Chapter 3 #2
When our eyes locked, I felt myself shrink further down into the chair.
“You said you had three interviews recently. How do you think those went?” He sounded so condescending. His Alpha scent plumed towards me in a noxious, acrid wave. Citrus, diesel, maybe an undercurrent of tobacco. I tried to stay polite, not wrinkle my nose despite the stench.
“Fine, I guess. I’ve not heard anything back though.
” I bit my lower lip, feeling small under his scrutiny.
He was summing my entire life up in numbers, the same way Imperial had with their stupid goodbye check.
“I feel like the Richland District Beta school was promising though. They really needed a temporary Physical Ed teacher.” I tried to sound confident. I failed.
“Yes, well. We must deal in what’s realistically available to you unfortunately.
The bank account you showed me is your only collateral I suppose?
” He shuffled through the paperwork like it might bite him.
“This isn’t an unsubstantial sum,” he said slowly.
“Why don’t you just pay in full, Miss Shaw?
If you’re not comfortable with that, half down might do it. ”
“I don’t want to spend that much money right now,” I admitted, my own voice tasting sour in my mouth. The thought of dropping that much money in one go right now was nauseating.
“That much as in the whole sum, or half?” He pressed.
“Both,” I said firmly.
He looked up again.
This time I saw annoyance on his face. I could smell it too. The citrus soured, the tobacco grew stale.
“I’m sorry then, Ms. Shaw. Perhaps when you find stable employment, you can come back.” Somehow, he was simultaneously looking at me, and past me. Everywhere I went these days, I faced my loss of value.
My phone buzzed. I retrieved it from my bag, brought the screen to life, and traced my security pattern.
Every new notification once made hope bloom in my body.
That hope had long shriveled. This time, I didn’t frown.
I didn’t smile. I felt empty inside as I checked the email, which was just another generic rejection from a job I didn’t want, offering a salary I couldn’t live on even if I was hired.
Their reason this time was not only lack of experience, but that I was unmated.
The way the world worked was so damn ridiculous.
Who cared if I didn’t have a monogamous partner or a pack of my own?
What did me being single have to do with a receptionist job at a dental clinic?
I put the cell away angrily, shoving it brutally into my purse before I could fall into the hurtful cycle of repeatedly reading the ‘thanks, but no thanks’ message from assholes who couldn’t even spell my name right.
I took a deep breath. There was no point in dwelling.
I had to plan. I had to find a way to push through. I was Nelly Shaw. I didn’t give up.
I pulled the phone back out and navigated to my notes app.
The bullet list in the “Omega Options” file was mostly crossed out now. I’d considered each idea carefully. I hated most of them, but I forced myself to reread them anyways, to rethink, to see the hidden possibilities.
-Preschool/elementary/middle/high school teacher, at an A/O accredited school. Notes: Would require a degree. School would have to sponsor as an unmated Omega. Salary: pitiful.
-Licensed real estate agent, must specialize in bonded pack or pair housing. Notes: Requires training and license. Most agencies won’t hire unmated Omegas, even with federal protections, so I’d have to be an independent agent. Salary: sales based.
-Nursing. Notes: Degree again. Research the state nursing program for unmated Omegas. Placement guaranteed, but I don’t get to choose. Salary: has potential.
-Retail, food service, hospitality. Notes: Could I handle this? Being a server or selling stuff? There’s nothing artistic about this. It might kill me. Salary: I’ve no idea.
-Bakeries, daycares, bookstores. Notes: Omegas always accepted in these types of jobs, even actively encouraged. I like books. I suck at baking. Research how registering a home-based daycare works. Yard is fenced. House is big enough. Salary: Varied.
Last time I’d poured over the list, I hadn’t slashed out bookstores or hospitality.
Wrinkling my nose, I quickly struck both out.
God, what was I going to do? The system was set up to discourage Omegas staying single.
It limited our opportunities and resources.
Even higher education pursuits were often seen as just vehicles to find mates.
That’s why the Arts were so amazing. Anyone with talent, no matter their first or second genders, no matter their mate status, could pursue their passion.
A prolific painter, painted. An amazing actress, acted. A songbird, sang.
And a dancer, danced.
