Chapter Two
Izzy
*Swoop*
The assigned message alert sounds from my cell.
“I’ll need to put you on hold while I research the answer to your question,” I inform the screaming octogenarian on the other end of the line and hit the hold button on my headset.
The guy needs to cool off anyway. Who gets that mad over credit card points?
Popping open the message, I silence my notifications and read Mason’s text with a grin.
Chuckling, I envision him leaning against a wall with that handsome, long face in a mischievous smirk while I reply.
It’s all in good fun. In the last few days, I’ve had time to come to the realization that I still need Brad. If I want to escape the Admin, I need a willing Alpha with enough status and resources.
I’ll have to swallow my pride and let other people swallow Brad.
The man in question has also been messaging me constantly, although I mostly leave him on read until I feel like he’s stressed enough by my lack of reply.
I’ve told him he needs to earn me back and left it to him to decide how best to do that.
And my mom... how she found out is beyond me. I’m convinced she pays a PI to follow me. I can’t take another lecture about what the Admin will do.
I’m not going back to Brad without a concrete commitment. I want him to claim me in a way that he can’t escape without repercussions. I’ve been turning over ideas for three days to figure out how to push him into giving me a mate bite or a diamond ring—preferably both.
And I might have even been a bit remorseful for using Wyatt, Vinson, and LaMille. I’m sure they’re catching hell.
Mason doesn’t seem to mind, though, and keeps on not minding every few hours.
I bark out a laugh.
I open the privacy tab on my phone’s browser, search for “bikini pic,” and screenshot the most extreme option. After cropping the image down, I add it to the message and hit “Send.”
The headset beeps in my ear before his reply. I click to the guy obsessed with correctly accounting for his credit card miles.
“I’m going to need one more minute,” I say.
He gets out a, “Wait—” before I punch the hold button again.
Despite how much I hate working here, I click the correct window and search for a resolution to the guy’s issue in the answer bank.
The job’s easy, and there are eight different companies in the system so it isn’t as monotonous as a lot of other call centers, but it’s soul draining. I’m always able to make my quota, though, and have qualified for the bonuses twice.
Omegas naturally want to appease people and read intonationsor whatever, so awful customer service jobs are a surprisingly good fit for our “talents.”
Those talents being, of course, humoring egotistical alphas who want a woman barefoot and preggo. Silent and sexual. I used to enjoy caring for my family, but none of the guys I’ve met socially are worthy of that kind of attention.
No, thank you. One Brad is enough for me.
My heats suck with just one alpha, but it’s better than the alternative with the Admin.
It’s also better having one alpha than none, which is what I had before Brad. He’s covered them twice and I survived.
When I pick up the call on hold, the guy is still screaming, so I punch the hold button again.
If I had the stomach, I’d suck it up and submit to the Admin. Sure, I’d be forced into a life of homebodied subservience, lose all independence and individuality, have to undergo invasive testing and monitoring given my age and hidden status, have every aspect of my life become tightly controlled and be stripped of even the choice of who I spend it with...
Deep breaths, Izzy.
...but perhaps I’d find a pack I could cope with and drop the dead-end jobs for good?
Without knowing where on the continuum I’ll end up, it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. I trust myself above Big Alpha.
The Admin wants to force every omega into the system, which is why my suppressants are so incredibly expensive. They don’t want us to take them. They pretend they’re bad for us, but I’ve been on them for easily a decade and have only one or two heats a year.
I’m perfectly fine.
The job covers the pills, my car, and a grocery share with Jolie, and even leaves some left over to sock away. My bestie doesn’t expect me to fill the fridge, but I still stuff twenties into the tin for our household expenses.
There’s also the fact that I can’t normally stay in one place for too long. People grow suspicious, and hourly work is easier to replace if I need to skip a week or four suddenly or have to escape and not look back.
I’m not so great with consistency anyway.
The screen on my phone lights up with three waiting messages.
He knows I won’t. That’s why he asks. He wants me to shoot him down.
My headset beeps. I peck a few buttons on the computer screen and pick the call back up.
