Chapter 11
Cass
"You seen my jacket anywhere?" Red asks on a yawn, wiping sleep from his eyes. He trudges over to the coffeemaker, stalking like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"No?"
He grunts in acknowledgment, then drops into a chair.
"What's with you?" I lift my chin, narrowing my eyes.
"Nothin'. Not sleeping well."
Seems to be going around. We're all a little edgy and not sleeping well. There's only one thing I can think of that's got us all fucked up, but it doesn't make much sense. There's no reason we'd all be twisted up over an omega, especially one we can't even scent. Hell, she probably smells like flowers or vanilla or some shit.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Ophelia smells like lavender and roses, and I used to dig the scent. When we were teens, I had a little crush on her. I thought she was so cool. Standing up for herself, for others, always deep in the trenches with the rest of us. Not a dainty bone in that girl's body. But my crush waned as we got older, and then, as soon as she packed up, it was like a switch flipped, and my crush disappeared overnight. Plus, she doesn't wear scent-blockers anymore, and for some reason, I no longer like the floral.
Maybe it's more of that alpha-omega biology. We're not into the scent of another if they're bonded. Or maybe my alpha was just never into her, I was, but once she bonded, I finally got on board with my alpha. In any case, Imogen probably has the same scent. It would certainly match her appearance and demeanor. Delicate, floral, classy as hell. I need to find something unattractive about her so I can stop torturing myself.
I suspect it's the same problem all around this house. Though we haven't talked about it, I get a sense from my brothers; they are my pack mates, after all. We aren't bonded like an alpha and omega are, but we still pick up threads of feelings, thoughts. And all I'm picking up from my brothers is trouble with a woman.
"Which jacket? Maybe it's at the club." I try changing the subject so I don't keep daydreaming, wondering what Imogen smells like.
He shakes his head. "No, that's where I thought I lost it. Not a big deal, but my pops gave me that jacket, I'd like to track it down. I think I left it there a few nights ago, but can't seem to find it."
"Hmm."
"I think I'm going fucking crazy, man," he admits. His unsettling light blue eyes jump up to meet mine and they look a little wild, unhinged. Running a hand through his straight black hair, which repeatedly falls into his face, I wonder if something else is going on.
The side door to the kitchen opens, Iggy stumbling in, and I clock a small tear on his knuckle; they look a little swollen and bruised.
"'Cause you lost the jacket?" I ask, turning my attention back to Red.
Red snorts. "Yeah, the jacket. There's also this new girl…"
Iggy grunts, marching over to the coffeemaker. He isn't sleeping, though that's nothing new, but usually, he's puttering around the warehouse at all hours. Fixing up old cars in the garage downstairs, doing shit around the house at three, four, five o'clock in the morning. But lately, he's just gone. Which is more concerning.
I turn back to Red. "Let me guess: blonde, red lips, feathered wings?"
"The Angel of Death," Iggy mutters, taking a seat at the kitchen table, joining us.
"Nah. More like the Angel of My Salvation, bro. I can't get her out of my head." Red laughs, dropping his head on the table in exasperation, hands clasped behind his neck.
"Angel of Something, anyway. She's…"
I let the words trail off. It's impossible to change the subject; everything leads back to her.
Imogen's an enigma. I just want to crack her open and see what's inside. I want to know why she smiles constantly at everyone, but it's small and kinda sad. She's friendly with everybody but hasn’t made any real connections like the other girls do at the club. And when she dances, it's like no one else is in the room. She doesn't do it for anyone but herself, and I respect that shit.
But then she climbs off stage, and I watch her like a fucking creeper from the corner of the club, and she people-pleases like it's her job, hands always clasped politely, careful, graceful steps. Ophelia calls it the omega effect or the OFA cloak, and that shit's on point. Imogen wears the OFA cloak, and I've never seen her take it off.
I clear my throat and continue, "You have a thing for her?"
"Don't you? I could feel something through the bond, guys, I'm not fucking stupid. You never want to pull your hours at the club, and I had to practically pry you both away from there this past week. I'm assuming she's the reason."
I wince, and even Iggy looks guilty. Neither of us bother to deny it, so I counter, "She's an omega."
"Yeah, I know. We always said we'd never date one. Or court, or whatever. But this feels… I dunno. Different. We said that shit when we were younger. When we didn't think we could be any better than every other asshole alpha we'd met growing up. Then we met Roxy and her mates. And now Ophelia's packed up. We're not—"
The ceramic of Iggy's coffee mug shatters, leaving a brown stain streaking down the gray wall from the force of his throw, his chair knocked over on the old wood floor as he comes to a stand.
