Chapter 9
NINE
“You get him up.”
I throw an empty water bottle from my bedside table at the doorway, where my sisters whisper to each other.
“Go away. I’m sick.” I force out an exaggerated cough. “Deathly ill. Contagious.”
Tilly ignores me and stomps into the room, throwing the blinds open. Tabby yanks my comforter off me. “Ew, are you still sleeping on those sheets?”
“They smell like her,” I mumble, burrowing myself against the soiled sheets I stole from the club.
It’s been a week since I met my Omega, Queenie, and she almost immediately rejected me.
Not just rejected. She acted like she didn’t know me. Like I was nothing to her.
“Mav,” Tilly starts softly as she kneels beside the bed, “is it possible you were mistaken?”
I shake my head emphatically. I know what I smelled. That wasn’t the drugs. There is no way drugs can make someone smell like one of my favorite memories from my childhood.
Tabby leans against my bedside table. “When was the last time you ate?”
I can’t answer her because I don’t know. Eating is too much work. It would require getting out of bed, picking out a meal, and chewing.
Chewing is exhausting.
“I’m tired. Let me sleep.” I pull my pillow over my face, trying to block the daylight.
Of course, they don’t give up that easily.
“Have you been taking your meds?” That’s Tilly, the first to assume I’ve gone off my meds any time my moods change.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Unfortunately, I don’t think my mood stabilizers are rated for being rejected by my scent match.”
I have bipolar disorder. It’s fine. It’s not like the media makes it seem. Medicated, the most I get is, like, a little bit of baby mania that I can stave off by taking a pill and sleeping through it.
But the lows still come. Just not as frequently as they used to.
It’s hard to tell if this is a “my brain chemistry is fucked” low or a “my life is falling apart” low.
But, as my psychiatrist said when I asked her two days ago, it doesn’t matter which low it is. It’s still a low, and I need to treat it.
But I’m not strong enough.
Not this time.
I pretend that I am normal for everyone who knows me. When I was on Lunarcrest After Dark , a reality TV show that followed the club scene of Lunarcrest, I developed a relatively large fan base, and my DJ career took off.
Maverick Reilly, the fuck-boy of Lunarcrest City. Women were all over me, begging for my attention, and I happily gave it to them.
If they knew how much I struggled before my meds got sorted, would they still support me? Would they buy tickets to my sets and pay the cover charges at my clubs?
I doubt it. So, I’ll hide out until I’m a little stronger. Until I can recognize the man who stares back at me in the mirror. Right now, the effort it would take to get up and shower, change my clothes, wash these sheets, and eat something is too much for me.
No, I would prefer to melt into this bed and never move again.
“Mav…” Tabby’s voice is squeaky with pain. “At least eat a little something.”
“Just go, girls. Try again tomorrow.”
* * *
At this point, even I can recognize that this has gone on too long.
“Young man,” my mother growls from my doorway. “Get the fuck out of bed.”
I wince at her tone. “Mom,” I whine like a child. “Please.”
“No. No more. I’m done. It’s been ten days.” She strides across the room, the slight bark in her voice stiffening my spine. “You tried to get her once, but it didn’t work, so you’re just going to give up? You’re going to pine over her but not do anything to earn her affection? You would let all the progress you’ve made in your mental health flush down the drain? I don’t think so. No son of mine is going to wallow in filth when his Omega needs him.”
“She doesn’t need me!” I bolt out of bed in anger. “She rejected me! She pretended she didn’t even know me.”
“And she’s working at a fucking brothel. Have you ever thought that maybe she couldn’t know you?” My mother rolls her brown eyes as she flings open my windows and flicks on my ceiling fan, not-so-subtly hinting that it stinks in here. I’m nose blind to it now, but I know it can’t be great.
My fathers file into the room now, Pops holding an empty laundry basket, and Dad has a plate with a sandwich.
