4. Jordan
Chapter four
Present Day
"You do realize, of course, Miss Cross, that you are thirty-two years old. You are officially double the age most Omegas present at," the doctor tells me, a cream folder sitting in front of him on the desk.
I brace myself, knowing what's coming next.
For sixteen years, I have fought tooth and nail to find out why I have not presented as an Omega. Everyone is very clear when they speak to me that they believe I am a delusional Beta. And for a while, I believed them.
Hell, I was even in inpatient therapy after Pack Stargazer found their Omega, convinced that I was wrong all along. I had to go along with it, but everything they had me say and do felt wrong.
It only made it even more apparent that I am an Omega, but she's trapped inside me.
I've been in Lunarcrest City for a decade now. Between hospitalizations, moving out of my parents' house, and taking classes at the community college, it took me longer than expected to save up the money to relocate. But I did it. I showed up in Lunarcrest with hope, a dream, and a degree in marketing from a subpar college.
I've made a nice life for myself here.
I work at Hurry Up And Grow, a massive advertising firm. I'm the senior executive for the print division, working with companies and our graphic designers to put together eye-catching ads to help sell whatever bullshit they're pushing right now.
I say that like I don't enjoy it. I really, really love my job. There is something so satisfying about figuring out how to convince someone they need something.
It's a pretty comfortable gig, and it's given me enough income to get a complete genome mapping from the Design Clinic, which I've been meaning to do for ages.
My parents didn't design me because it was way too expensive for our small-town lifestyle, so we don't know what my traits say, but I am convinced my traits will confirm what I've known my whole life.
I am an Omega.
The doctor clears his throat, forcibly pulling me out of the haze I'd fallen into. The Alpha smiles kindly at me when I startle. He is so put together, with a crisp white shirt stretched across his fit chest and a deep green tie that matches his eyes. His dirty blonde hair is shorter on the sides, with the top kept long.
"As I was saying," the doctor repeats.
What was his name again? Dr. Vickers?
Yeah, I think that's it.
"Your genome map is fascinating."
"Fascinating, is it? How?" I squirm in my seat, my black pencil skirt riding up my thighs. I do an awkward shuffle, attempting to pull it back down, but instead, I probably end up looking like I'm scratching hemorrhoids on the seat. I nervously tap the heel of my pointed-toe pumps on the cold tile floor.
"Fascinating in that it's almost a dead ringer for the Perfect Omegas'."
The Perfect Omega. Almost two years ago, it came out that her whole life, she'd been abused and manipulated into being the image of what an Omega could be. Her genome was designed to have all the key traits of the ideal Omega.
"Okay, crazy odds and all, but I have told everyone I'm an Omega my whole life, so I'm not too surprised. I just haven't presented yet." He opens the folder for me, and I snag the top sheet. It's a summary of my predicted characteristics based on my genome.
"I put your information in as if you were a child," he says, not making eye contact. "I didn't want your age to influence how your sample was processed and interpreted. As much as we rely on science, there is still a human element in the predictors." He leans forward, spreading the pages before him, talking quickly and excitedly. "This one says you'll be graceful, with a low likelihood of regular stumbles or breaking a bone. It also implies you may excel at dancing, ice skating, or gymnastics due to your good coordination."
I laugh, shaking my head. "I'm a dancer," I say softly. "Or, I was. I haven't been since high school, but I lived at the studio for a while there."
"Were you also a good student? Specifically with languages?" he continues, holding up another page. "What about your eye for color?"
"I was a great student. I never studied other languages, but I'm from a small town, so there was never any need. And as for your last question, I'm an ad executive and like to paint. So I would say my eye for color is pretty good."
His eyes track over my body, and I inhale at his perusal. It's not predatory, but it still feels a little invasive.
"Your figure is …" he clears his throat, his cheeks flaming red. "You've got a fertile figure."
"I'm sorry, what?" The sentence is so strange that I cannot help but laugh, my eyes streaming with tears as Dr. Vickers looks increasingly uncomfortable. "What is that even supposed to mean?"
He stammers, looking anywhere but me. "Omegas tend to have wider hips and fuller breasts…" he says in a tone so low it may as well be a whisper. "I couldn't figure out how to say that without coming off like a creep."
"No, Vick, you just came off like an alien."
"Vick?" he wrinkles his nose in confusion.
"Yeah, short for Vickers."
"What is Vickers?"
"Your last name?"
He stares at me unblinking, placing his hands flat on the desk. "You think my last name is Vickers?"
"It's not?"
"No, it's not!" he scoffs. "God, you listen to me put my foot in my mouth about your body type, but you didn't listen to my name?"
"Then what is it?"
"Icarus. Icarus Valentine." I cover my surprise with a cough, but it doesn't hide my amusement. He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I get it, it's a shitty name. You don't have to remind me."
"I can kind of see where I got Vickers from," I mumble, not making eye contact with him. I'm mortified that I not only got his name wrong but also made fun of him for his unusual name. "Not to be a bitch, but why did your pack choose Valentine as its name when it sounds so bad with your first name?"
He sheepishly ruffles his hair. "Oh uh… I don't have a pack. Never met the right Alphas, you know?"
"Oh, I know. I don't have one, either. But I suppose that was obvious." We stare at each other for a moment, and I wonder if he feels as defective as I do. It's uncommon for an Alpha not to find a pack bond with someone. It's not as unusual as being an Omega who hasn't presented at thirty-two, but hey.
Maybe we're both a little broken.
He pushes the folder closer to me. "As I was saying before I sounded like a creep from another planet, your genome is pretty clearly one we would identify as having a high likelihood of presenting as an Omega. The only anomaly is this gene right here." He taps his finger on a string of letters and numbers. "It's one we've yet to catalog, so it must be fairly rare."
