He Hates Me, He Loves Me Not

Meanwhile, in a club somewhere in Nysus City, a certain Omega is pouring out the remains of his third bottle of … rum? Gin? Or is it vodka?

He doesn't know. He can't taste it at this point. The burn, however, is still the same molten lava down his throat. It sets him ablaze, making him forget anything he doesn't want to remember.

He slumps his head on the table, his mint green hair spilling over the cheap metal. The soft padding of the booth is warm underneath him, a little sticky from where he spilled a drink five cocktails ago. Out in the open, there's no barrier to protect his ears from the loud music, and every beat is delivered to him through the foreshocks on the floor.

No, that isn't right. It's the bass that's causing such vibrations, isn't it? Or is it the swarm of feet marching on the dance floor?

He doesn't know; he doesn't care. He's not even supposed to be here tonight. Well, it's not like his parents have forbidden him to go outside, but they certainly don't expect him to be drowning his sorrows like this..

Sure, the pill he was given earlier helps him relax, but it doesn't take away any of his pain. Waking up thirty minutes later, the hollowness is as present as before.

So, here he is, sneaking around at the ripe age of twenty-four.

He feels another vibration, not through the floor, but somewhere closer. If he concentrates, it seems like it's coming from his leg. He ignores it, too busy trying to forget the words 'loss of a packmate' the doctor uttered to his parents earlier.

The vibration is relentless, and somehow through the fog in his head, he realizes that it /is/ coming from his leg.

With numb fingers, he digs through his pockets to find the source. The offending device shines bright in the dark corner, casting a harsh glare on his heavy eyelids.

It takes him a moment to press the accept button, especially since the green circle moves and doubles in front of his eyes, but when he does, the person on the other end doesn't hesitate to yell: "Dylan! Baby, can you hear me?"

He slumps his head sideways on the table, humming low while resting the phone on his left ear. Even without looking at the caller ID, Dylan recognizes that voice.

"Auntie Suzie was so worried about you. Are you finally at the age where you feel like sneaking around?" Although the question is playful, there's no hiding how frantic the caller is.

With his tongue numb, Dylan is slurring when he says, "Why're ya calling me?"

"I'm coming to get you. Tell me where you are, baby."

"Why'd ya wanna know?"

It seems that the person on the other side can't hear him properly, for he asks, "Baby, where are you?"

"I'm here!" Dylan shouts to the wall he's facing.

"Why is it so loud? Can you hear me?"

"I said—"

"Where are you, Dylan?"

"I said, I. Am." He takes the phone in his hand, bringing it close to his mouth. "IN. YOUR. BUTT!"

With how fast he ends the call, Dylan doesn't hear the litany of curses that follows from the other end. However, not even three seconds pass before another call lights up on his screen. Like before, he accepts it before resting it on his ear for a hands-free conversation.

Without greeting, Dylan rattles off the name of the club he's in before his rationality slips away.

The caller is neither angry nor fazed when he says, "Baby, don't hang up on me. I'm on the way, okay?"

"Stupid, ugly Alpha," Dylan grumbles. "Who said you can come?"

"I'll buy you some hangover soup. Your favorite."

"Why'd ya think I'd"—he hiccups—"I'd want some hangover soup? I'm not drunk!"

"I know you're not. But it tastes good, right?"

"It does. " He smacks his lips. "Want something warm."

"Yeah, I'll buy you anything you want, so just—"

"Soup is warm."

"—stay put, okay?"

"Soup is wet."

"It is, right?" The caller is patient despite Dylan's nonsense rambling. "What else do you want?"

"Soup of ice. Cold. Double wet."

"Sounds delicious."

"It's not. It's gross," the 'not drunk' Dylan says, feeling drowsier with every second. "Stupid Alpha doesn't know anything."

"You're right, you're—"

A loud honk cuts off the rest.

"What else do you want?" The person calling resumes asking like nothing happened. "You want meat? I'll buy you beef."

"Beef. I ate beef. It was so good," Dylan answers with his eyes closed.

"Oh, yeah? Tell me about it."

"Slow-roasted beef. Inside a Tupperware. Tristan got mad."

A loud laugh tickles Dylan's ear before the other side asks, "Were you supposed to be on a diet?"