“Those clubs are no place for an Omega,” Dad says softly. “I can’t imagine what would cause an Omega to work in a pleasure den.” Dad is an Omega, too, and when I called all of them the morning after I met Queenie and told them what happened, he was immediately concerned for her well-being.
Pops drops the laundry basket and starts to strip the linens from my bed. I lunge for the sheet.
“Don’t!”
“No,” he barks, causing me to drop it and step back. I may be an Alpha, but he’s still my parent. That bark gets me every time. “It won’t even smell like her anymore. It’s soaked with your filth now.”
“Who the fuck even let you into my house?” My words are harsh, but they hold no bite.
Dad places his hand on my shoulder, guides me to sit at my desk, and pushes the sandwich in front of me. “We have a spare key. Your sisters were worried and called in reinforcements.”
“What did I ever do to you guys to curse me with twin Omega little sisters?” I grumble around a bite of the sandwich. “Meddlesome little jerks.”
“They love you,” my mother says as she picks up the dozens of empty water bottles surrounding the bed. “They were worried about you.”
How many times in my life have my parents done this dance?
They’ve never made me feel bad about my mental health. I’m lucky that I wasn’t raised in one of those ‘mental illnesses aren’t real’ households. The three of them have always been the perfect balance of care and tough love.
“Now be honest, Mav,” Dad says gently, “have you been taking your meds?”
My face heats, and I can’t make eye contact with him. I shove a too-large bite in my mouth to get out of answering immediately. Eventually, I have to swallow.
“I ran out two days ago.”
“Aren’t you on auto-delivery?” Pop’s tone isn’t angry. No, it’s all concern.
“I am. They’re at the mailbox. I just…” I curl in on myself.
It fucking hurts. No one talks about getting rejected by your scent match because it just doesn’t happen. If they did, maybe I would have been prepared for how much this would hurt.
“It’s okay, baby,” Dad whispers, rubbing between my shoulder blades. “We’ll go get them for you. Is two days off bad enough for us to get you an emergency appointment?”
I shake my head. “No, if I start back up today, I should be fine.”
After I finish the sandwich and shower, my room is cleaned, and everything looks slightly less grey.
When I shuffle out of my room, Dad is sitting on the soft grey sofa between Mom and Pops, cuddling. Mom wiggles over, and I wedge myself between her and Dad, curling into their warmth.
I don’t give a shit what anyone says. You’re never too old for a hug from your parents.
“Now. This Omega of yours. She’s at Prism?” Pops asks once I get settled. “Kieran Cobb runs that place.” I wrinkle my nose. The name is vaguely familiar, but it doesn’t immediately tell me anything. Noticing my confusion, he continues. “He’s a powerful ‘businessman,’ and bad news.”
Pops works for the Lunarcrest Police Department in the organized crime unit. If he says this Kieran guy is shady, he definitely is. “You’ve investigated him?”
His laugh is bitter. “More times than I can count. Nothing ever sticks. He’s a fucking eel. And you said she was in the pleasure dens?”
I gulp. Having to tell my parents I took drugs and sought out the pleasure dens while manic was embarrassing, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve had to admit to them. “Yeah, but I got the vibe she wasn’t supposed to be there. She even left me a note saying there was no fee and that I should donate it to an Omega crisis center.”
“And what did you say her name was?”
“They call her Queenie, but she said that it’s a fake name.”
Pops’ eyes widen, and he angles himself on the couch to face me better. “You’re sure?”
A sinking feeling twists in my gut. “Yes?”
“If she’s who I think she is, she rejected you for your own good. The Queen, or Queenie, belongs to Kieran. She came on our radar about four years ago, with only vague mentions of her being Kieran’s Omega from our informants.” He rubs his hand down his face. “I don’t know if she’s there willingly or not-”
“Not. There’s no way she chose that life.”
“Son,” my mom says gently, “you don’t know her. She could be happy where she is.”
I shake my head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. I don’t believe that.” I refuse to.
“Regardless,” Pops says, “no one has the access to Kieran Cobb that the Queen does. For better or worse, she’s as big a part of it as he is.”