Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
TALLY
T he next few shifts at work are nothing stand out. The only notable difference is it’s just me and Walsh. Johnny is absent. And there’s nothing more said about the offer for more work.
Not that we have much time to stand around and chat. With one staff down each shift, it’s busy, and the hours fly by.
Saturday, though, is by far the craziest day.
Apparently, it’s the usual crowd on game day.
Around mid shift, Walsh explains how every year, the pub televises the games throughout the season.
They even get council permission to change their opening times when the big-name clubs are playing away games.
The Irish love their football, but it’s a pretty general statement unless you’ve seen their passion firsthand. There was a line even before we opened the doors, at the crack of dawn too.
Despite the early hour, I pull pint after pint and deliver so many plates of the specials of the day—bangers and mash with gravy—it gets to the point I can’t even look at the plates without feeling queasy. Admittedly, though, I pull a full thirteen-hour shift.
“Tally, do a rubbish run, and then you can finish up,” Walsh calls from his chair.
He’s been pretty good at helping, but he’s also spent a fair amount of time from his place at the bar, watching me run around like a headless chicken. At least the task of doing the bins gets me outside in the fresh air and away from the kitchen.
To stretch out the time, I do all the bins, taking my time replacing the bags and collecting all the trash until I’ve got a decent pile stacked up near the back door.
Grabbing the key off the hook, in case the door shuts on me like it did on my second shift, I start carrying the bags to the dumpster on the far side of the carpark.
Although there are lights around the place, there are plenty of shadows too.
I’m close to finishing when the girls I ran out of the pub earlier in the week decide to make themselves known. The instant I stepped outside with the first bag, I knew I wasn’t alone, and I had a feeling it was them.
Not knowing when they were going to act is why I was only carrying one bag at a time. Just in case they want to fight, which is apparently their intent, judging by the cold anger in their eyes.
I make my way closer to where they stand, keeping myself in the best offensive position.
“You remember us?” One of them speaks while the other starts moving.
They’re surrounding me, and it’s hard to stop it from happening. I don’t want to be trapped against a wall, so I make it easy by stopping where I am, putting myself in the best position.
It’s pretty clear they came here intent on showing me exactly how unhappy they were with me throwing them out. It’s a smackdown, hopefully nothing more.
“Come on then, let’s do it,” I taunt, bouncing on my feet.
The women are both Betas. Their individual scents are lost under the cheap perfume they use. But their designation is easy to read in their size. And their speed. They move together and come for me at the same time.
Just because they’re Betas doesn’t mean their hits don’t hurt. I cop a punch to the head and a hit to the side at the same time. Pain bursts, making stars dance and making it hard to track their movements.
Our altercation is fast. It’s messy on their side, while on mine, I’m trying to tame my training down into something a waitress would have.
Eventually we get into a rhythm where we manage to dodge hits and land a few too.
Of course, they’ve both come prepared. And while I’m thankful I’m only dealing with shitty oversized rings, I’m glad they haven’t donned knuckle dusters or worse, another switchblade like they had the other day.
I kick one of them in the knee, and she goes down, squealing like a cut pig.
I turn to the other, hoping she takes a decent hit, too, when the back door pushes open.
The interruption and the possibility of other people joining the fight has the two of them bolting down the side of the building, yelling promises of more over their shoulder.
“Jesus, Tally, you ‘right?” one of the kitchen hands asks, rushing over to help.
“Yeah, yeah,” I manage before having to brace my hands on my knees to get air into my lungs. The adrenaline burning through my veins makes it harder to breathe. I’m jittery, and I squeeze my eyes shut to quieten the rush in my ears.
I take a couple of slow inhales and exhales, quietly assessing what hurts the most. I’m sure I’m going to have a bruised face and a sore side for a while.
As I stand up, more people join us, including a couple of the regulars from the bar who asking me a hundred questions.
“I’m fine.” I talk loud enough so everyone can hear. “Just might get some ice.”
I get handed an ice pack and escorted back into the staff room.
“You’re going to have a right bruise,” Walsh says when he leans down to inspect. “Don’t look like nothing is broken. Not blood, at least. You get a good look at who did it?”
I barely stop myself from pulling a face full of incredulous disbelief before I remember I haven’t exactly had the chance to say who it was. But by the way they're all acting, I’d put money on violence being a regularity here.
“Just some lovely ladies,” I mumble, purposely avoiding answering.
It’s not like I’m going to waste my time going down to the local police station and reporting two skanks jumping me.
For starters, they’ve got bigger issues than two chicks getting revenge, but more importantly, all it would do is eat into the little time I have left of my night.
More so, keeping my mouth shut hopefully gives me another in with whoever is watching, telling them loud and clear that I’m no snitch.
“Well, that was fun.” I smile up at the people still milling around. “What time tomorrow?” I ask, turning towards Walsh.
My question has the crowd dispersing, though it coincides with a roar from the front room, which generally happens when someone scores a goal or does something worthwhile on the pitch.
Walsh is the first to leave, talking over his shoulder. I have to look at the kitchen hand who came out the back door before for clarification.
“He said ten, but if you don’t feel good, call in sick.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I keep the ice pack with me while I grab my bags. Before I leave, I poke my head back into the kitchen. “Hey, thank you. I’m glad you came out when you did.”
His eyes are on my cheek, right where I’m holding the ice pack. I lift it off, and he grimaces at the sight.
I should go home and sleep, except for the fact it would be a waste of time even trying. I’ve got way too much energy I need to burn off.
