Page 75 of Unhinged Alphas
"Valek," I press, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you mean?"
Whiskey bursts abruptly back into the room, his arms laden with blankets, pillows, and an assortment of snacks.
"Movie night, bitches!" he crows, dumping his haul onto the floor.
The moment shatters and Valek's face shutters, that haunted look vanishing behind his usual mask of sardonic amusement. I bite back a frustrated growl. Whatever he was about to reveal, it's lost now.
Whiskey bustles around, arranging the blankets and pillows into a makeshift nest on the floor. The scent of butter and salt fills the air as he tears open a bag of popcorn. The smell hits melike a punch to the gut, dragging me back to that night in the forest with my mother. The tinny sound of cartoon animals, the flickering light from the drive-in screen, the sweet kernels of corn bursting between my teeth...
"Alright, your royal omega-ness," Whiskey says with a theatrical bow. "Your throne awaits."
I hesitate, eyeing the nest of blankets and pillows Whiskey's created on the floor. It looks soft, inviting even, but I'm on edge after the weird conversation I just had with Valek.
"Come on," Whiskey says, patting the space beside him.
Against my better judgment, I lower myself into the nest. The blankets are softer than I expected, and I can't help but sink into them a little. Whiskey grins triumphantly and plops down beside me, his bulk making the whole nest shift.
Before I can stop myself, I'm curling into his side. He's so strong, but his padded stomach is soft and warm, his body heat radiating through his shirt. I press closer, seeking that warmth, and tentatively rest my head on his chest.
Valek is being uncharacteristically quiet, his earlier playfulness replaced by a distant, almost brooding silence. I crane my neck to look at him, buthis face is unreadable, his silver eyes fixed on some point far beyond the walls of this room.
A chill runs down my spine as I remember his words from earlier.There are things in this world, little omega, that you can't even begin to imagine. Horrors beyond your wildest nightmares.
What the hell did he mean by that?
And what does it have to do with Wraith?
"Alright, let's get this show on the road!" Whiskey's voice jolts me out of my thoughts. He fiddles with some kind of oversized remote, pointing it at the screen across the room. After a few moments of static, an image flickers to life.
The opening credits roll, accompanied by a twangy guitar riff that makes me wince. The title card appears: "BROS, HOES, AND FOES 3: THE RECKONING."
"What the hell kind of movie is this?" I mutter.
Whiskey grins, shoving a handful of buttery popcorn into his mouth. "Only the greatest cinematic masterpiece of the post-apocalyptic era," he says around his mouthful. "You're in for a treat, kiddo."
I grimace at the nickname but settle in to watch. The movie opens on a dusty road cutting through a sun-baked desert dotted with twisted metal and theruins of a shelled-out city. A beat-up muscle car comes roaring into view, kicking up a cloud of sand behind it. The camera pans to reveal the driver, a muscular man with a leather jacket covered in spikes and a mullet that makes him look like a half-shaved lion. A cigar hangs off his chapped lips.
"That's Brick McSlam," Whiskey explains, his voice filled with reverence. "The biggest badass to ever live. In the first movie, he stood directly in the path of the very first nuke with our flag held high so it'd be the last thing the nuke saw. Really gave us all hope we'd win the war?—"
"Bombs cannot see," Valek cuts in.
"Shh," Whiskey hushes him. "Just watch."
"Shouldn't we start with the first movie?" I ask.
"Don't have it," Whiskey says. He gives me a squeeze. "But I'm gonna find it one day, when this is all over."
As the movie unfolds, I find myself torn between disbelief and a grudging fascination. It's ridiculous, over-the-top in a way that borders on parody. I actually get the feeling it mightbea parody that just went over Whiskey's head. Brick McSlam and his crew of identical roided-up white guys with even more identical mullets facing up against scantily clad women who apparently couldn't find clothesthat fit even though they had no trouble finding an improbable array of weapons.
The dialogue is atrocious, peppered with one-liners so cheesy they make me cringe. But there's something oddly compelling about it all, a manic energy that keeps me watching despite myself.
Then a woman emerges from the shadows. She's wearing the skimpiest bikini of all, and instead of arms, she has two massive assault rifles grafted to her shoulders.
"Is this the best character?" I ask, amused.
"Mila Molotova," Whiskey says with a nostalgic sigh as she spins in a graceful pirouette, gun-arms blazing. Everything explodes around her in fireballs, blood, and sand. "My first crush. Had the actress's centerfold hanging up in my bedroom and everything."
"Talk about stereotypes," Valek says flatly.