11. Twenty-six
Twenty-six
Taryn
My morning downtown had me so amped up that I went on a productivity spree around the apartment. I gathered all the laundry that I’d promised Brea I would do and lugged it up to the shared laundry room on the third floor.
And that stack of mail on the counter? Sorted! A bank statement I ignored—we’d opted for paperless three times, yet still they came in paper too; a pamphlet about some new clinical trials for expectant omega mothers; an ad for singles night at a ritzy new bar a few blocks away; weekly coupon pages.
Junk, junk, junk. Into the bin, you go!
Counters—wiped! Dishes—washed! I even went into my one-day-gonna-be-a-nest and did some sketches. Maybe we could sit down tonight and do some cozy-goody ordering.
My phone timer interrupted my sketching, and I jogged back up the stairs to fetch the laundry—Lin had sprung for a fancy washer-dryer combo machine so loads didn’t have to be switched—and bring it back down to the apartment.
Sweat rolled down my spine as I overturned the huge basket and dumped the mound of clothes onto the bed.
You’re a badass bitch, motherfucking queen of doing the things!
I looked around the half-cleaned apartment, then at the veritable mountain of clean clothes before me.
But I was now hot, and tired, and the effects of the climbing up and down and up and down stairs, and the sunny June morning march were finally rearing up like an angry stallion.
I wanted nothing more than a tall glass of water and a few minutes off my feet.
Seeing as the bed was unavailable—and, okay, yes, the couch was covered in the last remnants of my unpacking chaos, which had escaped my productivity whirlwind—I lay splat onto the rug at the foot of the bed with a heavy sigh.
Baby steps, baby steps.
I wished I could harness the kind of organization and discipline Brea had.
Seriously, it would be nice to just… be able to hang up my clothes so I could find what I wanted when I wanted it.
Or sort through my books and movies and file them alphabetically or by genre or whatever so that it wasn’t a constant mining expedition anytime I wanted a particular one.
In our last place, after I’d spent days looking for a specific bracelet in my various trinket and jewelry boxes, through all my bedroom and bathroom drawers, under the bed, on every windowsill, behind my computer on the desk, through all my favored (and unfavored) bags, I’d vented to Brea about it.
How badly I wanted my brain to just do, to feel on top of my own shit for once.
She’d smiled, and traced her finger down my face, and told me she loved how my brain worked.
Your chaotic brain means you grew up with the space to be chaotic, she’d whispered with emotion behind her words. I wouldn’t want you any other way.
(I’d eventually found the bracelet hiding in the pocket of some jeans I hadn’t worn in years. Go figure.)
Still, I was trying harder. Maybe Brea loved my chaotic brain, but she shouldn’t have to live in the physical manifestation of that chaos.
“Okay,” I said aloud through a sigh. “Get up, Taryn. Fold the damn clothes.”
My body remained immobile.
“On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”
Nope. Nothing.
Fucking hell.
I lay there, unmoving, long enough to count to three a dozen more times.
Frustrated tears leaked from my eyes down my temples, dropping silently onto the rug beneath me.
Brea would tell me to be kind to myself.
Chaotic brains aside, omegas were prone to overexertion, dehydration, and fatigue. It had been an eventful day, after all.
Even as I imagined her coming home to the explosion of Taryn mid-cleaning and mid-organization, telling me how proud and impressed she was even as we dumped our clean clothes into a corner so we could actually climb into bed, guilt niggled at me.
Trick your brain, Taryn.
The corner of my mouth twitched up. Thanks, Imaginary Brea.
I was thirsty again. I’d need to sit up to drink. Just like that, I rose. I brought my water to my lips with one hand and leaned back on the other as I drained it. Setting aside the glass, I looked around, searching for a way to trick my brain into standing.
A fresh bead of sweat trailed down my spine. Anxiety also contributed to overexertion of omegas. I looked toward the wall of windows, watching the slow-moving late afternoon cloud cover. The heat of the day had passed. Some fresh air in the apartment would be nice, even warmish mid-June air.
“All right, here we go, ladies and gents,” I said to the empty room. “One…two…three.” The moment I was on my feet, I did a little leap of joy, punching my fist through the air.
Take that, chaos brain!
