Chapter 2
2
I nstead of joining Gypsy and Hill’s conversation, I spend the time as we drive back to my place on Gypsy’s phone and become someone else. I roadblock everything associated with Allison Monet and activate the next alias in my stockpile of personas.
Layne Miller is the result of a random name generator. Allison Monet was, too, but it was a bad one. It always felt too meek. She’s gone now. As simple as that. Once I get settled somewhere new, I will reach out to my contact to arrange for the shitty forged IDs to be sent to me.
Adding a couple of out-of-state websites, after removing the history of my activities, I hand Gypsy’s phone back, then give myself the luxury of being overly nostalgic about the places we drive past. In the short time I spent here, some of these places gave me a sense of belonging. Even temporarily.
The reality is, this city, just like all the ones before it, is just a place on a map to hide. I knew it wasn’t going to be my home forever. Lots of people would suggest the way I’m living isn’t really a life—constantly looking over your shoulder, staying on the edge of everything—but those people didn’t wake up one day to see their own flesh and blood hiding a murder in a suicide while promising my hand in marriage, and my virginity, to an Alpha I’d never met.
My family, considered pillars of society, are assholes, and I know that now. Once upon a time, I really thought my father and brothers were the most honorable people on earth, which makes the taste of their deceit even more bitter.
I’ll need therapy to get over what happened, but until I’m safe and I know they can’t find me, I’ll stay focused on surviving. I’ll choose being alive and a little messed up in the head over belonging to that family any day of the week.
Closing my eyes, it doesn’t take long until the trust I have in myself outweighs the lack of faith I have in the world. When I open them again, we’re cruising past Grind It Baby. I silently wish my co-workers a good life and a pay increase. As Hill takes a left a few miles later, turning on to my street, it’s impossible to miss the red flashing lights glowing up ahead. Emergency lights are never a good sign, and as soon as I start to open the window, the unmistakable smell of smoke is like a slap against my face.
We get pulled to a stop by a police officer and a road barricade. And I’m already wiping the tears off my cheeks.
Detective Hill opens his window, asking the obvious, “Fire in Unit 4D?”
“Yes, sir. That unit is completely destroyed. Arson. By the sounds of it, whoever lit it left gasoline cans inside. We’ve got small explosions, hence the exclusion zone. We can’t do anything but let it burn. We’re focusing on the neighboring units. So far, one’s gone up, but they’re…”
I grab someone’s jacket off the back seat and fold in on myself, giving in to the cruelty of the world. Ignoring Gypsy’s concern and Hill’s questions if I’m okay, I stay folded forward until the car comes to a stop again a while later. I really was holding it together, up until I saw Rocco’s parting blow. Burning everything I own—even though there wasn’t much of it—feels like he’s physically hurt me again.
“I’m sorry, Allison. None of us thought he would act so quickly,” Detective Hill says, sounding more like a person with emotions, as opposed to the stoic policeman from before. He turns around to face me, and before I can say anything, he’s pushing a bundle of cash into my hand.
“No,” I insist, refusing to accept it.
“Allison, we can’t take you back to the Omega Center.” He shakes his head as he talks, grabbing my retreating hand and pushing the money into it. “You need to disappear. And it needs to happen now.”
Gypsy passes over her bag, full of her belongings—a hoodie, a water bottle, wireless earbuds, and her goddamn phone. “Send it back, or don’t. But you need this, Allison. If you use my credit card for a while, too, it will make it harder for anyone to track you.” Her eyes jump to Detective Hill, but he’s not bothered by her suggestion I use her ID.
Looking around, I see where we are. Hill drove me straight to the airport, but it seems Gypsy was in on it too.
“Red-eye special,” she says quietly. “I booked you first class on one, coach on a couple of others. You choose which one to take, but make sure you check in to each one. If you wear my clothes, you won’t look at all yourself. You can do that, can’t you, Allison?”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Hill says, being careful in how he looks at me. “I also marked your situation as priority, which means we’re able to bypass a lot of the identification requirements with TSA. You’ll be fast-tracked through all checkpoints, here and wherever you land.”
I nod, my thoughts blank, before I look at them both, seeing their pity and fear. My tears restart, but I am so very grateful that I’m one of the lucky ones.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Saying goodbye is easy. A couple of plainclothes officers follow me inside the terminal, making sure none of Rocco’s buddies are lingering in the shadows. I keep the brim of the cap low over my face, but avoiding the cameras altogether is as important as running is.
Luck seems to be on my side. After checking into all the flights, I’m nearly the last to board. Even before we take off, I’m under a pile of Delta Airways blankets, enjoying the first-class seat while having a quiet breakdown.
The white noise of the engines droning is therapeutic and keeps me company while the rest of the passengers enjoy refreshments. I stay huddled under the blankets as the chatter and activity in the cabin drops until almost all the passengers are sleeping.