The looks I get when I stop at a all night convenience store for a banana and a small juice booster, and as I walk down the street, make my swollen cheek feel like a mountain on my face.
It all adds to the frustration swamping my system.
My feet seem to track where we’re going before I even know.
It’s instinctual that I end up at the gym.
Using the toggle, I enter, and all the automatic lights blink on.
It’s odd the gym is currently empty. It’s not really that late, but it’s at that odd time after dinner but before midnight on a Saturday.
I’m sure other people are doing normal things like socializing, going to movies, but here I am.
Changing quickly into some unflattering workout gear, I bundle my hair up and mix up the protein powder I had in my bottle, ready for my next workout.
Setting it down after giving it an almighty shake, I force myself to peer at my reflection in the mirror.
It sucks knowing the reason I’m now looking like I lost a fight is because I did lose a fight, and that only happened because I was sloppy.
The sting of defeat is good for my soul, though. The humiliation of losing a girl fight will add another layer of determination to my workout. I’ve been slacking recently, and that stops now.
Swinging open the door, I walk face-first into something that wasn’t there before. A someone, actually.
I squeal when my face gets smooshed up against a hard chest. Sharp pain explodes and radiates all the way down my neck, bringing tears to my eyes.
A very fucking nice-smelling chest, mind you.
And it’s one of those scents, like the pain swirling around me, that hits sharp and fast, making it near impossible to ignore.
Like, when we physically collide, the impact of inhaling his scent tingles through my blood.
It dances in my cells. Overly dramatic, but exactly how nature intended because you’re meant to take notice.
I take another breath, no longer in as much pain but still thrown. Because of him.
Scent match , beats through my thoughts with the increasing race of my pulse.
Another sniff, and his soft lemon scent crystallizes into something more memorable—lemon verbena.
The Hollywood theatrics don’t stop. There’s a symphony of sound and light becoming impossible to ignore. My biology is forcing me to not disregard the moment. A clarity blossoms with sporadic flutters squeezing my chest—this Beta is my match.
“Hey.” His voice is as smooth as I thought it would be.
In the space of a millisecond, my Omega has been busy getting lost in how he’s going to look, how his voice will sound, how he’s going to treat her right forever and eternity.
I must look crazy, because the other thing that becomes blatantly obvious is that he doesn’t recognize me. He’s not curling in on himself as his DNA twists and changes like mine just did. Unless he’s a better actor than I am.
I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.
It’s every Omega’s dream to find their match, but it’s not something I’ve ever considered.
I watched both the women in my family be destroyed by the actions of those they loved.
In the aftermath, I chose to focus on me, putting everything into my career.
And then I saw firsthand the callous nature of both men and women, all designations included, as they chose themselves time and time again.
Murders done to keep someone quiet, money taken so the thief can keep it all.
Deceit and dishonesty everywhere I turned.
I made choices not based on what I wanted but what I didn’t want.
Sex is easy. A necessary part of being an Omega.
Of course, though, I’ve never really taken into account the needs of my Omega side.
Right now, she’s on the verge of an epic Essex-type meltdown due to his lack of reaction.
I focus on his T-shirt as a way to level out the madness inside my head as the two opposing forces of my makeup fight for dominance.
Focusing on him again, I notice staff printed right, smack-bang in the middle of his shirt. In rather large lettering, to accommodate his rather nice chest.
And my stomach drops even further, because even without looking, I know who it’s going to be.
My face burns like a furnace. I can’t exactly hide my face, especially when he’s holding my wrists in one hand, his other one under my chin to guide my face up.
“Come on, firecracker, look at me,” he urges.
His voice is deep, rumbly, and completely not great to hear when I’m trying to persuade my Omega to let up.
He hits me with another exhale of his breath.
Lemon verbena is so bright and zesty, it gives me a small boost of energy, and the softer, emotional side of my personality gains the upper hand again.
Why wouldn’t you want this?
Honestly, now I’m hearing her like she’s a damn hypnotist in my thoughts. Clearly, when I crashed into this Beta, something broke inside of me.
He lights me up with a handful of words, but he had that effect on me previously too. Even over the distance separating our apartments, he had my body tightening, my scent leaking like perfume.
Without the push of his designation, his request is just that. Unlike if he was an Alpha and could bark me to obey. The final decision to look at him is up to me, but is it? Because biology is riding my arse hard, and I’m pretty sure I’d do anything he asks of me.
Yep, my Omega is out of her cage and is changing the rules we’ve lived by.
Despite the mortification making me blush scarlet instead of a sweet pale pink, I look at him.
Like when I saw him the other day, he’s as gorgeous as he was then. His buzz cut accentuates his sharp cheekbones and makes the crystal blue of his eyes sparkle like rare gemstones.
And then, because we’re still basically chest to chest, I get to watch up close and personal when he sees my swollen cheek. A dangerous light flashes in his eyes, the glint making the blue darken to cerulean.
His mood makes his eyes so much prettier, but his anger doesn’t turn me on so much, only reinforcing the reality of life to my pragmatic side.
I take a step away. He’s obviously upset, but also because he’s still clearly pretending we haven’t met before.
His nostrils flare and he clamps his jaw shut until he blurts out, “Who the fuck did that to you?”
He might only be a Beta, but he’s got me tongue-tied like an Alpha.
Goddamn him for having such an impact.
I push off him to add some distance between us, but he doesn’t budge an inch.