Knot Just for Show (Hollywood Omegas #2)

2. Chapter One

Chapter One

Ursula

“ Shit, fuck, oww!” I hiss, already running nearly ten minutes behind schedule—my snarling mass of raven curls are refusing to cooperate with my wide-toothed comb despite my best efforts to coax the mess into something presentable before I take off for my gig this afternoon.

Thankfully, I'm at the point in my career where my name sells itself. I have established a reputation for being at the cutting edge of trendy makeup looks here in tinsel town—even if I've also cultivated somewhat of a reputation for being less than punctual. Usually, I'd be happy to rest on those talented-but-less-than-timely laurels; but tonight is special.

Tonight, I'm doing makeup for my bestest bestie's latest film premiere. Daphne, who by now must be forced to waddle everywhere — preggers and ready to pop with triplets. She and Pack Silver have been away for months shooting Bound Hearts, and this city has felt much lonelier without Daphne to pal around with. I've missed her terribly.

“You know what would save you from your solitude?” Daphne taunted when she called to confirm that I'd do her makeup for the Bound Hearts premiere, still holed up on-location somewhere in Montana.

“I could possibly be spared from dying of loneliness if Magnus decides that his next opus needs to be shot on location in LA?” I offer weakly, hating how pathetic I sound— clinging to Daphne like a codependent little sister.

“No! Finding your goddamn pack , La-la!” Daphne scolds me.

“But Dee ,” I whine—Daphne won't hear any of my excuses though.

“You can't just keep suppressing your heats forever—living alone in that little pink stucco bungalow like all the little old beta ladies on your block!” She had threatened.

“Oh yeah, just watch me!” I challenge Daphne.

The ugly truth is, I don't want to be a lonely spinster in my little Barbie starter bungalow. I do want to find my pack. I do want to bond them and have lots of babies and live happily ever after.

I've just never had any luck with it.

When I got my designation at eighteen, I had been so excited to peruse all the scent swatches at the omega center—to have my team carefully collect and curate my own omega scent so that it could be cataloged and distributed to potential suitors. No matter how many swatches I sniffed, no matter how many placement agencies I tried, there were never any compatible matches.

Not like I have the time to worry about that kind of stuff right now. While I’m certainly enjoying a decent amount of success for someone in my line of work, living in LA isn’t cheap. I can afford my rent, my car payments, my utility bills, and the occasional brunch or weekend away; but only just barely .

I remember when I showed up in this City of Angels with a Casio keyboard, a vintage suitcase’s worth of clothes, and a dream of becoming a jazz singer in some dreamy nightclub. After a week of busking and failed auditions for vocalist gigs—I realized I was going to have to readjust my expectations if I wanted to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.

Raised by drag queens, as some storybook heroines are by wolves, I had a knack for campy, colorful makeup and hair/wig styling. I got online and snatched up any and every open makeup artist job I could find. Before I knew it, the money was rolling in regularly enough for me to pay my rent on time, even if keeping the fridge partially full wouldn’t come until nearly two years later.

LA can be pretty lonely if you aren’t connected to ‘the right people’. Someone to be in the room where it happens and drop your name, to offer you your big break , a friend to lean on, to go to the beach with or go get Oki Dogs at quarter to two in the morning, after you get off a night shoot.

Back then, I most certainly was not connected to these mythical ‘right people’. I didn’t have anyone to advocate for me, no mentor, no spunky co-worker, not even a local pal I could call up to feed Baxter, my betta fish, when I had to leave town for a few days. In my shame, I was forced to ask either of my elderly neighbors, Fifi or Laverne, to feed poor Baxter when I had a working weekend or when I flew back home to the east coast for the holidays.

It wasn’t until a chance meeting with another omega in this lonely city—that things started to change for me.

When I met Daphne, the two of us became inseparable almost immediately. Not long after she and I met, Daphne began her meteoric rise to fame, and I got swept up in her wake.

As if Daphne’s incredible luck had started to rub off on me, Agnes Moon—Costume, Hair and Makeup designer to the legendary filmmaking duo, Martine and Winnifred LaRenta, took me under her wing. I started getting bigger and better jobs and more regular gigs. I went viral on social media for the looks I was doing on starlets like Daphne Dale, Avacyn Black, and Lita Barnett…but all of it feels a little hollow still.

Between the lackluster profits and the lack of a pack to share my successes with, however small? It doesn’t really feel like enough . I find myself looking for more .

