Chapter 9 Jamie
Laura Day's handshake is firm as she says, "Welcome to the team, Jamie."
I smile back at her. Money has been rolling in for weeks now.
I got an advance on a book deal. I’m commanding a fortune in speaking fees and best of all was the bidding war between outlets that ended with me standing here, in this building, shaking hands with a woman whose work I studied in journalism school.
"Thank you for having me," I say. "I still can't believe I'm here."
"Believe it." She releases my hand and gestures at the newsroom behind her. "You earned it. We’re thrilled you took our offer."
The floor stretches out before us. I see people whose bylines I've been reading for years glance up as we pass, and some of them nod, and one woman mouths great work with a thumbs up.
This is everything I ever wanted.
Except.
What would Laura say if she knew about the hotel rooms?
What would she say if she knew that for the past two months, I've been meeting Carter Crane in secret, letting him fuck me against walls, over desks, once in the back seat of a car when the hotel accidentally double booked our room. I can’t seem to stop myself.
What would she say, if she knew her newest investigative journalist has been spreading his legs for the subject of his own exposé?
The cold in my chest spreads outward. I’d get fired. And if I were incredibly lucky, that’d be all. At worst…
I follow her across the floor and try not to think about it.
"Your desk," she says, stopping beside a spot by the window. "IT will get you set up this morning, then I thought we could grab lunch and talk about what you want to work on next."
I run my hand along the edge of the desk. The wood is smooth and solid beneath my fingers.
"It's perfect," I say.
Laura smiles. "Get settled. I'll come find you around noon."
She walks away, heels clicking on the floor, and I lower myself into my new chair, opening my new work-issued laptop.
The IT setup takes most of the morning, mostly taken up by needing to get authorizations for security logins for various bits of software. The tech guy keeps calling me "Mr. Dean, sir." even though I tell him Jamie is fine.
At 11 AM, I have an orientation meeting. HR takes me through the basics of payroll, policies, the history of the newspaper which I already know inside out and by twelve, I’m back at my desk with an hour to go before lunch with Laura.
I’ve got some good stories lined up, most are smaller but one looks very promising.
It’s a large pharmaceutical company accused of hiding adverse reactions to one of their biggest selling products.
Someone claiming to work for them has emailed me a huge batch of lab results and a recording of what they claim is the CEO saying he doesn’t give a shit if a few people die.
I haven’t verified it but if it’s real, it’s explosive and if I can back all of this up…
maybe I’ll get to put the ‘Jamie Dean is obsessed with Carter Crane’ rumors to bed. I’ll no longer be a one trick pony.
This is the kind of thing that I used to live for, but I’m struggling to concentrate. All I can think of is the look on Carter’s face last night as he pushed me down onto the bed, the strength in his arms as he pinned me down.
It’s ridiculous. He made me come twice and less than twelve hours ago, and yet I’m desperate to have him do it again. My whole body is humming with desire. Just thinking about it makes my body flush with warmth.
And then my stomach cramps. I know these cramps. I've felt them before, at the beginning of every heat I've ever had. Low, insistent pulses of pressure, my body reminding me what it needs.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. No. Not now. I have the best opportunity of my career and I’m sitting here daydreaming about some asshole.
Get it together, Dean. You’re not in fucking heat.
I’ve not had a heat in months. I take my suppressants. I keep away from alphas that might trigger them. I…am not keeping away from alphas that might trigger them.
Oh crap.
The bathroom is at the end of the hall, past the research department and the conference rooms. I walk there with my hands in my pockets and my jaw clenched, nodding at people who smile at me, acting like everything is fine.
The door swings shut behind me. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed. There's sweat at my hairline, despite the aggressive air conditioning. My pupils are too wide for the harsh fluorescent lighting, dark and wrong.
No. Not now. Not fucking today.
I've been ignoring it for two days. Blaming stress. Blaming nerves about the new job. Blaming Carter fucking Crane for making me horny.
But standing here, under these unforgiving lights, I can't pretend anymore.
The ache in my belly isn't nerves. The heat under my skin isn't stress. And the way my scent is shifting—sweetening—isn't something I can explain away.
My heat is coming. Damn it.
I splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help. The flush stays, pink and damning across my cheekbones.
