-destructive dick and come to the kitchen, Ryder.” Mac sighed, like even his rational, logical, even-tempered self was just about done with my drama.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, beginning to lift myself slowly, giving everything around me ample time to stop shifting and twisting like I was on the deck of a ship in the middle of a tempest. Finally, I made it to my feet. The sun was assaulting, so bright that I clamped my eyes shut before tentatively opening one just enough to navigate across the room towardsthe kitchen. The patio door was indeed open. No body floating in the pool though. Huzzah.
I stumbled over an empty pizza box and kicked a few amber beer bottles out of my path. Mac hated living this way, but he’d also gotten sick and tired of always being the clean-up crew. I’d have to call the Beta service we typically used after big parties, get them to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe that would be enough to get Mac back in my corner.
Walking through the short, arched hall into the kitchen, I found stacks of pancakes and maple syrup next to the Viking stove. Mac wasn’t alone. Unexpectedly Dixon was sitting at the counter, slamming back a Paul Bunyan stack absolutely oil slicked with syrup. He didn’t acknowledge me; he’d been giving me the silent treatment since our crap jam session yesterday. I moved to the espresso machine and tamped out a serving of Italian grounds. I clicked that into the machine, checked the water level, and then snagged the whole milk from our industrial fridge for the steamer. The only sound in the kitchen for the next minute or two was the hiss of the steamer and the whine of the machine extracting a dark shot topped with especially thick crema. I finished making my latte, no sugar, and joined Dixon at the island.
“I’m sorry I’m such a waste of space,” I spoke casually, before taking a long sip. It was still volcanic, burning the tip of my tongue. It was going to blister, and then I’d end up biting it for days on end so it couldn’t heal. Fuck.
“Talking shit about yourself isn’t going to make me any happier than I already am, asshole,” Dixon volleyed back. He forked several inches of pancake and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Talk after you’ve both eaten. Hangover 101.” Mac suddenly slid a stack of pancakes—mine much shorter than Dixon’s—in front of me. I didn’t even have to ask for melted jelly instead of maple syrup, that came second in a little gravy boat. It annoyed me. Why did Mac have to constantly remind me that he was a much better friend, person, and Alpha?
I picked up a fork, stabbing half-heartedly at the fluffy discs. “I've been hungover before. Plenty of times.”
“And how many times have you engaged in productive conversation while being hungover?” Mac questioned pointedly, sipping his tea and eyeing me over the rim of the mug.
“It’s too early for your high horse, Mac.”
“Then should I not say that you’re taking the art of drinking to a new, dangerous level? Your liver is probably falling apart as quickly as our band.” Mac the self-righteous was really digging in this morning.
“Wow, low fucking blow, Mac.” I stood up, taking my latte with me but leaving behind his stupid pancakes.
“You’re ruining the joy of eating pancakes. I didn’t fucking think that was possible.” Dixon pushed his own plate away, apparently fed up with the kitchen’s mood shift.
“What’s Tray doing?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject. He hadn’t made an appearance yet. Hadn’t I heard him when I was still half-asleep? Humming. Yeah, that had definitely been Tray.
“He went on a run earlier. When you fell off the couch, he was heading to shower.” Mac took another sip of tea, his expression innocent.
“When Ifelloff the couch?” I raised an eyebrow. Mac yanking me off the sofa had been wildly uncharacteristic of him, just another sliver of proof he was fracturing inside too.
“Exactly. You really should sleep in your own bed.” Mac moved away, dumping the remnants of his tea into the sink and rinsing out his cup.
“You know he runs almost every morning. Says it takes the edge off.” This from Dixon. What my pack brother didn’t say was that it took the edge off the out-of-control need Tray was feeling that could only be solved by an Omega bond, which we couldn’t get because I was too busy obsessing over some stupid chick after one kiss.
I cleared my throat. “Right.”
“Right,” Dixon said the single word loudly, sharply. More unspoken meaning threaded through the solo utterance.
