Primal Needs: A Sci-Fi M/F Omegaverse Romance (Primal Alphas Book 3)

by Lizzy Bequin

  I got the third degree from the bosses. They were pissed I intervened and blew cover.

  And apparently they didn’t care too much about Kruger’s nocturnal adventures. I think they figured it was acceptable as long as he was going after street girls and not accountants jogging in Central Park. As far as the bosses were concerned, it was okay as long as nobody would look too hard for the victims.

  That’s pretty fucked up. But I can’t hate Kruger for what he is. Hell, sometimes I wonder how long it will be before I start losing control of the beast inside me too.

  Kruger and I both stiffen slightly in our seats as a pair of headlights illuminate the street, gradually drawing closer. As the vehicle rolls past us, I see that it’s a rumbling, hunter green pickup truck with a raised chassis and large tires for off-roading. The pristine paint job and chrome trim, however, looks like it’s never seen a spot of mud.

  The truck cuts off its headlights as it pulls ahead of us and rolls to a stop in front of the Jacobson place.

  “Well would you look at that,” Kruger whispers with excited laughter in his voice.

  I see exactly what he’s talking about, of course. One of the front, ground-floor windows slides open, and a pair of smooth legs clad only in a super-short black skirt appear, giving a quick, moonlit flash of the thong panties underneath. After a bit of awkward kicking and flailing, the cute little high-heeled feet touch down, and the rest of Amrita’s body follows after.

  She pulls the window shut behind her, hurriedly sidles her way between the hedges, and speed walks across the lawn, brushing caught leaves from her tight, midriff-baring top and stylish denim jacket. Her hair is still in a simple ponytail, but she’s loosened it a little, letting a few sultry locks hang around her face. She’s also put on a touch of makeup, which she doesn’t need. A small, black leather handbag swings from her shoulder.

  Quick and quiet as a little cat, she crosses the lawn and climbs into the passenger seat of the truck. A moment later the truck pulls away, only flicking on its headlights again once it is a few houses down the street.

  I wait until they turn at the next stop sign before I start up the Tahoe and follow after them at a safe distance.

  CHAPTER 4: AMRITA

  My heart is thumping wildly as I glance in the rear-view mirror at my dark house shrinking in the distance. The light in Dad’s window is still off. I think I’m in the clear.

  “Feels like we’re back in high-school, doesn’t it?” Trent laughs over the classic rock music playing on his car stereo. “You know, with you sneaking out at night like this and all.”

  “Yeah,” I say trying my best to hide the nervousness in my voice.

  The truth of the matter is that I never once snuck out of my house when I was in high school, so I honestly wouldn’t know. This is my first time doing anything even remotely naughty. But he’s got a point—it is pretty crazy that I have to sneak out of my own house when I’m twenty years old. Going on twenty-one.

  I face forward and settle into the soft leather seat, trying to play it cool. The cab of Trent’s truck is pristine, with a custom, leather bench seat instead of the usual bucket seats. The cool breeze of the air conditioner ghosts over all the skin that is exposed by my revealing outfit.

  His truck has that new car smell to it. I’m pretty sure his dad got it for him just a couple of weeks ago. I can also smell his spicy cologne, which is nice, but underneath I detect a faint hint of whisky. Surely he hasn’t been drinking and driving, right? And there is some other odor I can’t quite place.

  “Bet your old man would kill me if he found out I was kidnapping you in the middle of the night,” Trent chuckles, sounding none too concerned about it.

  I attempt a breezy laugh that comes out way too loud and sounds super phony. Trent may be joking, but the fact of the matter is, he’s probably right. My crazy dad probably would shoot him if he found out that Trent was spiriting me off to an illicit house party in the middle of the night. I don’t even want to tell him about the trouble I had to go through deactivating the alarm sensor on my bedroom window so I could slip out.

  I’m fully aware of my dad’s reputation in the small town of Durbin. Sure, everyone respects him as an incredibly good family practitioner. However, when it comes to his personal life, he’s viewed as the town weirdo. A paranoid old gun nut and doomsday prepper who keeps his poor daughter under lock and key. Of course, no one would actually say that to his face, but in a small town like Durbin, you hear whispers. It’s not hard to get a read on where everybody stands.