Two days, I think. Maybe less.
My cycle hasn't been regular years. Suppressants and stress and the chaos of chasing the Crane story kept it at bay. I haven't had a proper heat since before I started the investigation.
But my body has been different lately. Since the David Glass programme. Since Carter.
I grip the sink harder. Scent matches can trigger heat cycles. I know this. Every omega knows this. When your biology locks onto someone, it starts preparing: resetting rhythms and amplifying responses.
My body has locked onto Carter Crane. It just wants what it wants.
I stare at my reflection. I’m flushed and sweating, my pupils blown. I hate everything I see.
You're fine, I tell myself. You can get through today. Just get through today.
I’ll have to ask for heat leave, not ideal after just starting a new job but they’re hired an omega. They know I’ll need to ask for it occasionally. It was even covered in the orientation meeting earlier.
The problem is how I am going to handle this heat. I’m going to need Carter. I could get some agency alpha. I could try handle it on my own.
But I already know neither of those are going to work. If I can’t say no to Carter Crane when I’m not in the middle of a heat, there is no fucking way I am going to stop myself from begging him for it while I am.
And the heat is going to make me stupid. So far, we’ve got lucky. The hotels have been picked for easy anonymity. That’s going to be harder if I’m there for a week and with Carter coming and going.
He’s sure as hell not going to come to my apartment and I’m certainly not going to turn up at his family estate demanding he satisfy me.
We’re going to need to plan for this so that we don’t take an unnecessary risk and have someone see us and notify the tabloids.
I take a deep breath, then wash my face in cold water until it’s one o’clock and time for me to meet Laura for lunch.
She takes me to a restaurant across the street. It appears to be a regular hangout because the servers greet her by name and she doesn’t even look at the menu before ordering.
She recommends the basil pesto tagliatelle and I take her up on it.
"So," Laura says, once our drinks arrive. Water for me. The thought of alcohol makes my stomach turn. "Let's talk about what comes next."
I start telling her about the leads I’ve had in and she listens, nodding.
"You've got real momentum," she says, finally. "This is the moment to capitalize on it."
I nod and try to look engaged. Under the table, my hands are clenched in my lap, fingernails cutting crescents into my palms.
"I have to ask," Laura says. Her tone shifts, softens. "How are you holding up? With everything else?"
"Everything else?"
"The Carter’s online campaign against you." She meets my eyes, and there's real concern there, real warmth. "It's obviously coordinated but that doesn't make it easier to live through. Someone's spending real money to make you look bad "
I sit back in my chair. It’s weird. I know that this is what they’re doing, but having someone like Laura Day confirm it out loud somehow makes me feel better about the whole thing.
The people who matter know exactly what the Cranes are doing.
"I'm managing," I say.
I think about Carter, standing in some Crane family meeting, reviewing the latest attack lines. Approving them. Maybe writing them himself.
Then I think about Carter last night, in that hotel room, his hand over my mouth to muffle the sounds I was making while he fucked me from behind.
Laura nods slowly. Her eyes are sharp. She's been doing this too long to miss the signs of someone struggling, but she doesn't push.
"If you need anything," she says. "Time off, security support, whatever. Just ask. We protect our people here."
We protect our people.
I take a sip of water. My hand shakes slightly. I set the glass down before Laura notices.
Would you protect me if you knew? I want to ask. Would you still call me 'your people' if you knew what I've been doing?
The answer sits heavy in my stomach.
No. She wouldn't. None of them would.
They believe I'm a principled journalist who took on a corrupt dynasty. Someone with integrity. Someone worth defending.
They have no idea what I really am.
I make it to five o'clock.
"Go home," Laura says, catching me at the elevator. "First days are exhausting. Get some rest."
I smile and thank her and push the button and wait for the doors to open. The cramps are getting worse. There's slick gathering between my thighs—not much, not yet, but enough that I'm hyperaware of it with every step. My temperature is spiking. My skin feels like it's been rubbed with sandpaper.
Tomorrow, I think. Maybe the day after.
That's all the time I have.
The subway is a nightmare.
Its rush hour and the cars are packed with bodies pressed together, heat and noise and too many scents competing for space. I wedge myself into the corner by the doors and try to breathe through my mouth.