15. Red
Chapter fifteen
Red
The belt purse around my waist tinkles merrily with my collection of shiny things, gathered like a magpie on the hunt. I pat my hand against the lumps as I shift at the dining table, reassuring myself everything is in place. The stolen ID and wallet from the handbag at the House of Bitches, a bottle of water, lip gloss, migraine pills hoarded over a couple of days, a multi tool lifted from a serviceman’s kit, and money pried out of a vending machine. Okay, vending machines, plural.
Now I just need a weapon.
The rib eye steak I ordered cooked medium rare sizzles with heat as the kitchen staff bring it over to the table. Wednesday is steak night and the other omegas around me chatter excitedly as our orders come out together, filling the air with seared beef, garlic, and fragrant oil. Better than smelling all their body odors.
Still, I’m going to miss these ladies and boy when I cut and run.
“Red, how did your scent matching go?”
I slide my finger down the length of the steak knife handle, testing its strength. “Well, actually, I puked all over the floor.” I point the fork at my chest. “If you see new carpet in there, you’re welcome.”
O-18 blanches. “Oh, that sounds awful!”
“Yeah, it stinks so bad.” I cut my steak, watching the pink juices run. Maybe I’m not as keen on steak as I thought. Or maybe it’s the idea of what the beast went through before ending up on my plate.
“You’ve always had a strong sense of smell,” O-9 remarks around a mouthful of honey-baked carrots.
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Thanks to having to put up with all you stinkers.”
The other omegas chuckle. I glance at Samantha eating at the next table over with the other handlers and catch her looking my way. We’re still not on good terms after the heat episode. Is she worried about my next outburst? Maybe she’s concerned I’ll hurt one of the omegas.
She doesn’t know a damn thing about me and how I’ve protected the girls all these years.
I scoff under my breath and cut another piece of steak, watching with satisfaction as the knife cleaves cleanly through the flesh. To be fair, Samantha isn’t treating me any differently since the psych report came out last week. But I’m not in the mood to be fair. No one’s fair to me.
The walls seem to close in around me, filling me with a pressing need to get out. See the real world.
And find those damn alphas who are taking their sweet time coming to get me. Especially now that I’ll probably never be able to stick my nose in that reeking book of scents.
I’m still thinking about alphas when I finish my meal.
“You seem to be deep in thought about something,” Samantha says as she walks me back to my room.
Like I’m gonna tell her what’s on my mind. “Why is the moon white?” I quip, being the crazy, random omega she expects.
“Good question.” She jams one hand in her pocket. “I suppose it’s the type of rock it’s made from that has a pale color and reflects the sunlight.”
“Boring,” I say. “Could be any color. How cool would a magenta moon look hanging in the sky?”
She chuckles and nods. “Well, when you get in good with some of the Ommywood writers, ask them to write a parallel universe where the moon is pink.”
I lift my brows, considering the possibility. At least she’s being genuine and not scoffing at my dreams. She gave me a few printouts with suggestions for a career path in entertainment, including potential classes to sign up for, which was nice. But I don’t have time for classes.
“Good night, Red. See you in the morning,” she offers as she opens my door.
“Good night.” That’s all I can offer, because I have a plan, and it doesn’t involve seeing her tomorrow.
Once I’m sure she’s gone, I slide the steak knife carefully out of my sleeve and place it on the bedside table. Emergency escape plan activated. Then I dig into my other sleeve and pull out the fork plus sugar packets I filched for good measure.
A few nervous shakes trickle through my muscles as I get into the shower, careful not to have the water too hot, which might damage my skin. Looks are an actress’s most valuable talent, after all. And first impressions are critical.
I set an alarm for three a.m. and turn in for the night. Thursday will come in a few hours, and Thursday is trash collection day.
The heavy industrial truck lumbers up to the rear of the Omega Center and swings around to reverse. The crane arms creak as they stretch out on hydraulics to latch onto the huge skip bin and lift it into the air. It tilts, but no trash slides through the lid—because I put a bolt through the mechanism.
