3. Jordan
Chapter three
Five years later
If I could go back in time and tell nineteen-year-old Jordan that just eight years later, she'd be working a job she loved, living in Lunarcrest City, and saving enough money to be able to buy a fantastic condo, she'd ask, "How are the guys?"
Shit.
Maybe I don't want to think about past Jordan. She had a one-track mind.
"Woah, this is niiiiice!" Lanie, my coworker and best friend, squeals, pushing past me to run into my new home. "And so big!"
"Yeah, I figured I could grow with it." I toss my keys onto the white marble countertop before looking around the open-concept space. The kitchen is longer than it is wide, with a single pathway between built-in black cabinets and an island. All black appliances butt into the corner that leads down a hallway with a bathroom and two bedrooms off of it.
There is a small nook that will be perfect for a table with two massive windows letting in the evening sun, and it all blends into the living room. The grey tile flooring should be relatively easy to keep clean but needs a throw rug or two.
Lanie is poking her head into the master bedroom, and I wince, praying she doesn't notice -
"An Omega suite?" Her voice carries, and I drag my feet into the room. "Why do you need an Omega suite?"
"We've been over this. I'm an Omega. I'm just waiting to present." My voice is small, and internally, I slap myself for it. I need to own my truth. People have been trying to tell me for eleven years that I am not an Omega.
I wish I could say I don't let it get to me, but it really does.
"I thought that was just drunk talk." Her short blonde bob makes her face look older than her twenty-four years, but so does the expression she's leveling me with. "What's so wrong with being a Beta?"
"Nothing at all! That's just not what I am." I pick at my fingernails, trying to push through this uncomfortable conversation, but it's hard. Sometimes, I wonder if the reason why no one believes me is because I barely believe it myself anymore.
Eventually, Lanie leaves after splitting a bottle of champagne and eating takeout on the floor, and I find myself wandering into the nest with another bottle of bubbly.
The room is a blank slate, with cream walls and a wide, empty circle a few steps down into the floor, begging for a mattress.
I've never had a nest before. It's been me trying to turn my bed into something acceptable until now. I may not have presented as an Omega and may not go into heat, but I still feel many of the urges that Omegas have.
One of those is to nest.
Another is to present for an Alpha, but that is not something I've ever done.
I'd deny it until the day I die, but it doesn't feel right to be with an Alpha. I've slept with my fair share of Betas, but any time I've gotten close to an Alpha, my body revolts.
Because it knows I already have Alphas.
Cyrus, Rafe, and Simon are haunting my life even now, nearly a decade after they left my heart scattered on the floor like a thrift store puzzle.
Nope. Not gonna think about them.
I take a few steps down into the empty nest and lean against the wall, imagining what the space will be like with a comfortable mattress and tons of furnishings. It all starts coming together in my head, and I pull out my phone to build an online shopping cart at Omegamart.
But eventually, like what always happens when I drink, I decide that I deserve a little pain, and I pull up the ABOSS website.
ABOSS, or the Alpha, Beta, Omega Sports Syndicate, is the place to go for anything and everything professional sports. I navigate the website, down the familiar path to the hockey section, and pull up the most recent article.
Star center Cyrus Stargazer is out for the season after tearing his ACL last week.
I toss my phone across the room gently.
Why do I do this to myself? Now, all I'm going to do is worry about the injury an Alpha who doesn't want me has.
Not for the first time, I wish I could just forget Pack Stargazer. I wish I could erase my mind of the milkshakes at Meg's after dance practice when the guys would stumble in sweaty from whatever sports practice they were at, and we'd sit in those tiny booths that Cyrus barely fit in with the cracked red seating.
I long to forget nights spent lying in the damp grass, staring at the stars while the guys taught me about the cosmos and constellations and told me stories of our history and mythology. Of lying under the shade of trees and studying. Of stolen glances and shy hands brushing against each other.
If I could forget those things, maybe I wouldn't need to have my therapist on speed dial.
Maybe I wouldn't be so fucking alone that it hurts.
But I am.
So I curl up on the bare floor of what will one day be my nest and cry myself to sleep.
"Ms. Knight." The voice is clipped and stern, and my head swings up so fast that my neck hurts a little. "Can you come with me to my office for a minute?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Woods." I smooth out my red pencil dress as I follow the COO into his office.
Alistair Woods is a handsome Alpha in his early fifties with a completely shaven bald head and a silver beard. He's always dressed immaculately in designer suits that I could only hope to afford one day.