“Yes, Mr. Dennie? I’ve submitted a ticket with your concerns. I’m afraid I’m unable to resolve it for you. It needs to be handled by the IT team.... I can transfer you to a manager, but the wait is currently”—I pause for dramatic effect—”46 minutes.”
Was it actually 46 minutes? Hell no. We don’t keep track of that. But it wasn’t gonna help the guy any more than I could and there’s no sense bothering a TM about something they can’t fix.
“And, again, my manager won’t be able to resolve the issue for you either. It needs to be handled by the support team. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you. If you’d like, I can follow up on your ticket personally. Yes, I’d be happy to do that. I understand how upsetting this must be.”
Another minute of coddling and the guy hangs up with profuse appreciation. I set a reminder to check on the ticket in the morning.
Another hour inches by until my shift finally ends. I don’t text Mason back, mostly because I know the flirting session has run its course. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few hours with another outrageous claim, another clearly fake dick pic, another rejection.
It’s a fun, harmless distraction. If I have to let Brad sorta-cheat, then silly messages are no comparison.
A brisk drive home with the windows down soaks cool air into my skin and imbues me with a last burst of energy.
The apartment I share with Jolie is hardly even a one bedroom. My beta bestie’s “room” is a curtained alcove that fits a queen bed and one low barstool for a nightstand. We share the closet and I sleep on the pull-out, although most nights I don’t bother and crash on the couch as it is.
Joline, Jolie, my decades-long best friend, is the only person I’ve willingly chosen to tell about my omega status. Every other person has been because of some kind of O-related necessity.
Paprika and peppers make my mouth water when I come through the door. She’s making my favorite, chicken fajitas, which makes me wary.
Her boyfriend called me weeks ago to help pick out her engagement ring and I’ve dutifully kept it quiet. I collapse onto the couch and try to calm my nerves.
It’s only a matter of time. I have enough saved up that I can afford to sublease the apartment for a few months until I convince Brad to take me in.
My phone screen flashes a notification.
Rolling my eyes, I find precisely what I’m looking for in the privacy tab and send it off.
These have nipple bars. He’s going to love it.
Jolie, her own phone in her hand and a smile on her face, moves the pan to a trivet at the dining table. I add plates and silverware while waiting for his response.
I snort at that and take my seat across from my best friend. He’s lucky Wyatt kept Brad restrained or that might have been a reality.
Jolie finishes tossing dressing on the salad and adds it to the table before sitting down. She’s also fiddling with her phone so I don’t feel so bad for playing with Mason.
I snicker. He doesn’t know how right he is.
Betas can take a knot if they work at it, but a lot of omegas need them to be satisfied. Both designations need a certain amount of time to, uh, release from a knot safely. Yet another reason why I’ve always gravitated toward athletes—so many alphas collected in one easy-to-find location and they’re used to betas open to knotting.
“Still texting with Mason?” Jolie asks.
“It’s only a bit of fun,” I reply as I snap a “before” pick for my Ch@ter and Cl!ck accounts. Later, when we’ve demolished the food, I’ll take a funny after photo to post.
“You need someone long-term, Izzy. You need a pack.”
“I’m working on it,” I reply sourly.
“Are you? Or are you wasting time on a fuckboy?”
“I’m an excellent multitasker.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Brad would be perfectly fine with you sexting the guy he wants to beat to a pulp.”
“Brad has plenty of groveling to take up his time with.”
She lets the conversation drop at that. We eat in an awkward silence, with me stewing in her words and her not knowing how to handle my sulking.
“You know that I love you, right?” Jolie says.
“I love you too.”
She sucks in a breath and steels her face.
Shit.Here it is. At the worst possible time.
“Dean asked me to marry him.”
Oof.Not a shred of excitement there. Did it go bad?
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Jolie, I’ll be fine. You didn’t tell him no because of me, did you?”
“I told him yes.”
“You told him yes?”
She grins and nods.
“You told him yes!” I shriek and jump to my feet. Plates rattle when I slap my hands onto the table.
