When I finally stir, I can mark the hours passed by the fading afternoon light. Fuck, I slept most of the day. I push upright—and my chest tightens.
I tighten my jaw and then force myself to stand.
Pain cracks through my bones again, and my knees buckle.
Reluctantly, I grab the wad of Christine’s clothes and hold it to my nose.
The pain fades to an ache—enough that I can stand—but the scent isn’t fresh enough to banish it entirely.
I slowly get my bearings. My tucking briefs now cut painfully into my hips after who knows how many hours of sleeping in them. My backpack is nearby, and I dig out a pair of clean boxers.
I stumble to the bathroom to relieve myself and change, then search out something to drink. I find some overly fancy and unpronounceable electrolyte beverages in Christine’s fridge—only the best for America’s sweetheart—and I help myself.
As the water soaks in, I feel slightly less like absolute shit.
With my senses returning, I spot a plate of fruit and crackers left out on the table. Hunger overwhelms my lingering nausea, and though I eat slowly, I manage to finish all the food.
And now I’m bored. I’d leave Christine’s trailer, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out one by one than explain why I’m carrying around her workout gear, sniffing it every five seconds.
Ugh.
Well, I guess this is my chance to see how a star lives; I wasn’t exactly admiring the art the last time I was here. It’s a nicer trailer than ours, more like a mobile home. There’s the little couch area with a TV at the front, the dining table and kitchenette, the bathroom, and the bedroom area at the back.
I wander that way, half-heartedly wondering how much her used tissue or face moisturizer or whatever insane fans want these days would go for online.
I stop short as I step into the bedroom. Where there’d been sheets and a mattress before, now there’s just the plywood platform, gouged with scratch marks, only a few chunks of foam remaining in the corners.
Great, just great. The alpha whose scent I’m currently addicted to seems to beextremely unstable.
Not that I really think there’s such a thing as a stable alpha to begin with.
And that’s exactly why I started taking suppressants when I did—to avoid this whole mess.
Lot of good that did.
I sink back onto the couch with a sigh, wrapping the blanket around myself as I start to shiver despite the sweat beading on my skin.
There truly could not be a worse time for this to happen…
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
CHRISTINE
Every secondI’m not in the trailer with Mylo, my nerves tighten. My ears swivel to every sound, and my senses are open and wary, scanning for threats.
Whenever someone steps toward my trailer—even only in its vague direction—I suppress a growl.
I’ve assured the team, especially Bella, that Mylo’s already doing much better.
Lana had a chat with the producers and Gabriel, and they’ve worked out an updated schedule that will keep the production on-track.
It requires that Mylo is well tomorrow, and I assure them that he’s on track.
It’s notentirelya lie. I believe it in a sense. We’ll figure something out.
Wehaveto figure something out.