  Honestly, I’ve never understood why my dad chose to move here to Durbin. He tries to hide it, but I know that he’s way too smart to be working as a small town doctor. I’ve seen the photographs that he keeps hidden away in the desk in his office—the ones of him and my mom when they were both young colleagues in some government research project.

  And then there are those notebooks of his, the pages filled with cramped handwritten notes. The stuff is practically incomprehensible to me. All I’ve been able to glean is that it has something to do with animal breeding programs. Alphas and Omegas, whatever that means.

  “You look really sexy tonight,” Trent says.

  Oh geez, speaking of breeding, I think that was the mating call of the wild Trent. His comment makes me blush. I can see that he really does live up to his reputation of being a very forward young man.

  I have to admit, I feel pretty self conscious right now. My dad would totally flip his shit if he saw me going out dressed like this in a belly shirt, short skirt, and high heels. Then again, I’m old enough to make my own clothing choices. And besides, getting a compliment from a popular boy feels nice.

  “Thanks,” I mutter stupidly. “Um, you look handsome.”

  Seriously, Amrita? That’s the best you can come up with? No clue how my face looks right now, but it feels like my blush just doubled in intensity. But when Trent flashes a flirty smile, that puts my nerves at ease, at least for the moment.

  And it’s true, he does look nice. He’s wearing a pristine pair of designer tennis shoes, tight jeans that fit snugly around his long, slim legs, and a short sleeved v-neck shirt that shows off the tattoos on his toned arms.

  While Trent drives us through the quiet neighborhood at night, I take a moment to admire his profile in the light of the passing streetlamps sweeping by.

  No doubt, Trent is very handsome. All of the girls in Durbin are totally ga-ga over him. He was the starting quarterback of the football team in high school, and after he finishes college, he’s got a job lined up in his family’s lumber company—a company that he is set to take over after his father retires.

  By all accounts, Trent is a catch. That’s one reason I’ve been trying to keep the fact that he and I have been talking on the down low. I don’t want to deal with the jealousy of the other local females. Girls can be vicious, you know?

  But there’s another reason. Even though I can recognize that Trent is a nice-looking guy with a good career ahead of him, I just don’t feel that special spark that people talk about.

  I’m not just talking about love here. Look, I’m not some sticky sweet romantic, okay? No, I’m talking about good old-fashioned lust. And for whatever reason, Trent just doesn’t do it for me.

  But when he started making some light advances, I decided to go with the flow. I mean, I’m not planning on becoming a nun, so I need to find a boyfriend sooner or later—preferably sooner. I guess my thinking is that if I just fake it for a while, maybe I can trick my brain into wanting a guy like that.

  I’m startled out of my distracted thoughts when the car wiggles a little, followed by the sound of a lighter repeatedly flicking.

  Trent is struggling to light a cigarette. When I look closer and get a whiff, I realize it’s not an ordinary cigarette. I guess I am pretty sheltered because it takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s the source of that weird odor I didn’t recognize before. It’s a joint. Whoa, where did that come from?

&nbs
p; “Shit,” Trent hisses, his lips clamped on the joint. “Grab the wheel for a sec, wouldya, babe?”

  Before I even have a chance to think or respond—or tell him I’m not particularly comfortable with him calling me “babe”—Trent has taken both of his hands off the steering wheel, cupping one of them around the lighter to shield the flame from the blast of the air conditioner.

  I grab hold of the steering wheel, holding the car steady on the dimly lit country road as Trent continues working the accelerator. Yeah, this totally doesn’t seem safe.

  “Are you sure you should be doing that, while you’re driving?” I ask.

  Trent has finally gotten his doobie lit, and he takes a deep, long pull from it, scrunching his face as he holds the potent smoke inside his lungs.

  “Don’t worry,” Trent croaks in a funny voice as he speaks while still holding his breath in, “I drive better when I’m high.”

