5. Rafe
Chapter five
Grocery shopping is depressing.
It's a reminder that my pack is broken every time I buy food for one. Sure, I see Cyrus daily as we awkwardly shuffle into our separate apartments, but it's not the same as living together as a pack.
And I can't remember the last time I saw Simon.
But I try not to think about that.
None of us can find another pack, of course. Once that bond is made, and it's not like you choose your pack, that's it. That's all you get.
It started so well between us. It was so much fun for the first three years while we were teenagers—a nonstop party, a sleepover with your best friends all the time.
And then the incident happened.
That's what Simon called it. The incident. It's a veiled way of minimizing that we lied to Jordan and broke her heart.
It had been Cyrus' idea. He said we were leading Jordan on and needed to give her a chance to live happily as a Beta. He thought she would hold onto us if she thought there was any hope, so he wanted to crush that.
Crush makes it sound harsher than it was intended to be.
Of course, a huge fight ensued. Simon was adamant that he believed Jordan. He fully thought she'd present and be ours eventually. I wasn't so optimistic. But it was still brutal and devastating to lie to her and say we found a scent match when we did no such thing.
As if lying about it put a block on the real thing, we never found an Omega despite the numerous socials and events we attended. Eventually, the strain of being without Jordan, who had always anchored us, and not having an Omega caused us to fall apart at the seams.
It was slow at first. Simon started to be gone all the time. He rarely even slept at the apartment. And he started changing a lot, to the point where I wasn't sure who he was anymore. I thought he'd talk to me about it, but eventually, he pushed me away.
That was ten years ago. One day, he just never came home.
Then Cyrus sat me down and said since Simon was gone, we did not need to live together as a pack. We still hang out occasionally and have apartments across the hall from one another, but sometimes that distance feels like miles.
And thus, my hatred of grocery shopping.
The place has some excellent, underripe mangoes today, so I've got three in my basket. I'm looking at the skirt steak when I hear a commotion a few aisles away.
"Call an ambulance, quick," someone says. The voice is frazzled and worried, and I immediately drop my basket and head towards it.
I'm not sure what I think I could do. I work in finance, so unless this is a book-balancing emergency, I am not relevant, but I want to help if I can.
I come upon an elderly Beta woman crouched over a woman passed out on the floor of the dairy cooler. The older woman brushes wavy red hair off the face of the passed-out woman, tutting.
"They'll be here in two minutes," a young, pimply store clerk says, his phone held against his collarbone.
"She's so hot to the touch, poor thing. Must be going into heat. Never seen it knock someone out like this before," the woman says.
I step to the side, staying out of the way while the paramedics come in with a stretcher and load the woman up. As they walk by, I feel a yank in my gut, telling me I have to get closer.
It's obvious why almost immediately.
Jordan Cross, my Jordy, looking much the same despite all of the years, is on the stretcher, eyes closed and chest heaving. I walk alongside the stretcher despite the glares from the paramedics.
"Back up, man," one snarls at me. "Haven't you ever seen an Omega before?"
Omega.
The word rattles in my brain, and though I try to deny it, I know it is true in my soul.
Jordan is an Omega.
As we step outside, the wind blows across her still form, and I am smacked in the face with the irresistible scent of lime and mango.
But my hands are empty, my grocery basket abandoned inside.
As the paramedics slide the stretcher into the ambulance, I shout out. "She's my friend. Which hospital are you taking her to?"
"St. Michaels," the gruff one replies.
My phone is out of my pocket, nearly falling out of my hand as I rush to type in the number. "Pick up, pick up, pick up."
"Cyrus."
"Dude, you know it's me. You can see my name on your phone screen."
"What is it, Rafe?"
I pace in front of the grocery store, pulling my fingers through my hair. I don't know where to begin, and the words stumble out when I speak. "I saw Jordan."
"…Jordan Jordan?"
"Yeah, our Jordan."
"She's not ours, Rafe. Hasn't been for a long time."
"About that," I say with a chuckle. "Turns out Jordan's an Omega, and she smells like mango and lime." There is dead silence on the phone, and I pull it away from my face to check and make sure the call is still connected. It is. "You okay there, Cyrus?"
"Did you just say Jordan is an Omega, and she smells like mango and lime? Not that she smells good?"
I pull open the door to my sleek black sports car, which suddenly feels too flashy, and I know Jordy will hate it. "I did say that. And I'm going to get our Omega."
St. Michael's is staffed by a crew of well-meaning, rule-following assholes.
They won't let us back to see Jordan.
Cyrus met me at the hospital, and we've been in the waiting room, trying to get updates on her every few minutes, but no one will talk to us. We haven't heard from Simon. I didn't want to tell him what was happening over a voicemail, so I just left him a message and asked him to meet us at the hospital.
In retrospect, that may have been the wrong call. Simon has always been a sensitive dude, and a message like that is probably terrifying. I should've thought that through.