I tapped the phone screen beneath the bullet list. The cursor blinked at me, hostile and unsympathetic as I tried to think of fresh possibilities. When my fingers did begin to type, I didn’t even realize what I’d thought of until the idea was glaring at me. Zero shame, just a bold lightbulb moment.
Stripping?
At first, I scoffed as pride rushed to the surface.
My finger hovered over the delete button, but I couldn’t lower it and erase the first future I’d imagined which involved dancing.
The word seemed to be written in bold letters, as if daring me to acknowledge it.
My stomach hurt, clenching uncomfortably.
My mind reeled, shouting at me. This wasn't supposed to be an option.
This wasn't who I was supposed to become.
Yet, a nearly imperceptible voice in my head began to whisper.
Every second, it grew louder.
Stripping wasn’t like sex work, but the government lumped the two together. Strictly speaking, Omegas weren’t allowed to work in clubs as the entertainment.
I made the idea an official bullet—opting to exchange the word stripping for something more palatable—and added a fresh note.
-Exotic dancing. Note: Research ways to hide my identity. Check out clubs hiring. NOT in Tacoma.
If I put my mind to it, I could adapt and own any stage.
I knew how to captivate an audience. I’d make a decent wage at a club, better than any entry level job I’d qualify for thanks to my lack of other experience.
As for dignity and pride? I wasn’t in any position to care about those things.
I couldn’t spend forever hoping I’d snag some lackluster job with shit pay, and the idea of starting from scratch—nursing school or teaching—felt like I was considering climbing Mount Everest.
I heard footsteps in the hallway, slow and measured. Grandpa.
Quickly, I shoved my phone away as guilt flooded through me.
Here I was contemplating a choice that would pivot me far away from elegant, controlled ballet, while Grandpa was upstairs caring for the woman he'd loved for over fifty years. My grandparents were the most faithful, loyal, kind people on the planet. They’d always told me I was meant for amazing things.
They’d made sacrifice after sacrifice to see me walk a respectable path.
I’m sure in their wildest nightmares they’d never envisioned me wearing pasties, gyrating to pop music.
The door opened inward with a soft creak and Grandpa shuffled inside. He seemed smaller as he moved to his favorite armchair—the worn leather recliner we’d moved from home—and sank into it with a heavy sigh.
"She was having such a great day," he said, his voice strained.
"I should be grateful it lasted longer than usual, but I find myself impossibly sad.
" He leaned forward, spine curving, to cradle his face against his palms. When he dropped his hands, I could see moisture in his eyes, but he offered me a slight smile.
“It’s okay to be sad, Grandpa.” It was a stupid, empty thing to say.
It was something he already knew. I was so bad at comforting people, even when every fiber of my being wanted to say and do the right thing to make him feel better.
The air around us filled with all the things we couldn't say and all the realities we couldn't change.
It felt thick, pushing against my body with palpable force.
I was grateful when Grandpa broke the tension.
"Nelly, you look tired. Are you eating enough?" The way he said my name. The gentle way he asked the question. So much concern; it shot to the center of my heart.
“I look tired?” I gaped at him. He was the one who looked too thin. Exhausted. World-weary. I could never add to his worries. “I eat plenty. Promise.”
Nervously, I circled my right wrist with my left hand and glanced down.
The tip of my thumb was nearly to the first joint of my pointer finger.
I’d learned to check my weight that way over the years.
I'd been so focused on maintaining my dancer's physique and hopelessly job hunting that I'd probably lost more weight than I should have.
When I lifted my gaze, Grandpa’s keen eyes studied me.
"I'm really fine," I lied quickly. "Just busy with the house, training. Always training. I could probably put on a pound or two." I forced a laugh.
His gaze didn’t relent, cutting me to the bone.
I saw something flicker across his face—an understanding that made my chest tighten.
He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he knew something was wrong.
Of course he did. He always paid attention to the little things. He always saw the cracks in the facade.
"Nell," he said quietly, "you know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever's happening, we'll figure it out together."
The kindness in voice was too much. Here was this man, watching his soulmate slip away from him day by day, and he was worried about me. My mouth opened. It would be so easy to vomit everything out and give flight to the desperate thoughts circling my mind like vultures.