Chapter 4
Hailey
Ihad done some pretty monumentally stupid things in my life. The time I got a little too tipsy in college and decided that the football players needed to see my thong sprang to mind.
Yet, somehow, this took the cake.
Worse than underwear-revealing hijinks.
After I had finally pulled myself together, I made my way home in a sluggish daze. There were so many sensations ricocheting through my body that I couldn't make heads nor tails of them. My heart was racing, and there was a tugging deep inside me, like I needed to go back to Preston.
Only, he had run off back to where he came from.
To the convict firefighter camp.
Because he was a convict.
Locked up in jail.
Only allowed out to fight fires and do good in the community. Though I wasn't sure what good he was doing by bonding with me and leaving me alone, reeling, as I’d had to find my way home with his scent and bite still stinging my skin.
It took three times longer than normal to return to my apartment because I took several wrong turns, despite knowing the route like the back of my hand. Everything was hazy and crystal clear. I felt right and wrong, all at the same time.
As soon as the door closed behind me in my little home, the emotions welled over, and I burst into deep, messy sobs.
Part of me was surprised that I had made it all the way home before breaking down. I crawled into my nest with my favorite throw pillow that I'd grabbed from the couch. With it clutched to my chest, I bawled my eyes out.
My nest was my safe space. White with pink accents and bows, I had curated the space carefully, as all omegas did. Taking painstaking time to pick out each item, visiting numerous nesting stores to find ones that fit my vision perfectly.
Usually, the dreamy space would comfort me, but at the moment, sobbing violently, all I could feel was the overwhelming sense that the nest was painfully empty.
Preston should have been there with me. My omega was screaming out for him, for the alpha who’d bonded to me.
I’d sent a text to Alice to let her know I had been with someone and made it back to my apartment, and she’d sent me several thumbs-up emojis in response. Once I was sure no one was going to come looking for me, I let myself truly wallow.
I guess that’s what I was waiting for, silent permission to fall apart.
One night. I would give myself one night to feel all the things.
Then I would have to pick myself up and figure out what the fuck I was going to do about all this.
Bonding wasn't quite as permanent as most people thought.
There were several medications and chemical IVs that could be used to simulate breaking a bond. It was an intensive medical procedure and—quite often—could be fatal. Still, technically, it was an option.
Those who came out the other side often reported feeling lesser. It was basically ripping out a huge part of yourself.
Plus, no doctor recommended it unless it was in extreme circumstances.
The only time I’d met someone who had gone through chemical unbonding was a sweet single mother who’d needed to do it to get away from her abusive pack.
No matter how crappy she felt after the process, it was better than what she was enduring with them.
Was that even an option in my case, though?
There were programs out there, almost like conjugal visits for omegas whose alphas were in jail.
But I was fairly sure that if it came out that I was bonded to a convict, I would lose my job.
So, the way I saw it, I had two options in front of me.
Hide it and try my best to get through my life, ignoring our connection.
Or announce to the world what I had done and lose the job that I adored more than anything.
It was astounding how much mess a little bit of dick could get you into.
The next day, I called in sick to work. I was meant to be working an evening shift, but by the time four in the afternoon rolled around, I still felt like I had been hit by a truck.
I had a vague memory of pulling myself out of my nest to grab a bottle of water at some point in the night, but other than that, I spent pretty much the entire time tossing and turning, feeling like total ass.
Worse than any hangover or flu, my entire body ached, and I felt sluggish, down-to-the-bone sluggish that didn’t let up for even a second.
I knew what was happening to me, but I didn't know what to do about it.
Separation sickness was no joke. Just a few months ago, I had been yelling at a group of firefighters for working so much while their newly bonded omega was stuck at home.
Well, she wasn't stuck at home; she was stuck at the firehouse because Sunny was living there temporarily when she accidentally bonded with Walker.
The lack of contact with her bonded mate was making her sick. It was like life was leeching out of her, and now it was happening to me.
That was Sunny, though. Being recently bonded and separated tended to affect everyone differently. There were some cases when it was severe, and there were others when it was a mild, if constant, pain.
I was just falling into another bout of fitful sleep when my phone rang.