I’m sinking into a moody sulk about it, wrestling my wheeling train case full of makeup and hair supplies to the door when my phone rings—a goofy photo of Daphne and I making tongue-out faces for the camera fills my mobile’s glassy screen.

“I’m hustlin’ my ass trying to get over to yours to beautify you in time for this red carpet—whaddaya want?” I cut right to busting Daphne’s chops instead of a boring old ‘hello’.

“Well good! Do you think you’ll have enough time to do Cammy and Lotte too?” Daphne asks innocently.

“Oh boy, Frik and Frak are going to be there? I dunno Dee…Maybe I’m suddenly running a fever—I have the flu. It's getting dark—I don’t know if I’m going to make it.” I groan, theatrically packing the tools of my trade into my busted square-backed station wagon.

“If only I too could develop this mysterious illness and be excused from both entertaining family and attending this goddamn premiere,” Daphne laughs.

“Girl, you don't need a mysterious illness—just pretend you think your water broke. E-Z,” I suggest nonchalantly.

Daphne erupts with laughter and I can hear the faint calls of ‘What?’ ‘Did she say she would?’ from Cammy and Lotte under Daphne's silver-bell laugh.

“If you don’t have time, I’ll just tell them they can get fucked—you only have time to make my mug flawless,” she adds.

“I don't know… I'm contemplating whether to play sick or to play dead!” I snort playfully, flopping into the driver’s seat.

I’m only teasing. The twins are more fun than anyone would like to give them credit for. The two stunning young omegas who seem to turn everything they touch to gold.

I myself had done my best to continue hating Daphne's twin sisters-in-law for being so damnably beautiful and good at everything—but quickly found the task insurmountable. Between Lotte’s goofy jokes and sunny disposition and Cammy’s insatiable desire to help and be kind to people, along with her easy manner, the girls are intrinsically… loveable; even if they tend to stick to Daphne and I like glue whenever they’re in town. Just like the real-life little sisters neither I nor Daphne ever had as kids.

While Lotte and Cammy are only a few years younger than we are, freshly minted twenty-one feels much farther away than it actually is when you’ve hit the big 3-0, and both Cammy and Lotte are even worse than Daphne when it comes to hassling me about my single status.

“All three of you better be washed, exfoliated, and moisturized by the time I get there, and MAYBE I can squeeze all of you in. No promises,” I grumble, checking my mirrors.

“O, benevolent one! You’ve made everyone here at Cypress House very happy,” Daphne lays it on thick with a terrible play at a British accent. I can hear the girls squealing with delight in the background.

“Oh joy—you know me. Mother Teresa,” I scoff as I switch out my glasses with their thick, coke bottle lenses for my similarly afflicted prescription sunglasses—checking my reflection in the mirror to make sure I don’t have any spinach quiche lingering between my front teeth—as the paps are likely to be on me going in and out of Daphne’s place—and I don’t need a repeat of the ‘salad-smile’ incident.

“Does Mother Teresa have any requests for her trouble?” Daphne fishes, a note of mischief in her voice.

“I think I should do fine with the customary glass of whatever Julian’s got chilling in the fridge—and access to old Gus-gus’ puff stash.” I reach into my purse and fish out a package of ‘QueenBigBubble’ gum and tear away the paper-foil tail of the package to get at the treasure inside. I unwrap one massive cube of strawberry-flavored bubble gum and pop the neon pink sweet-tart confection in my mouth.

“Done and done ,” Daphne laughs.

I hear the muffled sounds of Lotte and Cammy on the other end of the line—Daphne shushing and shooing them away before she returns to the line. I can’t help but smirk at the sisterly interaction; a pink strawberry scented bubble inflating between my quirked lips.

“Sorry, the girls are driving me nuts –I’ll see you soon, m’kay?” she chirps sweetly.

I pop my gum with a loud snap.

“Mhm! Soon I’ll be there and they can drive us nuts,” I laugh.

“Drive safe—love you, see you soon!” Daphne makes a loud, wet smooching sound into the phone.

“I will—love you too—see you!” I make my own loud kissy sound into the receiver before ending the call and jamming my old, ratty AUX cable into the adapter at the bottom of my phone. Maybe next year I’ll be able to afford the upgrade to a car constructed in the post-blue-tooth age.

But I’m not going to hold my breath. In fact, I snap another strawberry bubble—offering a wave to my neighbor FiFi, as she walks for her mail—her pink tinted q-tip hairdo bobbing slightly with each measured step of her walker.