"Yeah. But it was so good. I ate it all."

"Just eat whatever you want. I'll bring it to you."

"You can't." He opens his eyes then, reminded of cotton candy pink hair and strawberry scent.

"I can. Name it."

"You can't." Dylan pauses, tears welling up his eyes. "He's gone. No more beef. No more soup."

"Oh no, baby." The caller's panic is accompanied by the screeching of tires. "Don't cry. I'm almost there."

"I miss him. I miss my best friend."

"It's okay. Don't cry."

"Bring Kaiden back," he wails to the phone, sniffling and sobbing. 

"Excuse me," a female voice says, coming from his right side. "Are you Primo Alca?"

His crying stops, the unfamiliar Alpha pheromones alerting him that he's not alone. Despite being in the limelight for six years now, he can't sober up in an instant when he's naturally weak to alcohol.

"Don't talk to anyone, Dylan. Wait for me," says the person on the phone.

Dylan turns his head, the phone falling on the table with a clang. He can't see, but if he squints his eyes, he can see the figure of a man and a woman.

The pheromones are coming from the man, one of his arms around the woman's shoulder as she says, "You are, right? Gosh! I can't believe I'm meeting Primo Alca here."

"Who're ya supposed to be?" He can't remember if he knows them. Where is he, anyway?

The woman is already holding her phone up when she says, "I'm a fan! Can we take a picture?" 

"Shit! This fucking red light," the voice on the phone says at the same time Dylan is saying: "Go away! I don't know you."

"Hey, man! What's your problem? My girlfriend just wants one picture," the man says while he steps closer, brandishing his pheromones everywhere.

The stranger's scent slaps across Dylan's senses, making him dizzier than the liquor did. He doesn't even hear himself ask, "How'd ya get a girlfriend with that face?"

"HEY! How dare you talk to an alpha like that!" The man grabs him by the arm, pulling him up.

Dylan, or Primo—to them, struggles in his hold, yet the man refuses to let go. There's not much fight left in him when there's nothing but alcohol buzzing through his veins.

Just when he decides to kick the man in the balls, another set of Alpha pheromones drowns the stranger's scent. Dylan recognizes who it is immediately. Collin—that stupid, ugly Alpha—is finally here.

Collin's voice is threatening and dangerous when he asks, "Who do you think you're touching?"

Then, all too fast, the stranger's grip on him loosens. There's a loud pop— the sound of bones cracking, followed by a scream and groans of pain, but the music is too loud for Dylan to hear clearly. He moves, wobbly on his feet, as the scent of fresh rain on a quiet forest embraces him amidst the chaos.

"Come on, baby. Let's get out of here," Collin says, no longer speaking in that dangerous tone.

Through his blurry vision, Dylan looks up to see pale blue eyes looking fondly at him. He doesn't know what happened, but it feels as if he almost got in trouble. So, with the tone of a child complaining, he says, "Stupid Alpha. What took you so long?"

A warm arm supports Dylan's unsteady body at the same time a playful but gentle voice says, "I drove as fast as I could. Come on."

"I'm sleepy. Carry me," the pampered youngest son of the Lin family says while clutching the front of Collin's shirt.

Collin's chuckle is lost to the noise around him, yet his next words come loud and clear. "Okay, but make sure to hide your face. Got it?"

"Whatever." Putting his arms around the Alpha's neck, Dylan doesn't forget to ask, "Where's that soup?"

"I'll take you there. Hold tight."

Then, without waiting for a response, Dylan's feet are off the ground. There's one arm supporting his weight from below while another is on his back. His legs are wrapped around Collin's waist, their chests pressed together as he ducks his head to where that comforting scent is the strongest.

"If you drop me, you're dead," he whispers while pressing his nose closer to Collin's scent gland. "Deader than zombies."

He feels the Alpha give a light kiss at the top of his head, but his eyes are already closing when Collin says, "I won't. I promise."

Drunk and out of his mind, it isn't until the next day that Dylan sees his stage name trending on the hot topic list again, with various media outlets speculating the nature of his relationship with the mysterious Alpha.

When Primo's PR team is almost finished sweeping those posts clean, only then does he see the message from Lucy.

[I have news for you. Good and bad. Which one do you want to hear first?]