Knot Her Shot (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 2)

Chapter 4

chapter

four

I usedto like the scent of coffee.

Now, as I step back into Proper Coffee after a quick (eight-minute) lunch break, the smell just makes me nauseous.

Carefully covered with de-scenter, my usual baggy clothes, and an Orlando Ospreys cap, I edge around the cluster of suit-clad businessmen muttering to each other. Several glares cut my way. My Omega quivers, a flare of urgency sending a bunch of odd sensations through my body.

The presence of so many alpha pheromones—even when I can’t smell them—makes me edgy and needy in the most humiliating way. I don’t want to perfume for any of these strangers, but my body is dripping slick, and my pulse throbs between my legs.

When I whine quietly, their boss scoffs and snarls, “There’s a line, in case you didn’t notice.”

What I notice is my manager once again staring at his phone while customers pile up at the register. Ducking my head, I hustle over, doing my best to ignore the shooting pains that streak up the backs of my legs.

I’ve been on my feet for another eight-hour shift today. At least I remembered to have a granola bar this time.

I’m beginning to realize that, while I may be an excellent caretaker for friends, former roommates, and hapless fellow employees, I’m really not very good at taking care of myself.

If I could afford therapy, that might be worth unpacking.

I take a few orders before one particularly creepy alpha tries to reach over the counter and grab my arm. My manager finally steps in after that, thank the Lord.

I’m grateful the man didn’t actually get his hands on me. That’s the best part of working as a barista—there’s always three feet of bar between me and whoever I have to deal with.

And today? I need it.

“This is supposed to be iced.”

A splash of hot coffee splatters from a to-go cup as one of the investors’ suited alphas slams it onto our service bar. I rear back, only narrowly avoiding a lash of steaming liquid to the face.

The aggression in his voice sends a tremor down my spine. I shrink down a bit and pick up the offending cup, spinning it to read the label on the side. Our system prints the stickers out automatically when it rings up an order. Whoever prepares the drink just reads whatever the ticket says and fulfills it.

Large lavender latte, it reads in clear block letters.

The word iced is nowhere in sight, which explains the mistake. I didn’t ring this up, which means my manager probably keyed it in wrong.

No big deal, right?

Wrong.

A strike of alpha dominance has me close to hyperventilating. I can’t even look up from the sticky floor; I have to lock my muscles in place, so I don’t hide behind the counter.

“I know you’re probably not aware of this, but some of us have shit we need to do,” the man sneers. “We don’t have all day to deal with your fucking incompetence!”

My shoulders hunch up toward my ears. I cringe away from his voice, the hostility sending me back a step. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted it iced. The sticker is wrong. See here?”

With a shaking hand, I start to lift the cup toward him, turning it to display the label. Behind me, a coffee grinder starts up, blotting out the overwhelming whir of chatter and blend of strange almost-scents in the neutralized room.

The jerk across from me rips the to-go cup from my hand and thumps it back onto the counter.

What in the?—

Shock snaps my head up, nearly sending my Ospreys cap to the sticky floor. The lid pops off the top of the latte on impact, revealing a battered version of the foam smiley face I had secretly hidden inside the drink and sloshing half its contents all over me.

So much for silently wishing my customer a happy day.

“I don’t give a fuck what your excuse for being pathetic is.” The coffee grinder subsides just in time for me to hear him bark, “Remake it.”

My legs tremble, absorbing the impact of the command. I choke back a fearful whine, my scent shifting. Luckily, no one can smell me under my de-scenter and the rich aroma of the coffee currently in the grinder.

Because he barked instead of asking, I don’t have any choice but to scurry away and remake the alpha’s drink. When I return less than a minute later, he snaps the cold cup out of my hand without so much as a thank-you.

Not for the first time, I wish I were more like Meg. She would have called him a prick, poured the new latte all over his monogrammed sleeves, and quit on the spot. But I’ve never been any good at standing up for myself. And—even worse—I actually feel scared here.