Here’s to praying the traffic to Cypress House is manageable.

My prayers went unanswered.

It took me an hour, nearly double my expected travel time, to get to Daphne’s place.

I arrive with plenty of time to get Daphne’s look under control–but squeezing the twins in is going to be a to-do.

I’m scrambling up the beautiful monolithic front steps of the notorious Pack Silver mansion when, to my complete surprise, Agnes appears in the mammoth door frame; Cammy and Lotte peering out from the edges of the silvery-white nimbus of Agnes’ afro.

“Well, I hadn’t expected the welcoming committee—” I lean in, exchanging pecked kisses on alternating cheekbones with Agnes before Cammy and Lotte nearly knock me off my feet with a dual bear hug.

“But it’s lovely to see you, ladies.” I manage to steady myself–narrowly avoiding knocking my train case over with my hip.

I’m a little taken off guard by Agnes’ presence, but do my best to mask my nerves as we scuttle into the massive house and see Daphne, laying draped across the sofa in her dressing gown with her blonde waves twisted on top of her head.

“Are all of you ready? Daphne’s first obviously, but once I’m done with her, I’ll move on to the girls,” I call through the massive open living room–wheeling my things to the long table in the center of the space–where Daphne has already set up a power strip and a small snack bar for our afternoon of beautification.

It doesn’t escape my notice that the girls and Agnes are whispering like schoolgirls in study hall while Daphne is attempting to shush them as she herds them toward the sofa.

Something is going on. I don’t know what, but I aim to find out.

After nearly two hours of curling, pinning and spraying, Daphne’s hair is most of the way done, and we’ve nearly all made our way through the mundane catch up and small talk.

The girls are enjoying their master’s program and auditioning for seats with the Philadelphia Philharmonic, even though I’ve taunted them about how the Boston Symphony Orchestra would be a much better choice.

Agnes, as I already know, told the girls all about how she has been hard at work with investors to develop her own makeup brand. She’s been up to her eyeballs in sample products and packaging for the last two months trying to make the last steps toward bringing her brand to market.

Daphne, as anyone with eyes can see, looks like she’s ready to give birth at any moment. According to her, she’s so sick and tired of her ankles inflating like balloons, being unable to eat sushi, and peeing a little every time she sneezes, that Daphne loudly insists she wouldn’t care at all if she went into labor right in the middle of the premiere.

“Wouldn’t that be something?” I snort, starting in on Daphne’s makeup; a glowy, dreamy look in shades of pink and gold to match the dress Julian has made for her to wear tonight.

Everyone laughs a little at the thought of Daphne being rushed out of the theater—the rest of Pack Silver wringing their hands behind her as they rush to the hospital. But I can already feel a tense undercurrent waiting for the approaching beat of silence. It’s because I haven’t volunteered myself for a life update yet. I haven’t jumped into the sea of exciting prospects and life milestones to offer my completely lackluster contribution.

I’m fucking around with the idea of slipping into a deeper sulk about it when I notice that everyone’s eyes are on me.

I don’t wanna tell them, but making them ask me to tell them about my lame existence doesn’t really seem much better.

“Ah yes, my turn.” I waggle my eyebrows in an attempt to make light of the situation—focusing a little too hard on blending Daphne’s foundation.

“I’m doing my thing, y’know—working, hanging out with my super cool bestie when she comes to town.” I pause my work with my brush to squeeze Daphne’s shoulder lovingly.

“Might get really crazy and go up to Montreal for a few days on the way home from my parents’ after Rosh Hashanah.” I shrug.

“Any of y’all are welcome to tag along, of course!” I offer, trying not to sound shrill, but even to my ears, I’m clearly overcompensating.

The silence that blankets the room is thick and stifling. If I weren’t worried about destroying Daphne’s makeup—I might have actually shuddered under its weight.

“La-la,” Daphne says softly, making some of the silence dissipate like smoke.

I raise my eyebrows to encourage her, but continue my work. I’m already fighting the quiver in my lower lip, my crybaby tears stinging at the corners of my eyes as I refuse to let them spill.

“Honey.” Daphne reaches up and stays my hand, my brush becoming still under her touch.

I sniffle back a traitorous dribble of snot—my vision blurred with unspent tears, my upper lip less than stiff.

“You can’t keep putting yourself last, Ursula,” Daphne coos sweetly.