  “Be that as it may, I drive better when I’m not steering from the passenger seat,” I squeak.

  Trent takes control of the wheel again. He plucks the joint from his lips, circles his mouth into a big O shape, and exhales an immense billow of pungent smoke.

  “You need to relax,” he says, offering the joint to me.

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on.” He gestures for me to take the weed. “This is the really good stuff.”

  “Sorry,” I fake cough as I bat the smoke from my nose. “I, um…I can’t because of my medication.”

  Normally I don’t like to bring up my medication—I don’t like bringing up anything that keeps me from fitting in. But right now I’m grateful I have a bulletproof excuse not to partake. Alone with a guy that I don’t know all that well sure doesn’t seem like the best time to be chemically lowering my inhibitions.

  Trent gives a slightly disappointed shrug and then takes another big puff for himself as he squints bleary-eyed out of the windshield.

  I can’t tell if I should be worried about his behavior, or if I’m just being a party-pooper. Maybe my dad’s parochial attitudes have rubbed off on me a little too much.

  “What the fuck?” Trent says, the joint bouncing up and down between his lips as he talks. He’s looking in the rearview mirror.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I turn to look out the back window, half expecting to see Dad’s truck barreling after us, his prized hunting rifle sticking out of the window as he takes aim. But I don’t see anything. Just the empty, moonlit road stretching back to the dim, orange-ish streetlights of our little neighborhood, which we’ve left behind.

  Trent just shakes his head.

  “Nothing,” he chuckles. “I must just be high. Thought I saw a car back there following us with its lights off.”

  I look again. Nope, just the dark empty road. But suddenly I realize just how far we’ve driven already.

  “Oh, Trent, you missed the turnoff! Chrissy’s house is back that way.”

  “Oh yeah,” he laughs again, “Ha, I must really be high. I told you this stuff was good. You sure you don’t want any?”

  “My medication,” I remind him.

  “Right, right,” he mutters before taking another big drag. “Well, no rush. Chrissy’s party can wait, right? I’ll just finish this joint first.”

  Trent turns off onto a country road that will take us more or less in the direction of where the party is. I figure he’s just taking the scenic route, so to speak, so I don’t say anything about it, and we actually fall into a nice easy conversation for a few minutes.

  However, as we wind along the top of a ridge that overlooks the town in the distance, Trent pulls over at a lookout and parks the car.

  “Trent, what are you doing?” I ask, feeling a little bit nervous. “I thought we would just go to the party for an hour or two. I mean, it’s late already, and I can’t stay out all night.”

  But Trent’s not really paying attention. Instead, he reaches under the seat and pulls out a pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “Trent,” I gasp as he screws off the metal top and tilts the bottle back to take a big swallow. “You shouldn’t be drinking like that. You’ve got to drive.”

  He draws the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Aw, don’t worry, Amrita,” he chuckles. “Here, why don’t you have a swig? It’ll help you relax.”

  “Can’t,” I say, starting to get pissed at his behavior. “My medication.”

  Trent just gives me a strange look.

  “Shit, you can’t have any fun at all, can you? Allergic to weed. Allergic to alcohol,” he tosses back another mouthful from the bottle before replacing the cap and setting it in the drink holder. Then in an oily voice he adds, “You’re not allergic to me too, I hope?”

  Turning in his seat, he gives me a come hither look from under his hooded, bedroom eyes, his elbow resting nonchalantly on the steering wheel.

  My body feels tight and tense with nerves. I feel like this is the moment when a normal girl would be all over Trent, but I’m seriously not feeling it. In fact, I’m starting to feel pretty uncomfortable.

  “Come scoot a bit closer,” Trent says, patting the bench seat beside him.

  “I think I’m okay, right here.”

  Suddenly he lurches toward me. Grabbing hold of the sleeve of my denim jacket, he yanks me toward him, but my seatbelt holds me in place.

  “I said, ‘come here,’” he snaps, his hands fumbling at my seatbelt, but finally getting it free.