Not to say I do bad. At twenty-seven, I'm one of the youngest division leads here at Hurry Up and Grow, and it pays very well. I didn't think I would ever get here when I was scrimping and saving dollars from Meg's and attending a local college. I doubt my parents thought I would, either.
They never believed in me. They barely were interested in me at all.
Until it came to trying to force me to present as an Omega. My mother had a very vested interest in that.
She couldn't bear to show her face around town if she had a Beta daughter. Doctor visit after doctor visit, diets, and exercise regimens. Eventually, shortly after I turned nineteen, she accepted that I wouldn't ever present.
Of course, I didn't accept it, and then everything that I did to try to get my Omega to come to the surface was a sign that I was mentally unwell.
My stomach churns as I take the seat across from Mr. Woods. I pick at my fingernails absently as I cross my feet at the ankles and straighten my back, attempting to convey confidence I don't have.
"You did great work on the recent Design Clinic campaign," he says without preamble. "Those Perfect Omega billboards were excellent."
The Perfect Omega, Nora Summers, is a twenty-two-year-old local genetically designed to be everything an Alpha could want. I met her briefly at the photo shoot, and she was … strange. I don't know much about being an Omega, but no one can be that happy all the time, can they?
After too long of a beat, I rush out, "Thank you, sir." Mr. Woods's shoulders stiffen, and his eyes narrow. I could swear his nostrils flared, too.
"Right," he clears his throat, "Milton is very impressed by your work ethic."
Milton is a Beta and the senior executive in the print division. He's nearing retirement age and easy to please, as long as you do your job. I like working with him.
"I'm glad to hear that. Milton is a great boss."
"You've been in your role for two years now, correct?" He pushes back a little from his desk and reclines a bit, his arms behind his head. "Leading a division must be tough."
I finally relax and lean on my elbow on the plush leather chair. His office is a study in quiet luxury, and while it's not overstuffed with things, it is evident that a lot of money has been invested in the furnishings.
"Everyone working on the design team is incredible. I'm just one piece of the well-oiled machine." My wavy red hair falls in my face, and I push it back behind my ear. "Really, I'm fortunate to be a part of such a great division."
He smiles, his teeth one shade too white, and steeples his fingers. "I'm glad to hear that. You're humble and hard-working. The type of person we want working at HUG."
"I can't image being elsewhere." I struggle to understand why I am here. I'm not sure what the point of this conversation is, and I'm starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Nothing Mr. Woods is doing, but something is not sitting right.
"Forgive me if this is too personal, Jordan," he begins, and I inhale sharply. This can't be good. "But are you an Omega?"
My stomach falls out of my ass. Why would he be asking?
As open as I am about my status with friends and family, it's not a good look to come into your office swearing you're one designation when you're another. My therapist humors my belief that I'm an Omega, and even she would say to keep that shit to myself.
"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," he says quickly. "I cannot seem to get a good scent of you, but my pack is looking for an Omega…"
"I'm a Beta," I say quickly. "I have been told my scent is strong for a Beta. It's caused confusion before." I plaster on a smile that I hope doesn't make me look like I'm dying inside. "But no, just a Beta."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's like he can tell I'm lying. But am I? Legally, I'm registered as a Beta.
Wouldn't it be funny if the first person who believed I was an Omega was my boss, who was trying to hit on me?
"Well, that's unfortunate. Regardless, I brought you here today to tell you that Milton has requested to train you as his replacement. He's looking to retire next year, and we want to ensure the division is in good hands." He pushes to stand as he speaks, and I mirror his position. "Is that something you'd be interested in?"
"Oh my gosh, yes!" I bounce a little on my toes. "I would love that."
"Good, glad to hear it. We'll discuss more later. Thanks for talking." He ushers me out of his office quickly, leaving my head reeling slightly.
I decide a coffee is in order, and I head down to the shop in the lobby. While I wait for my soy milk latte, I take in the hustle of downtown Lunarcrest City out the front window. It's a typical day, with people in suits walking down the street and traffic moving at a snail's pace.
I've always loved Lunarcrest City. Despite everything that happened before I arrived, Lunarcrest has always felt like a clean slate to me.
The barista calls my name, and I turn to grab my coffee, but a flash of metal in the corner of my eye draws my attention to an expensive-looking motorcycle parked across the street.
I don't know much about bikes, but it looks nice. Leaning against it is a man who looks tall from a distance, with green hair and wearing ripped denim and a leather vest.
The coffee is warm against my palm as I take it from the barista, and when I turn around to look at the green-haired man again, he's gone.