"A little dramatic Iggy?" I sigh. Motherfucker acts like a hormonal teen sometimes, can’t keep his emotions in check, and it comes out explosive. "I just fucking painted the kitchen last year. You're fixing that," I point at him with a glare.
He doesn't look or act contrite. Instead, he growls, "You know how I grew up. You know what alphas are capable of." He paces the small room, his scent shifting, panic lacing his natural cinnamon and red wine undertones, making them sour and pungent.
"Iggy, you're not your fathers."
He points at the wet coffee stain on the wall, as if to prove his point. "I don't know what I am, and I don't intend to find out. No. No omegas. No Imogen. I don't care if we have to sell the fucking club and move across the fucking state to get away from her." His words trail off as he shouts over his shoulder, storming his way upstairs to his room. It's the most he's said in a week.
"Well, at least he didn't say we should fire her," Red muses.
"Which is exactly why he should know he's nothing like his fathers. He'd rather move across the state than inconvenience or fire Imogen just 'cause he wants to fuck her."
"And the coffee cup? The Kelly brothers? May's Diner?" Red lists off times when Iggy had an irrational outburst of violence, only in the last two weeks. The coffee cup he just threw into the wall. The Kelly brothers he beat the shit out of—an alpha and a beta against just him—because one of them grabbed some girl's ass at a bar he was at. And he also roughed up some dick from the Hills who showed up at May's Diner trying to convince her to sell so he could put in a bid to the city for some highway development that would run through South Loop, effectively pushing the locals even further from downtown. Iggy happened to be there and made sure he wouldn't come back.
"Iggy's not violent."
Red's eyebrows lift high. I amend, "Iggy would never be violent toward a woman. He never has been, he never would be."
It's deeper than that, his fear of being with an omega. But Iggy's a little unpredictable, paired with his penchant for violence, makes him worry he'll take things too far. When he gets like this, it's either fight, fuck, or ride his motorcycle at death-defying speeds without his helmet.
He's not getting laid, that I know for sure. He's getting into fights, which is why he's out all night on his bike, prowling the streets, practically begging some asshole to step out of line.
What a clusterfuck. I sigh, scratching my fingers through my hair. "None of this matters, anyway, right? She works for us. Even if we think Iggy can trust himself not to hurt an omega, even if she was interested, even if we're less against the idea of courting someone, completing our pack…"
That language feels dangerously close to OFA propaganda, and I hate it. One of the reasons omegas are praised, so protected, and, therefore, sequestered away from the rest of society is because alphas believe they need an omega to be complete.
It's a lot of pressure for an omega, a big weight to carry.
"Right. She works for us. So. That's that. No Imogen."
"No Imogen."
We agree, but neither of us feels relieved. We go through the morning motions, eating breakfast, going over some business for the week. I clean up the coffee mess from Iggy, but I know by morning he'll have repainted the small dent in the wall he just made, and replaced the mug. I text him anyway, and tell him he's a dick. Calling him on his shit is important; helps keep him from falling down a rabbit hole of anger and shame, which always makes things worse. We address shit in our pack, we don't do secrets, and we don't let things fester.
He texts back, and we loop in Red, attempting to get back to our normal work schedules, where one of the three of us isn't hoarding time to be around Imogen. Jesus, I don't even know what the girl fucking looks like, and I'm in knots over her. This is ridiculous and has got to stop.
We just need to ride it out, let her get what she needs, whatever it is that brought her to Queenie's, and then she'll move on so we can all get back to normal.
I zip up my hoodie and head into the club. It must be Imogen's night off because I don't see her once. I even managed to convince myself I wasn't looking for her. I don't see her the next night, either, and it's irrational, but I start to worry. Is she okay? Does she live close by? Why isn't she here? I don't know if she shows up to work during Red's shifts or Iggy's, but a week later, on my next shift back at Queenie's, I do finally see her.
It takes fucking effort to pretend I don't notice her, and I tell myself it's none of my fucking business that she doesn't look well.
Her shoulders are slumped where she normally carries herself with the rigidity of a flagpole with perfect posture. I can’t see her face fully with that mask on, but I bet I’d find bags under her eyes. Her smile is slightly down-turned—still a ghost of her usual smile, but it’s sad and looks like it takes effort.
She is my employee, so it’s not out of line when I can’t help myself and mention it to Roxy. Having done my due diligence, I get back to work. But the whole rest of my shift, my mind continues to wander back to Imogen, and I worry that something's really fucking wrong.