The arms lower the bin back down and I hold my breath. The driver might be too sleepy to even notice the skip hasn’t emptied, but I cross my fingers and Lady Luck answers. The cab door squeaks open and a man in his fifties with graying hair grumbles as he climbs down the side.
I dart out from my hiding spot and race around the cab to the open door and haul myself up the narrow steps. My boot slips and I dangle by my arms as I kick wildly, looking for a foothold. Any second the driver will come back around this side and see me.
Grunting with effort, I drag myself upward and get my footing to climb the last step. Behind the driver’s seat is a narrow ledge and I jam myself in there, throwing his rain jacket over my head. Between the odor of rotting scraps and the scent dampener I rubbed into my skin before dawn, he shouldn’t be able to catch my scent, but we will be locked in a cabin together, possibly for a few hours. Assuming I make it out of the Center at all.
The cabin tilts, and a shadow flitters across the view slit I have along the edge of the driver’s seat. If he looks into the back, or tries to grab his jacket, he’ll see me. I flinch as the door slams shut and a hint of beta fills the air.
“These damn early starts will be the death of me,” the man grumbles, slurping from his disposable coffee cup and clicking his seatbelt in. The truck shivers under me and lurches forward as he puts it in gear, the engine rumble drowning out other noises.
We slow and a beeping sounds. I know from watching his route that the Center has a second set of skip bins on the far end of the building. After emptying those, we’ll face the final boss.
The truck grumbles and air whooshes as he brakes once more. My heart crawls up into my throat, pulsing loudly as he opens his door.
A voice calls out and I duck lower. “Morning, Mark.”
“Hey, Jameson. Haven’t seen you on graveyard shift in a while.”
“Yeah, I was on omega leave. And I’d rather be back there than here at this ungodly hour.”
The driver snorts. “You and me both. Not even a jumbo coffee is hitting the spot. Let’s get this over with.”
“Yep.”
Metal screeches as the security guard opens the access window to peer into the trash compartment. You’d have to be insane to hide in there with compactors that could pop a person like a grape. It was one thing to watch from a window as the security guard checked the truck over, but it’s entirely different sweating under a jacket, curled up like a contortionist. One whiff of my omega scent and this escape will be all over before my adventure even begins.
The additional voice comes from close by. “Sorry to hold you up, but you know how it is.”
“Yeah, man, I know. Gives me a moment to drink my liquid addiction.”
The guard snorts, and I swear he’s looking in the cab. I hold my breath. “Not hiding an omega in here, are you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, not daring to even cross my fingers again.
The driver scoffs. “My wife would have a fit if I got omega scent on me. The trash is bad enough.”
More laughter, and then the engine grinds and the truck jerks forward. Pins and needles dance through my foot and I grit my teeth. This is going to be one long-ass morning. But worth it to be free. I press my teeth into my lower lip as relief floods through me. It’s not over, but I’m so close now. I just need to survive being cramped like a sardine in a tin.
Determination aside, I’m ready to cry from the pain in my body by the time the driver pulls into a depot for what I assume is a piss break, judging by the way his leg’s been shaking up and down for the past twenty minutes. The jacket rustles as I peek out from under it and crane my neck to look through the windshield. Garbage trucks hulk in rows around a double-story tin shed, and workers dot the yard, refueling or cleaning the trucks.
It takes a couple of tries to work out how to open the big door, and I wince as my locked-up muscles complain. Last minute, I decide to take the driver’s jacket with me. As I jump off the bottom step, my legs give way and I plop onto my knees, dwarfed by the giant black wheels. Asphalt bites into my palms as I scrabble to move, grabbing the wheel arch to haul myself upright.
Adrenaline ices over my veins as I hear footsteps crunching on the ground. It’s all the motivation I need to take off around the back of the truck. I stagger a little as my head spins, but I can’t stop now. The voices in my mind sound clearer than ever, or at least some of them do. I slow as I spot the open chain link gates, but my heart rate doesn’t get the memo until I’ve walked clear of the industrial yard and I’m half a block away.
I grin. Red Hawk flies again.
Now I just need to figure out where I’m going to stay.