Chapter 18 – JORDAN
18
JORDAN
M y hair is dripping wet from a much needed shower as I step out of the bathroom. I'm still a bit shaky but finally feeling like myself again. The past five days have been a blur of fever dreams and primal need, but at least it's over.
Going off suppressants is always hell, but it had to be done. The military-grade stuff I use isn't meant for long-term use, and after that disaster at PheroMaster, I couldn't risk another malfunction.
I'm mostly just pissed at myself for what—or rather, who —I had to think about to get through my heat. Fantasizing about another omega's alphas is not exactly something I'm proud of. And I'm not sure if the fact that Asher starred in most of those fantasies alongside them makes it better or worse.
But it's not like any of them are ever going to know. It's not like I even have to see them again. Not if Maria sends back the results and I get my concrete evidence to link PheroMaster to the extremist group who attacked Wild Honey.
Case done and dusted. No loose ends.
Just the way I want it.
So why does the thought of never seeing them again create an empty pit in my stomach that has nothing to do with the fact that I've been subsisting on coffee and whatever junk food was left over in my pantry for the better part of the last week?
My loft is exactly as I left it—sparse, functional, forgettable. Just the way I like it. The morning sun streams through the industrial windows, illuminating the bare concrete floors and white walls. No photos, no art, no personal touches. Nothing that can't be abandoned at a moment's notice.
Well, almost nothing.
My eyes drift to the walk-in closet I converted into a nest. It's the one concession I've made to my omega nature, though I'd rather die than admit it to anyone. The space is filled with soft blankets and pillows, carefully arranged and scented with my natural roses and rain smell. During my heat, it was the only thing that kept me sane.
That and the clothes I borrowed from Asher. I really hate myself for putting those in the nest, but they smelled like him and Damon and it was far more comforting than it had any right to be.
Soon, I'll have to deconstruct the nest and send the clothes back to him, but that means facing my humiliation all over again.
Yeah, I'd rather procrastinate with work.
My laptop sits on the kitchen counter where I left it, a layer of dust already gathering on the keyboard. Five days offline feels like an eternity in my line of work. Who knows what I've missed?
I know Maria hasn't called, since she has my direct number, but that's about it. I've had everyone else on silence, and I'm sure I've got a few missed texts from Asher and his crew.
It's pathetic, really, that I'm avoiding my own clients, but it's not like I have any updates to give them.
Better deal with that before Asher sends in the Guard.
But first, coffee. Lots of coffee.
As I wait for the ancient coffee maker to sputter to life, I catch my reflection in the microwave door.
I look rough. Dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess, wearing the same oversized hoodie I've had on for days. But at least my head is clear now. No more strange reactions to alpha pheromones. No more dangerous thoughts about violet and honey,
The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself a cup, savoring the bitter taste. It's funny—before I presented as omega, I hated coffee. Now it's like liquid armor, helping me maintain this carefully constructed facade.
My phone sits dark and silent on the counter, charging so it's on whenever Maria calls. I haven't even checked it since before my heat started, too afraid of what I might do in that vulnerable state. What I might say. Who I might reach out to.
With trembling fingers, I pick it up and turn off Do Not Disturb. Messages flood in immediately.
Fifteen. Fifteen fucking messages, all from Asher. I'm pretty sure that's more texts than I've received all year. My stomach does a flip as I scroll through them.
ASHER: Hey! Just wanted to check if you're okay. You seemed off when you left tonight.
ASHER: The pack is worried about you too.
Another text the following day.
ASHER: If you want to get dinner before you leave town, we're here.
ASHER: Alex? Please just let us know you're alright.
ASHER: I know you probably think I'm being annoying but... I care, okay?
ASHER: We all do.
ASHER: Okay, I'm not sure if you're ignoring these or if one of Vince's minions captured you and locked you in a pit of stinky crocodiles.
ASHER: My therapist says I have a tendency to catastrophize.
I'm going to choose this as a moment of personal growth, assume it's the former, and give you your space.
There are no new messages for two whole days before he caves.
ASHER: Okay, there's space and then there are lightyears. Kind of panicking here.
ASHER: Don't kill me, but I might have paid someone a lot of money to track you down.
ASHER: But in my defense, you'll be happy to know he had absolutely zero luck. So your secret identity is safe, and so is your job security.