“Yes?” I answered groggily.
“Hey, I heard you called in. Is everything okay?” I wasn’t surprised that Freddy called to check in on me.
“I think it's food poisoning or something,” I lied.
There was no way in hell I was going to tell my partner that I'd accidentally bonded with a complete stranger—who also happened to be a convict—in a back alley of a bar and was now sick.
“Ah, that sucks ass. Well, I guess I’m riding with the newbie tonight, then. If you want me to come by with a banana bag, let me know. That will get you feeling better in no time.”
“Thanks, I don’t think I’m that far gone yet. Just a couple of bottles of water and some extra sleep, and I’ll be fine,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Even if I got lucky and my symptoms were mild, I was going to be sick for weeks, since I wasn’t about to see Preston again to end the cause of my issues.
Maybe a banana bag wasn’t the worst idea.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. You can get the coffee, as you’re the reason I’m riding with a trainee today.”
“However will you survive?” I said in my driest voice.
He let out a pained sigh. “I’m a saint.”
A few hours later, I was awake again, my mind nagging at me with too many questions.
After grabbing my laptop, I buried myself in my nest, contorted into a hunched position to look at my screen while trying to rest. It was the kind of position that would only be comfortable for a few minutes before my back started to ache, but I couldn't figure out how I wanted to sit.
With a browser tab open, I started by searching how to unbond from an alpha. Short and to the point.
The first result was for a clinic that offered a severing service. My stomach turned uncomfortably as I clicked on the link and started reading.
Suffering by myself after the incident with Alleyway Alpha would be extremely painful, expensive, and there was a chance I wouldn't even survive. Every paragraph I read made me feel worse, the reality of just how crappy a situation I found myself in dawning on me more and more.
An hour into my search, I came across another option: reduction medication.
The website gave some generic information, then instructed the reader to talk to their primary care physician, like they all did.
Yeah, I wasn't going to do that. If I needed to go to a doctor to get medication to sort this situation out, I’d go to another state entirely.
Even though patient confidentiality was taken seriously by most doctors, healthcare professionals were gossips. If a nurse saw me going to a bonding clinic, it could easily get circulated among people in the hospital, and that could get back to me.
This accidental bonding was a secret I would take to my goddamn grave.
The medication option seemed promising, though. Apparently, there were options that wouldn’t sever the connection entirely but could reduce the symptoms of being away from the bond mate.
Unfortunately, there weren’t many providers, judging by the list I found. Most bonded groups were happily enjoying their bonds. My situation was rather rare. Even I had to admit it as I crawled out of my nest, throwing my laptop to the side and going to the kitchen in search of a tub of ice cream.
Thankfully, there were three to choose from in my freezer. Ice cream, in my humble opinion, was one of the most important food groups. Grabbing the butter pecan and a spoon, I slumped over on my sofa.
This was temporary. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. The bond was so fresh that everything was stronger, but with time, it would dissipate.
I hoped.
Once back at my laptop, I searched something different. Convict Firefighting. I knew the basics—everyone who worked in emergency services in the state did—but given my situation, I thought a little extra research was needed.
The program was pioneered in California, due to the high number of wildfires we got and the lack of city-funded firefighters.
Several captains had banded together and come up with this program that allowed incarcerated individuals who were close to their sentences ending to go to a fire camp—sort of a halfway house.
Not a jail, but no freedom. These convicts were taught how to fight fires and then, when ready, used alongside the LAFD.
In return for reduced sentences, pretty crappy pay, and somewhat limited restrictions, they helped keep the wildfires at bay and protected the community.
Then, once their sentences were over and they were free, they could apply to work at any firehouse in the country, having all the right training to take up a career in firefighting.
It seemed like a brilliant program. Personally, I had come across the convict crews from Camp Bower several times. They were polite and helpful. I had helped one a few months back who had cut his leg on a shard of glass while clearing some debris from a fire, and he had been kind.
Why was Preston there? What had he done? Had he hurt someone? The thought made my chest ache.
Shoving a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth, I sat on my sofa and prayed to whatever deity above was listening that I would be able to get through this unscathed.
Somehow, I didn't think that was likely.
Still, a girl could dream.