Page 1 of Use Me Up

PART I

1

hannah

It’s raining outside, and he’s wet. His hair is falling in dripping curls into his dark eyes. His eyes are so very dark, like pools of emptiness, of anger, of rage, of the abyss, but there’s always something else in those eyes of his, hidden away, something he doesn’t want anyone to see, a little hint of his own vulnerability.

I don’t pretend that I’m the only person who can see it.

I spend a lot of time looking at him, whenever he’s around.

He almost never looks at me.

But he’s looking at me now.

It’s after midnight. I was asleep until a minute ago, when someone started banging on the door of my little one-bedroom apartment that my parents rent for me in the nice part of town. I would have just ignored it, the banging, but it was loud and insistent and it wouldn’t stop. So, I got up and brought my phone with me, and I typed out, 9-1-1, but I didn’t dial. I held it in one hand and I went up to the door and I looked at the deadbolt, which was locked, and I called out, “Who’s there?”

My voice sounded shaky and frightened.

Part of me thought I should have just called the police already. But what was I going to say? Hello, officer, someone is knocking on my door?

“It’s Ellis,” came his voice.

And, of course, I opened the door right away.

Now, I’m looking at him, at his wet hair and his wet white t-shirt, which is clinging to the outlines of his impressive chest, and he’s just standing there, looking at me. I don’t think he’s ever looked at me like this before.

The sounds of the storm filter in from outside, the sounds of thunder and the sounds of the winds howling through the streets of town. I can smell the rain on him, I can smell it coming in from the hallway—it’s an outdoor hallway with a covering, but it’s open to the elements otherwise.

“I want to come in, Hannah,” he says. “Let me in.”

“O-of course,” I say, and I move away from the door, holding it wide open. I let him in.

He steps into my apartment and shuts the door behind himself, shutting out the sounds and the scents of the storm. Of course, he always smells a little bit like a storm, maybe?

I don’t know. I’m a beta, and I’m not as sensitive to scents as people with designations, so I can’t say for sure what it is that alphas scent from him. He’s an omega, but he’s not like most omegas.

He’s tall, for one thing. Crazy tall. He’s six foot five inches tall, and he towers over almost everyone, including a lot of alphas. Male omegas are usually smaller and sort of elfin, with this male energy that’s appealing. He’s got that. He’s graceful, even with his huge shoulders and long limbs. There’s a roundedness to his muscles, and he’s so beautiful, he seems like he takes up all the space in a room. When I look at him, I can’t ever look away. I think other people feel the same way. He’s magnetic. But there’s that darkness in him, that abyss I fall into when I look into his eyes.

“I’m dripping all over your floor,” he says.

“Oh, I’ll get you a towel!” I say, and I scamper out of the entryway of my apartment—my door opens into the space right between the kitchen and living room. There’s a breakfast bar that separates one space from the other. It’s the only raised surface I use for eating. I don’t have a table or anything.

I go into the hallway and get a big fluffy towel from the closet.

He’s followed me, dripping as he moves through the apartment.

I hold the towel out.

He takes it from me. He holds my gaze as he rubs it against his neck, against the front of his soaked shirt.

I look down at myself and feel completely self-conscious. I’m wearing my yummy sushi pajamas, a baggy button-up shirt and baggy pj pants. I’m not wearing a bra. The pajamas swallow whatever figure I have, which isn’t impressive.

I’m neither fat nor thin. I have breasts, but they’re not very big. I have hips, but my chunky thighs stick out further than the curve of them. I have rolls of fat—on my back, around my belly—and they’re unsightly. But if I’m dressed, I don’t look big exactly. I’m just kind of average, I guess. I have dingy brown hair and dingy brown eyes and he’s not the only person who doesn’t look at me.

No one looks at me. Not really.

“I didn’t think you knew where I lived,” I say to him, which is a stupid thing to say.