That never used to happen. I loved this job. Now it’s just… ruined.

I lift the hem of the stolen hoodie to my face and use it to swipe at my wet eyes, mumbling to my manager about taking a break. He waves me on, rolling his eyes when he sees that I’m crying again.

I’ve always thought of myself as a quintessential omega in every traditional sense of the word. Meg fights parts of our designation, but I’ve never minded being softer and more emotional.

Lately, though, I feel as pitiful as everyone seems to think I am.

I’mon my second plate of toffee-nut cookies before I stop sobbing.

It’s been a long day. In the midst of an even longer week.

I was already strung out on anxiety and feeling generally overwhelmed before one of the new investors at Proper Coffee barked at me, telling me I was taking too long to fulfill mobile orders and causing the whole counter to get backed up.

“Faster, or I’ll find someone who can actually do your job.”

Meg would have told him that, technically, none of this is my job. I was hired for a position that doesn’t exist anymore, making the homemade baked goods we used to sell.

I’m too afraid to speak up, though. What if they decide I’m not worth keeping now that they’ve decided to peddle stale, generic pastries instead of mine?

Instead, I took every knock their boss threw at me, hunching and lowering my eyes every time I was barked into submission. My quivery nerves eventually gave out, though, and I wound up choking down whines and swiping tears out of my eyes for most of my shift.

It was a relief to get home and have a proper breakdown. But even an hour spent crying on the floor of my closet-nest isn’t enough to make me feel anything, other than terribly alone.

I haven’t stopped thinking about Meg’s thinly veiled offer to sign me up for a scent-matching service. The fact is, I need to find a good pack as soon as I can. My suppressants won’t work forever. And the thought of having to go back to a heat clinic terrifies me.

As much as I wish I had a fairy tale like Meg’s, most packs are not scent-sensitive like hers. Of the ones who are, even fewer meet by chance. Most use scent-matching companies… and Forever Matched is the best of the best.

Am I crazy to turn this offer down?

Should I get over all of my silly hopes and dreams and face reality? Or is that settling?

I hate being my best friend’s charity case. Before I turned eighteen, my whole life was trash bags full of donated clothes; Christmas gifts given to me by church charities; treats passed over by strangers with pitying smiles.

I don’t know why this feels so similar, but it gives me that same clench of humiliation in my gut. Embarrassment that I’m in this situation in the first place… and heartbreak that I know exactly why.

The fact is, finding people who want me has always been hopeless. I mean, it sort of makes sense; my own mother surrendered me at birth. If she didn’t want me, what use was it trying to convince strangers to take me?

Still, I spent years spinning plates on my nose, doing everything I could be loveable to the families that considered me. Nothing ever worked. And the only alpha I’ve ever had a connection with made it clear I was firmly in his friend zone—and barely there, at that.

Thankfully, my body never had a chance to betray my attraction to him. The same day I found the sweatshirt in front of my door, my designation came through, and I was promptly “re-homed” to a facility for single omegas without family or guardians.

Meg was my roommate. Sometimes, I wonder if the universe knew I needed a distraction—and the reassurance that there were, in fact, more pitiful new omegas than me.

The poor girl didn’t know anything about our designation. I leaped at the opportunity for a new mission to divert me from my misery. Projects were one of the many coping skills I honed over the years. Sometimes, I feel like I have dozens.

See a happy family walking down the street and feel a pang in your gut? Sing a happy song to yourself.

Need a way to get through holidays when you have no one to spend them with? Try that new baking technique that will take hours to perfect.

Feeling lonely and depressed in your new apartment all by yourself? Paint the walls pink.

Trying to forget your mortifying crush on a hot almost-alpha and the way his borrowed hoodie made you perfume for the first time? Give the new girl a lesson on slick-absorbing panties.

I pull my borrowed (stolen) sweatshirt over my face, huddling down into it. Pretending it’s a blanket and not a relic of all the things I used to think I could have.

How much longer am I willing to live like this?

And what happens when I can’t do it anymore?