ASHER: Please, just call when you get this.
ASHER: Or text.
ASHER: I'll take a fucking rolled up note delivered by carrier crocodile at this point. We just want to know you're ok.
The last message was sent just yesterday. Something warm and dangerous blooms in my chest at his persistence. At the genuine concern in his words.
And guilt.
Boat loads of guilt.
I'm not used to people caring where I'm at. I'm not used to anyone caring at all.
A part of me wants to retreat even further, to shutter the windows and bar the doors and turn off my phone and just forget I even exist, but another part can't bear the thought of another minute going by without at least letting them know I'm okay.
I type out several responses before deleting them all. What can I say? Sorry I disappeared, I was busy going through my first natural heat in years because being around your pack fucked with my suppressants?
Yeah, that would go over well.
I guess at least I wouldn't have to worry about him hounding me anymore. But there's a traitorous part of me that likes it.
Instead, I send a simple text.
Sorry, my phone was off. Had some personal matters to deal with when I got back. Waiting on the samples now.
His response is immediate as always. Not a full second goes by before I see the three little dots indicating he’s typing.
ASHER: Thank fuck! We were about to put your face on milk cartons haha
ASHER: I actually looked into it. It's more of a formal process than you'd imagine, and apparently, you can't report a legal adult whose real name you don't even know as missing. Rude.
I snort and send my reply before I can stop myself.
ASHER: Pretty hard to put my face on anything when you barely even know what I look like.
ASHER: I have a photogenic memory, thank you very much. I'd be able to tell the sketch artist you have shaggy brown hair, brown eyes with gold flecks, full lips that are in perfect proportion to the cutest nose I've ever seen.
ASHER: And that you look good in leather pants
Heat creeps up my neck as I remember the outfit he picked out for me. The way he looked at me in it. The way they all looked at me.
No. Not going there.
The heat is over, the suppressants are back in my system, and I need to focus on the job.
I stare at the text message for a few more seconds, my brain short circuiting. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
It's photographic.
ASHER: Not the way mine works.
I roll my eyes. He's too fucking much.
And I must be losing it, because he's actually starting to grow on me.
I sent the samples to my contact last week. Should have results soon.
Deliberately ignoring his flirtation here.
ASHER: Can't wait! Especially if that means we get to see you again.
ASHER: There's no reason for us to meet in person again.
ASHER: But how else am I supposed to know it's you and not a crocodile who stole your phone?
I blow an errant strand of hair out of my face and grab my newly filled mug off the coffeemaker tray. It's pitch black, just the way I like it, and I can't help wondering what Asher would have to say about that.
Crocodiles can't type.
ASHER: That's what a crocodile would say.
Don't you have a world tour to manage?
I pull up my Internet browser after I send the text and look up the band's current stop out of curiosity. Sure enough, they're in Riverton.
ASHER: At this point, the songs practically sing themselves.
Well, some of us have work to do.
But I’m fighting the smile tugging at my lips even as I type that out.
ASHER: Point taken, Mystery Man. I'll leave you alone on one condition.
And what's that?
ASHER: Just promise me the next time you need to disappear to maintain your aura, or whatever it is you do, you'll send a heads up first? A one-word text will do. We'll have a secret code. Maybe… Pineapple?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
It's not a big ask for normal people, but what about me is normal? I've lived my entire adult life on the premise of anonymity. No strings attached. No meaningful connections. Nothing to tie me down or trip me up.
This feels like one hell of a string, and yet, even if I should be taking this as an opportunity to shut down whatever the hell this is, I don't have the heart.
Fine. I'll give you a heads up next time.
I blink, temporarily blinded by the blur of sparkle hearts and kissy face emojis that instantly flood my screen. I'm pretty sure those are his version of a victory cry.
ASHER: Okay! Back to your scary hacker stuff.
ASHER: And… Alex? I'm glad you're okay.
I set the phone down, my hands shaking slightly. This is dangerous territory. I can't afford to let anyone get close, least of all Asher and his pack.
They're clients, nothing more.
When I get another notification, I'm prepared for another block of emojis, or maybe another cat gif, but instead, it's an email from Maria letting me know the results are ready and she's dropping them off at my P.O. Box in person.
Finally.