Page 6

Story: Alphas on the Rocks

They’re both fully dressed, and other than the thumb hooked through one of his belt loops, keeping Sascha’s hand at rest on Avery’s ass, the press of their bodies is damn near virginal.

Horror creeps through Avery’s pores, reviving that perpetual cold plaguing his core. They clearly didn’t end up having sex… because Avery fell asleep. He fell asleep fifteen minutes into what was supposed to be a hook-up, leaving Sascha stuck as a glorified pillow.

Swearing loudly, Avery flails, flipping off of Sascha with such little grace he rolls off the bed and crashes to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Sascha’s voice is thick with sleep, butwhen he leans over the edge of the mattress to stare at Avery, his eyes are alert.

“I’m fine,” Avery says, scrambling to his feet. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

If Sascha wants Avery to walk him through why this is humiliating, he’s going to be disappointed because Avery needs to get the fuck out of this hotel. For multiple reasons.

“Where are you going?”

Double fuck.

Avery looks over his shoulder while he’s shoving his foot into a worn high-top, wiggling until the fit is right. “I have somewhere I need to be. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

“It’s okay that you did,” Sascha says. “I don’t mind.”

Flashing him a brief smile, Avery says, “I’m sorry anyway, but I really gotta get going now. I’ll, uh…”See you around?Not if Avery can help it. Unfortunately, Bliss is a small fucking township, and unless Avery stays on the farm, it’s likely they’ll run into each other again. At least Avery slept for hours with Sascha’s scent in his nose; he’ll be able to smell that potent shifter magic and escape before any potential reunions.

If Sascha would evenwantto catch him after this. Avery would have shut down on anyone who fell asleep on him during a dick appointment, andcertainlywouldn’t have let them be his nightlong meat-blanket.

Another horrified shudder runs down Avery’s spine. “Don’t forget to take a shower,” he advises Sascha, knowing without being told that hiswerecreature stinkwill give them away to any shifter familiar enough with their scent. Before Sascha can distract Avery with a response, Avery books it.

It’s past seven AM when Avery trudges under the wooden archway announcing his arrival at Dennings Farm. Exactlynine days ago, Avery followed this rocky dirt road to the chipped-paint office of Farmer Howard Dennings, who greeted him with a grunt and a fifteen-page contract detailing the terms of his stay. He left the building wishing he could flag down the rickety stoner bus he rode up here in and beg them to take him back to Pontiac.

Not that hecango back. Last month’s incident came way, way too close. He’s lucky the Parahuman Civil Compliance officer who caught him didn’t demand a blowjob before connecting him with Dennings’ work farm for packless werecreatures. Fuck Dennings for profiting off people’s desperation, but at least the job included food and shelter.

Depending on one’s definition of ‘food’ and ‘shelter,’ anyway.

Avery should have stopped to ask if the hotel stay included breakfast, because on the farm, plates are handed out at six AM on the dot. Anyone who doesn’t make it to the second floor above the stables before that gets locked downstairs, with the expectation that they get right to work mucking stalls. Now he’s too late to even do that.

He manages to slip into the schedule room to check the task list without being caught. Fortunately, there’s no punch system, as they don’t technically clock in or out. Living on Dennings Farm is an around-the-clock arrangement. Workers have precisely scheduled breaks for meals and one assigned day off per week. Last night was Avery’s, but he’s fairly sure he read somewhere that breaking curfew may result in losing free hours. Because of course.

As of twenty minutes ago, Avery was supposed to be feeding animals. If he can get to the chicken coop safely, he’s sure they’ll be too happy about getting their seed mix to rat him out for being late.

Unfortunately, if wishes came true, he wouldn’t be a werecreature in bumfuck ‘up north’ Michigan.

Avery rushes through coops full of chickens, geese, ducks,and quail, scattering additional seed for the free-roaming peafowl. None of the supervisors bother him during this process, which is a major relief after this morning’s humiliation. Good things don’t last at Dennings Farm, though, and when Avery shows up to the store to help stock, he’s a whole five minutes behind schedule. Shit, make that six.

The bored-looking clerk perks up when Avery rushes in with a box of freshly packaged greens to put in one of the fridges lining the wall. He’s a meaty-looking guy with a smarmy expression and greasy demeanor, and when his swollen red eyes settle on Avery, he canfeelthe target as it’s taped to his chest.

“You’re late.” His nametag reads ‘Atwood,’ and his clothes reek of a strong cologne which fails miserably at masking the lingering weed odor.

“You’re…”Probably not supposed to be smoking on the job, Avery wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Farmer Dennings is a human but hires shifters as supervisors to keep the werecreature laborers in line. “I’m sorry. I got cornered by an angry goose and barely escaped with my life. At least I made it here at all.”

In retrospect, that answer was probably worse.

Atwood doesn’t react at first. He narrows his eyes into slits, a deep furrow forming between his eyebrows. Then he says only, “Get to work, noob,” and pulls out his phone. While the store hasn’t opened yet, the uncaring way he plops it on the counter suggests he isn’t concerned about keeping it out of sight.

At eight-thirty, the store opens, and Avery still isn’t finished stocking. The schedule said he was supposed to have a trainer, since this is his first time in the store after the initial tour, but no one shows up, and he’s too afraid to ask. Atwood offers no assistance other than to snort when Avery struggles with customer questions.

Nothing continues to happen, but with every passing minute, Avery feels more and more exposed. Whenever he digs into the freezers, he feels Atwood’s eyes on his back, but by the time he turns around, the shifter is back to staring at his phone.

When the crates in the back are finally empty, Avery is not only mentally exhausted, butstarving. His body feels fine other than that—thanks to the werevirus, all the aches and pains he accrued on his way to thirty went away. Less favorable is the appetite required to sustain a supernatural metabolism. He hasn’t eaten since dinner yesterday, well over twelve hours ago.