Chapter 2 Tessa #2
All I’d done was skip a family trip because I’d wanted desperately to go to that concert. I’d been obsessed with the band for almost six years. I hadn’t murdered anyone. I hadn’t stolen or done drugs or any number of horrid things. I’d just, blown off my family.
And then... they’d all died.
Every single person I loved.
They’d left me behind.
My father. My mother, along with my little sister in her womb. My brothers. My uncles. My aunts. The cousins. Everyone.
Shortly after the whirlwind funerals—surreal affairs featuring random, poorly identified body parts placed in closed coffins too large to hold them—government marshals had seized everything on suspicion of tax fraud.
They day after my horrible birthday, I’d found myself standing outside the gate of our family estate staring at a giant chain and lock with a huge sign for all the neighborhood to see: ‘seized government property’.
They hadn’t even let me pack a bag. I didn’t even have a pack photo.
How do you fight something like that? It had all happened so fast. I’d only been a kid, barely nineteen.
Back then, I didn’t even know that a credit card wasn’t real money.
How stupid was that? I’d swiped my platinum for a modest salad and bottled water only to have the metallic, useless rectangle confiscated after declining.
The horrid cashier had cut it to pieces in front of me, and every other onlooking customer at the deli.
I’d felt small and crushable, a bug under someone’s boot during that mortifying moment.
My family lawyer had told me he’d do everything in his power to help me, to protect my identity, to get my family’s estate back, yet my last visit to his firm had ended with Mister Johnas patting my shoulder sadly and handing me five hundred dollars—all he could spare from my family’s remaining retainer, one of the only accounts the government hadn’t seized already.
No one was in my corner. No one cared enough to make sure I was okay anymore.
Five hundred dollars... that seemed like a fortune these days. Back then though, I’d been so angry. Five hundred dollars wouldn’t even get me a few nights at the Ritz.
I should have used that money wisely. I shouldn’t have opted for a decent hotel with a continental breakfast.
A memory flashed: the Eiffel Tower, champagne breakfasts, my parents promising we'd always be a pack. I shook off the assaulting memory, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. Promises don't mean much when the people who made them are dead.
The pampered Fortune princess had learned a few things, at least. Like how to spot a soft patch of sidewalk before some Beta asshole nabbed it.
Or which dumpsters belonged to sushi places, so Josie could pretend she's back on gourmet kitten chow. I’d also discovered when the local appliance store got shipments and had a few large fridge boxes out back.
And most importantly, I’d learned how to disappear.
Pretty, unbound Omegas had a way of vanishing on the streets.
It was why I didn’t mind looking and smelling like a hot mess.
Dumpster perfume masks my natural scent just enough, and a coat of dirt on my face was a great mask.
Sometimes, I could even get away with pretending I was a Beta.
A group of mate missionaries had come through a few months ago.
A lot of Omegas had gone with them. A promise of security on a sanctuary farm beat the hell out of the streets for them; they might even scent-match with one of the resident Alphas if they were lucky.
I’d considered the offer for about a millisecond.
But they were selling a cage. Be good, eat well, hopefully breed. It wasn’t enough to entice me.
Not that I'd let anyone take me. Those do-gooders could keep their farm and their Alphas. I had a family pack once, I had everything with a bright future ahead, and I’d ended up with nothing after a snap of fate’s fickle fingers. If I was alone forever, then I never had to lose anyone again.
Josie stuck her head out of the bag, looking around curiously.
She almost seemed disappointed that we were still in the same alley.
She meowed in annoyance and then disappeared into the shadows of the satchel.
She was so tiny when I found her, all kitten mewling and messy fur.
Now, she barely fit in the bag with my other meager belongings.
A ratty toothbrush, its teeth splayed out in random directions, a comb missing half of its bristles, an extra pair of underwear that I’d use once my current ones had too many holes to be serviceable. And now, the precious pickles.
As if reassuring me that she’d always fit in my bag, my streetwise comrade wriggled around in the bag.
I looked down, peeking inside. She’d curled around the glass jar and her head rested on my brush.
She couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but I’d discovered that cats had a way of making themselves at home wherever they were.
A bag. A fridge box. A dumpster diner. I would never let Josie end up like my family.
So, I kept me alive. Or she kept me alive. Hard to tell these days.
"What would my family or Mister Johnas think if they could see us now, huh, Josie?" I closed the bag again, hiding her from the world’s evil eyes. She thrummed happily, as if the scrunched space of the smelly bag was as good as any palace in the world.
I kept talking, as if she’d answer back. “That sandwich wasn’t bad, was it? I think we’ve had fine dining today. And, later, we get to wash it down with a dessert of pickles and juice.”
We were finally at the end of the alley, and I was faced with left or right.
Left took me to where I’d been sleeping for about a week—a relatively cozy box under an overpass, which was prime real estate, and I suspected someone would claim it one day soon while I was foraging.
Or right, which would take me to the shelter.
They never had an open bed, but I kept checking just in case.
Pets weren’t allowed, so I’d have to sneak in Josie.
I debated for a moment, paused there at the termination of the alley.
A gust of wind pushed against my body. I heard a distinct fluttering of paper, low near the ground.
My gaze shifted, finding a wrinkled flying poster which, seconds later, plastered itself against my legs.
I bent over just enough to snag it. For some reason, my heart thumped a little faster as I straightened it out to read.
I could have just thrown it into a trashcan; there was one only a few feet away.
That would have been the smart thing to do.
Curiosity though… it always got the cat.
Or it always got me, thanks to my association with a cat.
So, no. I don’t throw it away.
I make myself focus on the words, on the colors, on the graphics. Blues and purples, interrupted by a shock of yellow. Oblivion Haze. A fan event happening at a venue downtown.
These memories couldn’t be stopped. They violently rushed in, as if the dam that was holding them back had cracked and crumbled.
Strobe lights pulsed over the crowd. My ears rang as the music swelled to a deafening roar. Ryder Hendrix’s distinct vocals somehow cut through the din. His voice did that, as if amplified by more than just a microphone. Magic. Ryder Hendrix was magic. They all were magic.
Dixon St. James.
Mac Masters.
Tray Rivers.
Real. Life. Music magicians.
The alley didn't exist anymore. I was back there, in that place. I was suffocating in the best way possible, caught in a mosh pit of bodies jumping up and down and singing the lyrics. Oblivion Haze was this unstoppable machine, shaking the ground and making my insides quake in rhythm. This was worth skipping yet another ski trip in stupid Verbier where it was too damn cold and I’d be forced to ski like a proper Omega lady instead of jumping on a board with my brothers.
This was worth making my parents a little unhappy over the fact that I’d rather be here in a sea of sweaty fans versus relaxing in the lap of Fortune Family luxury.
I was swept up in the ocean of bodies, cheap cologne and floral perfume swirling around me in a heady cloud. Someone spilled beer on my shoes, and I didn't even care. I was drunk on the moment, on everything.
Fast forward.
He’s there.
He’s interested in me.
The kiss... is intoxicating.
I shook myself violently, yanking out of the memory.
I’d vowed I wouldn’t think about Oblivion Haze anymore.
That I wouldn’t listen to their stupid music ever again.
I’d vowed to cut that piece of my teenage life out for good, slicing it away with surgical precision.
Ryder, Dixon, Mac, Tray… they didn’t exist to me now.
What did exist was this alley. The constant hunger of my hollow belly. The layer of grime across my skin because showering was a rare gift.
I blinked. I reoriented myself with reality.
I still had to choose whether I was going left or right. I hated making choices these days.
Because… some choices you can't take back. Some choices change everything.
I’d found that out the hard way.