I sashayed to the windows, my face broken into a wide grin, and slid over the lock before pushing the pane up.
Or trying to. The window didn’t move.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I gave the window frame another mighty push, but it didn’t move.
Didn’t so much as wiggle in its frame. Taking a step back, I looked around the windows.
The dark wood grain had been stained but not painted, so they couldn’t be sealed from that.
There were no other nails or anything to indicate it had been purposefully sealed.
Nope, the fucker was just stuck.
That wouldn’t do. I was a badass bitch. A motherfucking queen of doing the things. And I would have some motherfucking fresh air in my motherfucking apartment.
I was out the door before I’d even registered a decision made and taking the central stairs two at a time to the top floor. Because what was a landlord for if not to force open the windows in my apartment?
Landlord. That anti-omega landlord who can barely look at you without cringing.
Well, things were about to be awkward, because I was getting those windows open by hook or by crook.
Or maybe Lin was home today. Home and willing to have a pre-date mini-date to do some building maintenance.
The top floor opened to a small landing with two doors. The one on the left stood slightly ajar, enough for me to see a sizeable utility and storage space. Which left the door on the right as the men’s apartment.
Focused on the mission, I marched up to it and gave a strong series of knocks. I waited, but no one came. Another knock. Another minute. No response. I was on the cusp of retreating downstairs when I caught the faint whiff of orange and cinnamon through the door.
Caine’s scent. I sighed.
Well, Friday’s only two sleeps away, at least.
“I can hear you brooding in there,” I called out as I banged my fist on the door again. “ Helloooo! Tenant in need here!”
The door swung open so quickly I nearly punched the angry alpha in the fucking face. Caine stepped back out of the line of fire, the scowl he’d been wearing already deepening with agitation. He didn’t even need to growl the “What?” to make my head snap downward so fast I cracked my neck.
At the end of the day, he was an alpha, and I was an omega, and my goddamned biology sometimes got the best of me.
Raising my eyes back to meet his, I clasped my hands in front of me and hoped the color in my cheeks wasn’t too noticeable. “My, uh, window is stuck,” I said in a much quieter voice than I’d anticipated. “Need it unstuck.”
He didn’t move. “It’s June.”
“Did the windows union negotiate for summers off?”
Caine gave me a long blink, then another. “What?”
My eyelids fluttered as I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. I just mean I want to open the window, and it won’t open, and that seems like something a landlord is supposed to attend to.” A beat of silence. “So…if you could attend, that would be great.”
A low growl rumbled from the back of Caine’s throat just before he brushed past me and crossed to the other door on the landing. Moments later, he emerged with a toolbox, not waiting for me as he descended the stairs. He paused momentarily as he entered my apartment.
“Which?” he asked with curt nod toward the wall of windows.
I crossed my arms. “All.”
He scoffed. “Come on.”
“ All. ” Hell, I’d only wanted to open one, just wanted a bit of a breeze.
But if he wanted to be a dick about it, then he could spend all afternoon fixing my unopenable windows for all I cared.
So as Caine silently, sullenly, set to work on the first of the five windows, I stood at the end of the bed, watching, idly folding.
Within an hour, my clothes were folded—not the perfectly even folds Brea always produced, but certainly neater than the lumps they’d been—and I set about loading them into drawers. As I moved to scoot past Caine toward the dresser, he stiffened, swallowing hard and turning his face away from me.
Blood rushed to my cheeks in anger this time, not embarrassment.
I'd tried to give him the benefit of the doubt about our first meeting, especially after Lin and Brooks vouched for him. They were awesome—how bad could Caine be if they were pack? Yet everything about every interaction we’d had thus far made that harder and harder to do.
I shoved my clothes into the drawer and slammed it closed. Hard enough, apparently, for Caine to actually look my way and note my anger for the first time. He clenched his jaw. “I’m doing the damn things, all right?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
I moved past him, holding my breath to avoid his stupid delectable citrusy scent as I fixed myself another glass of water.
I leaned my hip against the counter, watching as Caine finally slid the first window up and open.
He maneuvered it up and down a few times, sanding a spot to make it move silently, before moving to the second.
He paused before starting it, turning to glance at me again, as though hoping I’d let him off the hook.
Fat chance, dick.
“All, please.”