“Oh yeah? Watch me,” I sniffle, covering the hitch of a sob with a fake laugh.

“That’s exactly why we had to take matters into our own hands,” Agnes adds sternly from over Daphne’s shoulder, Cammy and Lotte backing her up.

Traitors.

“What do you mean, take matters into your own hands?” I do my best to blink the tears from my eyes without letting them fall, not sure what Agnes is trying to say.

Agnes and Daphne exchange a glance. Just behind, the twins look as if they’re going to burst out squealing with delight, as they are wont to do when they get what they’ve been after.

“Agnes… Daphne,” I look at my best friend and my mentor, my tears drying, a sudden anticipatory aggravation just shy of outright anger taking their place.

“I said, what do you mean —‘take matters into your own hands’? ” I press.

Daphne waits a second more, allowing Agnes to take the floor—if that is what she was after by bringing things up now . Whatever ‘things’ are.

“Well fine, I was going to wait to tell you ‘till later–but we may or may not have signed you up for the next season of Build-A-Pack-Blind,” Daphne blurts out, refusing to meet my gaze.

“You, what !? ” I roar, slamming my makeup brush down on the table and grabbing two fistfuls of my snarling raven hair as if I might actually pull them right out of my head.

“That’s not all. You got accepted as a cast member,” Agnes adds in before I can go completely berserk.

“Are you all out of your goddamn minds!?” I shriek at the top of my lungs, wondering if this is actually some kind of crazy dream born of eating too many apple chips and black sesame candies right before bed.

Just as I feel my sanity is about to leave me entirely, I feel a hand pat my shoulder.

“She did overstep, for sure—but you kind of left her no choice.”

I whirl around to face Cosmo, my unexpected second-bestest-bestie and bonded packmate of Daphne. I know Daphne’s pregnant and his omega , but a teensy part of me feels betrayed that I can’t have a single person on my side here.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I put my face in my hands and allow Cosmo to guide me to the couch where Daphne folds me in her arms, holding me against her even though I refuse to soften in her embrace.

“Ursula, you haven’t even tried to get out there, and you’re clearly miserable! Something had to be done,” Daphne soothes.

Out of the corner of my peripheral vision, I see Agnes roll her eyes.

“I understand that you’re miffed that we went behind your back, sure I can get that. But how are you going to tell me that now that you’re faced with the prospect of meeting some incredible men—without all the extraneous superficial bullshit—you’re not the least bit excited?”

Agnes’ cavalier attitude about betraying my trust has already got me miffed, but it’s the subtext of the rest of her argument that really pisses me off.

I’m no Daphne Dale. I’ve always been the big girl— called ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ long before anyone might refer to me as ‘curvy’ or ‘thicc’. No matter what the words, they are always spoken with the undertone of taboo—of disapproval.

The quiet part that Agnes is refusing to say out loud: maybe you’ll have better luck when suitors get to know you and your sparkling personality before they actually see you; is like a knife in the back.

As if Daphne can read my thoughts, she nuzzles my neck affectionately, my Pistachio-Rose-Saffron scent mixing with her Peony-Apricot-Honey. The familiar intermingling of perfumes begins to calm me, even if there’s no beta involved.

“Hey, don’t think about it like that.” Daphne’s words are meant to be a balm, but coming from the most perfect of movie stars? It still stings.

“So, what? I’m just supposed to resign myself to the fact that I’ve got to put my entire life on hold for forty days or whatever, to film this garbage?” I grumble, grudgingly allowing my head to rest on Daphne’s shoulder.

Cammy and Lotte squeal with delight.

“Yes, that’s the general idea,” Agnes grunts affirmatively.

I sit upright, gnashing anxiously on my wad of strawberry bubblegum—hands fidgeting in my lap.

“And… I’ll have to be on camera like—the entire time?” My heart pounds as I contemplate the prospect of being watched by an entire camera crew 24/7—so that anyone with access to a major streaming service can watch me potentially embarrass myself once the show airs.

I blow a bubble, inflating the pink, fruity sphere larger than I usually dare—my mind elsewhere.

Daphne nods gravely.

“At the end of the day, you can say no La-la,” she sighs.

“But I hope you say yes .”

Just as I’m worried my head is about to explode, my strawberry bubble unexpectedly pops—pink sticky gum explodes all over my face and clings to a good portion of my hair.

Oh boy… What an auspicious omen.