Sitting up, I undo my belt and get ready to make a dash to the bathroom to freshen up, when a slow ripple of movement out of the corner of my eye makes me pause. A man across the aisle stares at me. His features and his presence are as cold as the suit he wears. The venomous look in his eyes has me unable to move a muscle.
Most people have a spark of warmth in their eyes, but this guy has nothing nice in his. My head swirls slowly, like I’m dizzy or tipsy, as I stay frozen like a deer in the headlights. If I could scent him, I’d be able to get a better read on him, but the suppressors I took earlier and the desensitizer lotion I used make it impossible to do.
My hands shake as I close the privacy screen, cutting off his glare. Breaking the hold he had on me comes with a rising humiliation from how he made me feel. When he saw the bruises and the cuts, he revealed no compassion. The opposite, in fact. I shouldn’t be worried about a stranger’s reaction, but I am, and I feel like I’m about to vomit. I search the seat pockets near me for a sick bag. I guess I make too much noise or something because, from over the top of my seat, one of the flight attendants interrupts my search, scaring the shit out of me.
“Try sucking on some ice,” she says, her voice at that level where you have to strain to hear it. It’s a good tactic, giving me something besides fear to focus on.
The flight attendant places a small bowl of ice on the table, along with a washcloth and a bottle of water. “I’ll get you some dry crackers too,” she says, and is gone before I can thank her.
I suck on the crushed ice, leaning my head against the window, hoping the darkness from outside the plane swallows my anxiety. I’m so thrown by the stranger’s reaction, but his judgment reinforces what I already know—there are some seriously fucked-up people in this world.
When my eyes start closing, I don’t fight it.
The drop in air pressure wakes me at the same time the lights in the cabin get turned on. I keep the privacy screen drawn, for so many reasons, but mainly because I don’t want to see his face again.
By the time we’ve taxied to the gate, the noise in the aircraft is full of passengers eager to get off, to make connecting flights, to get home. I start up Gypsy’s phone right away, and just as the attendant says we can start disembarking, a text catches my eye. It steals my focus, and I step into the aisle without looking.
“Do you want to make it any more obvious you’ve never sat in first before?” a woman snaps. Her cultured voice is full of judgment, even though she’s hiding her mouth behind her hand, as though she wasn’t the one who spoke. I didn’t notice her before because I had been so thrown by her traveling companion—the Alpha with the awful eyes.
She is one of those fake femme fatale types—with beauty and a murderous disposition, impossible to ignore, but if I were to bark in her face like the dog she assumes I am, she’d dissolve into dramatic sobs.
Normally, I’d let her cuntish behavior slide, but the two of them together twist my fear into something else. I take a small step, pretending I didn’t hear.
“Sorry?” I ask softly, hoping she’s hard of hearing and needs to lean in to hear me.
Behind us, the curtain to the rest of the aircraft, where the other passengers wait, is still drawn, giving some semblance of privacy to the first-class passengers.
“Get out of the way,” she hisses impatiently when I purposely block her entitled path. Thank god I took another dose of the suppressors and scent blockers when I woke up, because it would be my luck she’d be one of those bitches who smells like peach muffins or something, turning me off anything sweet forever. The medication is to help me deal with people’s designations – their scent and even their presence – while also masking some of my own Omega traits. Giving me a more stable and logical mindset. Well, that’s the aim of the suppressors and blockers, sometimes they don’t seem to working, like now.
I look away from them, acting like I’m conceding. As she steps into the aisle, I paste on a saccharine smile, waving her past, but look right into her eyes. “My apologies, shit before the shovel.”
She freezes mid step. Even in her rage, her lips don’t move, and neither does her forehead, which is mildly disconcerting.
I ready myself for her rebuttal, because it’s coming. Shooting me one last, malice-laced glare, she twists, talking to the Alpha behind her. “And some women wonder why they’re the victim.”
Despite how much I’d love to, I’m not about to shoot the bitch. For starters, I don’t have a gun, but by god, I visualize it in detail—the blow out of her brain would arc impressively. The Alpha behind her doesn’t pay me a lick of his attention as he guides her with a small press of his hand out into the aisle and off the plane.
A slightly older couple shuffle up next. The man is clearly an Alpha, too, but where the other was cold, this man is overflowing with generosity. As is his Omega.
He comes closer. “You can wait with us while the luggage comes, and then we will walk with you to where you need to, in case she decides to come back for round two.”
In a handful of words, they change the start to my morning and reconfirm my hope for humanity.
This Omega is a silver-haired love child, dressed in flowing floral, and she puts me instantly at ease. “And you won’t say no. I’m Jana, by the way, and this is Tomas.”
“Layne,” I offer with a genuine smile.