  “Trent, stop it, I—”

  Clutching my hair awkwardly, he pulls my face into his, pressing his lips against mine. The smell of liquor and smoke on his breath repulses me, and I clamp my lips shut against his kiss as I try to squirm away.

  But Trent isn’t taking the hint. Maybe he thinks I’m just playing hard to get, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His tongue moves along the seam of my lips, trying to gain entry.

  Squeezing my left leg between us, I manage to push myself away from him until my back thumps against the door. Trent winces as the sharp heel of my strappy shoe jabs his hip, keeping him at bay.

  “Stop it!” I shout, and without even thinking I swing a hard slap against his cheek.

  My palm stings, so I’m sure Trent’s face does too. He rubs himself where I popped him. I’ve never used violence in my life, and even though that slap was totally warranted, I still feel shaken up.

  “You little bitch,” he snorts.

  My fingers clasp the door handle behind me, but it’s no good. The door’s locked and won’t budge. I try to pull up on the locking mechanism, but it’s no use.

  “Let me out,” I snap, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice.

  “Where you gonna go?” he laughs, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “You ain’t gonna walk all the way back to town from here.”

  I still have my leg outstretched to keep Trent at bay. He grabs it and yanks. My hips slide toward him, and I fall onto my back on the seat.

  “Trent stop—“

  He claps his hand over my mouth, muffling my shouts while his other hand drags drunkenly over my body.

  “Don’t fight me,” he hisses, “You know you want this, you little slut.”

  I struggle against him, but he’s too strong. He knees my legs apart and positions himself between my open thighs while his free hand fumbles with his jangling belt buckle.

  As a hot tear rolls down my temple, all I can think about is how much I wished I had just stayed at home. All these years I’ve felt like my father was being overprotective. Now, the one night I break the rules and sneak out, and I’m getting sexually assaulted by this guy that I never should have trusted.

  My father is right to be paranoid. You really can’t trust anyone.

  Then, in the blink of an eye my panicked and confused thoughts tumble through my brain.

  Dad.

  Paranoid.

  Gun.

  There’s a gun in my purse. The snub-nosed .38 Special revolver that father always makes me ca
rry. All this time I’ve hated lugging that ugly little killing machine around, but now it’s my only hope.

  “Goddamnit,” Trent slurs as he continues to struggle with the fly of his jeans. He doesn’t see my hand dip into the purse where I stowed it on the floor board when I got in. He doesn’t hear the rattle of lipstick and compact and crinkling tampons as I rummage. He doesn’t feel the sigh I breathe against his palm when my fingers find what they are looking for.

  I swing the gun in an overhand arc, striking the hard, wooden butt against Trent’s temple.

  “Fuck,” he chokes, slouching sideways as he clutches his head where I struck him. Scrambling out from under him, I sit up with my back against the door. I’m shaking like a leaf, so I grip the pistol with both hands, keeping it as steady as I can manage.

  In the moonlight I see Trent’s eyes go crossed as he stares at the muzzle that is trained on him.

  “Open this door right now,” I stammer, trying my best to sound like I mean business. “Or so help me I’ll shoot you.”

  Even though he tried to rape me, I honestly don’t know if I would be capable of shooting him or not. I pray that I don’t have to find out.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” he spits. A trickle of blood emerges from beneath the hand that he has pressed to his head.

  Crazy? This piece of shit just tried to rape me, and he’s gonna call me crazy?

  “Open the door.” My voice is cold and level, but my heart is beating a wild tattoo against my ribs.

  “Amrita,” Trent says, trying to muster some of that fake charm he showed me before. “You really don’t want to do this.”

  “Try me.”

  I swing my arms about forty-five degrees to the right and squeeze the trigger, lighting up the cab with a lightning flash that shatters the wind shield, showering a spray of glass onto the dash.

  What I didn’t think of is that shooting a gun isn’t like what you see in the movies. When you discharge a handgun in a closed truck cab, it’s loud. Like, really fucking loud. As in I can’t hear shit because my ears are ringing like a firetruck siren loud.