"Will you try to find out what it is?" I ask hopefully. "I've always said maybe I had some sort of genetic mutation, and that's why I hadn't presented."
"I love a challenge, Miss Cross." When he grins at me, he tilts his head, and I can imagine sitting across from a man like Dr. Valentine at a dinner table. For a moment, we look at one another in silence, not awkwardly or uncomfortably, but with curious gazes.
I feel comfortable around him. Like I've known him for ages. But that's weird, right?
Dr. Valentine clears his throat. "Anyways, the point of all this is that all signs point to you being an Omega. I cannot say definitively that you are or why you haven't presented yet, but I don't think it's all in your head, Jordan."
Every bit of tension my body has gotten used to holding in medical facilities drains out of me. A sense of relief washes over me.
And it quickly becomes tears.
"Oh – ah! What did I say?" the doctor stammers, searching his desk for a box of tissues. He eventually finds one on his bookshelf and brings it to me, sitting in the chair beside me. "What did I say?"
"It's nothing bad," I say through sniffles. "It's just … you're the first person to believe me. Up until now, I've been told that it's in my head, that I'm in denial, that maybe if I lose weight, I'll present…"
His chest rumbles with a growl at that last one. It startles him almost as much as it does me. We lock eyes for an awkward moment, and he clears his throat. "Well, I'm glad I could give you some relief, then." He hands me the entire file with the breakdown of what my genome says. "I wish I knew how to bring your Omega out. I…" he inhales deeply, and I wonder for half a second if he's trying to scent me.
But I already know I don't have an Omega scent. If I did, someone would've realized it by now.
And yet, I must be imagining a slight flare of his nostrils. His eyes drift closed, and he shakes his head slightly to clear it. "I'm sorry, I lost my train of thought there."
I sniffle, trying to dry up the happy tears still springing to my eyes at finally being believed. After all this time, there is someone who sees what I see. Unbidden, a rumbling sound fills the air, and my mind and body relax. It takes a moment for me to place the sound.
Dr. Icarus Valentine is purring.
And he looks distraught .
"Oh shit, fuck," he stands up, stumbling away from me. "Goddamnit, my language, fuck!" He's tripping over himself to get behind the shield of his desk. I chuckle at the foul language coming out of the mouth of such a refined doctor, and he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jordan, Miss Cross, I don't know what came over me. I… That was all incredibly inappropriate of me."
I wave off his apologies. "No need to get your undies all twisted, Vick," I tell him.
"Don't call me Vick."
"What about Ick?"
He growls under his breath, "Om… Jordan." My eyes widen at his chastising tone. "This is spiraling wildly out of control," he mutters.
"That's the title of my memoir." His dark green eyes stare a hole through me before he bursts out laughing. I join him, and eventually, once the giggle fit subsides, I stand up, smoothing my pencil skirt as I go.
I'm not short, but I am certainly not tall. Dr. Valentine has a good six inches over me, even with my heels on, and he uses all of them to stare me down. "I'm glad you came in, Jordan," he says softly. "If I find something out about that mystery gene, I'll be in touch. I wish I could be more help."
"You were plenty of help." My voice has this unusual, breathless quality that I've not heard in years. "Seriously. Thank you so much for believing me."
He stands inappropriately close. I can even vaguely smell his cologne, a clean, refreshing fragrance I can't place. Maybe we've done an ad for it before.
"I hope you get what you've always wanted," he says softly.
Pulling my eyes away from the odd but handsome doctor takes a considerable effort. But I do, and when I'm halfway down the hall, I glance behind me and see him leaning into his door frame, arms crossed, watching me go.
Grocery shopping is depressing.
I really should order my groceries online and have them delivered because nothing makes me feel like a lonely piece of shit faster than watching all the happy packs grocery shop. My little basket is hooked under my arm as I peruse the produce section, looking for the best mangos.
See, here's the thing with mangos.
A lot of people like them really ripe, when they're that dark yellow color, slightly soft, and really, really sweet and juicy. But that's not how I like them. I want them to be green and firm. When you cut open a bright green, firm mango, the flesh is crunchy, crispy, and tart. I smother it in salt and lime, and it may as well be the perfect snack.
If I forget that Rafe used to make it for me as a snack after school whenever they were in season.
Since leaving Dr. Valentine's office, I have been unable to get the whole experience off my mind. It's not just that he believes me that there is an Omega inside of me, but him, as an Alpha. How handsome he is. I don't know if I could ever see him again because, holy shit, I think I have it bad for this doctor.
There is something about him that draws me in and makes me want to run my hands down his body, lick up his neck, and bite his lower lip.
These thoughts of him, well, more like fantasies, are running through my head when my whole body starts to ache. I hope this isn't the flu, but it feels like the beginning of one. I feel feverish, and my limbs are heavy. Suddenly, all I want is to lie down.
My basket is sparse, with just two mangos, a head of romaine lettuce, and a bag of frozen shrimp. What kind of grocery shopping was I even doing? Was I paying attention at all? What was I planning on making?
I really don't want to abandon the shop. I don't have anything to make dinner with. But shit, I feel like I'm going to fall asleep right here. I'm sure as hell not going to be able to drive home.
But I need some rest. Badly. Desperately.
I stumble through the store, aimlessly wandering, seeking out something I don't know I'll ever be able to find. Eventually, I'm too tired to keep moving, and I curl up into a ball in the walk-in milk cooler.
I just need a little nap. It's all I can think about as my eyes drift closed. Only as I start to wink out of consciousness do I realize this doesn't feel like a nap.
I fear I may be fainting in the milk cooler.
Clean up in dairy, I guess.