"She's our Omega," Cyrus snarls at the Beta man behind the nurse's station. "We need to go see her."
"Okay, so, one, you have no bonding paperwork, and two, she's in our system as a Beta. So I think you're mistaken on who you're trying to see." The man sits down and turns his side to Cyrus, typing away on his computer.
Cyrus slams his hand on the counter. "Jordan Cross. She fainted at the grocery store."
"Well, when Miss Cross wakes up, I'll see if she wants to see you. Otherwise, go wait." He shoos the much larger man away, and Cyrus stomps back to where I'm sitting. He's gotten even more massive since we last saw Jordan. I don't know if she'd even recognize him anymore.
I pat the chair beside me, shaking my head. "Come sit, dude. When she wakes up and hears we're here, she'll have them send us back."
"You have a lot of faith that she'll want to see us," he grumbles.
"Gotta. Otherwise, I'm going to turn into a little bit of a stalker and follow her home."
We've been here, stressing out for well over two hours by the time Simon comes into the hospital, his face full of anxiety and worry until his eyes land on us.
He looks different.
Way, way different.
His hair is bright green, and he's in a leather jacket with a massive Hawk on the back. His black boots are scuffed and broken in, with dark wash denim tucked into the tops of them. I can see tattoos on his hands, but the rest of him is pretty covered, so it's an educated guess that the rest of his body is covered in ink.
I wonder what else has changed about him.
"Is everything okay?" he asks. Despite his tough exterior, his voice is still gentle and kind, and I realize I cannot remember the last time I heard it. "What's going on?"
"Sit down," I say, pointing at the chair across from me. "Promise, you'll want to be sitting for this conversation."
It's been years since I've seen my packmate, and our last conversation before he moved out bounces in my head. Of course, it feels the same as it always has when the three of us are together: a sense of family and rightness that makes it hard to want to be apart. He taps the toe of his boot rapidly as he stares at me, resting his elbows on his knees. "Why are we having a pack reunion in the waiting room of a hospital?"
"Jordan is in there," I say as I jut my chin towards the patient doors. "She passed out at the grocery store."
"Our Jordan? Peaches? Is she okay?" he yelps, looking around and jumping out of the chair.
"We're not sure," I answer honestly. "They won't let us see her. We have to wait until she wakes up."
He sits down again slowly. "You two have been in contact with Jordan?" He locks eyes with mine, and the betrayal is evident. "And you didn't tell me?" Simon looks devastated at the realization. He called Jordan frequently after the incident, but she never returned his calls. Eventually, he had to give up, even though his heart didn't want to.
"We haven't," Cyrus growls. "Rafe found her, realized she was an Omega, and our scent match and called me. Now we're here. You're all caught up." He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the nurse's station.
"Woah, way to ease him into it." I scowl at Cyrus, then turn my gaze to Simon. "But yeah, I didn't realize it was her at first, but then I got a look at her face and realized she was an Omega. I followed the EMTs outside, and it hit me that she smelled like mango and limes. I knew I had to be there when she woke up."
A brief flash of excitement gives way to devastation. "She's going to hate us." Simon stands up and begins pacing the room. He's clearly in a motorcycle club, and a rough one by the looks of it, but he's pacing and pulling on his green hair like he used to when we were kids. "She told us. She knew. She knew." He spins and glares at Cyrus, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I told you! I told you it wasn't a good idea and to give her more time. I fucking knew this would happen!"
"Hey, calm now," I say softly. "We can't change it. We just have to fix it."
Cyrus crosses his arms defiantly. "Whatever choice we made, she's our Omega."
"Our?" Simon laughs. "There is no us. We haven't been a pack in a decade, dude. And what, we're just supposed to forget how messed up we are, try to fix everything, and pretend we're all good for Jordan?"
I can't deny that we're a mess of a pack, and I played a hand in that, but the way Simon is so quick to write us off hurts more than I'm willing to admit.
He pulls the front of his jacket nervously, but all I can see is a patch on his shirt underneath that says 'Slime.'
"Slime?" I ask incredulously. "Why does your shirt say Slime?"
"That's my name," he huffs, turning his back to me.
Cyrus rests his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers on the back of his neck. He mumbles something about morons under his breath.
"We can work out all the details later," I say placatingly. "For now, we just need to worry about if Jordan is okay and how we can break the news to her."
Simon… er, Slime? I should respect his wishes and call him Slime, but it may take some getting used to. My former packmate sits down and pulls his phone out of his pocket, jamming at it in frustration. "Yeah, boss, I won't be back in tonight. Nah, it turns out that girl I told you about is my Omega, after all. I gotta figure shit out with my pack. Mhm…. yeah. Nah, that's not a good idea…. Fuck, fine, yeah, sure. … No, that ain't necessary. …You can't keep saying they owe us one. You know they paid us back…. Fine, fine. Yeah, we'll take it." He hangs up the phone and looks between Cyrus and me.
"I got a place for all of us to stay if you want to work this shit out together."