“I told him yes!” she repeats. Her sharp bob flies as she does the same.
We each rush around the table and crash into a mangled knot of trapped limbs.
Joline Carroll is not a crier, never has been, but she’s bawling big, heavy, happy tears that stream down her face and soak my shoulders.
“Hey there, missus!” I tell her as we sway side to side, locked in our embrace. “You have to tell me everything. How did he do it? Where is the ring?”
Jolie regales me of every last detail. Her ring is being sized, but otherwise her afternoon was the definition of perfect.
The fajitas become thoroughly picked over and the pan grows cold to the touch.
“Wait, why were you so tentative when you told me?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to upset you. You know, because of Brad.”
“Eh, don’t worry about Brad. I’m figuring it out.”
“I know you will, Izzy. You always do. And also, there’s one other thing.”
“Yes, I will absolutely be your maid of honor.”
“No—I mean, yes, obviously, but that’s not what I mean. I do have some bad news.”
“Whatever it is, we can handle it.”
She squares her shoulders and collects her thoughts.
“I’m letting go of the apartment. It doesn’t make sense to renew for another year. It’ll mean I can save up some money for the wedding.”
“Sounds like a great plan. I’ve got a little tucked away. I can sublet from you for at least a few months.”
“That’s not what I mean. My lease expires in two weeks. Nine days, actually. Dean’s gonna pay the break fee for not renewing right before the new term. We’re ready to start our lives together.”
“Oh,” I say, and it sets in that in less than two weeks I’ll no longer be living with my best friend.
We’ve been roommates for years in this apartment. The idea of staying here without her suddenly stings.
And then I realize.
In nine days, I have to be out of the apartment too.
And without Brad to catch me, I’ve got a sharp, short fall to a hard landing on concrete.
* * *
Once Jolie is safely ensconced in her “room,” I give her an excuse about running to the store for desk snacks and disappear.
Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely over the moon for her. They’ve been dating for two years and she’s noticeably happier with him. It’s this strange contentment, like she’s emotionally lighter despite the heaviness of being in a relationship. Things don’t seem to affect her as much.
I suppose puppy love will do that.
And I seriously consider blocking each and every member of my family on all my social media and in my contacts.
Three messages are waiting for me on unread. It’s like my dads sense when I’m upset. As nice as it is to have them, I know what they’ll think as they listen to my woe is me.
If you finish your degree, you’ll be able to afford an apartment.
It’s vital to secure a bond immediately. You’re 28, Iz. Enough is enough.
We’ll clear out the basement room. You’re coming home.
I can’t handle the conflicting reprimands right now.
Leon’s voice is in my head, drilling again and again that no one should know my status at all. He thinks I’ve committed myself to Brad through disclosure.
Just because Brad can protect me doesn’t mean I should beg at his feet.
I’ve never been in love, never had anyone tell me they love me outside of blood relatives and Jolie, and probably never will. Brad’s a means to my own happiness, not “ours.”
Most omegas don’t find a “happily ever after” anyway. My parents are an exception—as they constantly tell me.
Love is for betas and books.
My siblings, all betas spread across the map, are allowed to be picky.
I am only my status to the Admin, a body to the alphas, and a chit to society writ large.
Which is all just as well because most people don’t like me anyway. When you’ve been raised on paranoia, it’s hard to build lasting, trusting friendships.
The crowd at Fluke’s is thin for a Wednesday. When I shoulder through the squealing door, no one so much as looks up to see who’s come in.
A small group of college kids are playing darts and huddled in a group on the other side of the room. There’s also a pair at a high top, and a single abandoned stout glass waits at the bar for an owner unlikely to return.
Disappointment seeps into my thoughts. I need air. Some energy. Something to fill this chink in my armor after Jolie dropped our living situation on me.
Being in the apartment is a reminder of what’s lost and what’s coming, and I don’t want to be there.
When I slide onto the stool—several seats away from the abandoned glass as a precaution—Dane, the bartender, delivers my usual beer of choice and offers me a menu.
My stomach doesn’t need a second dinner and I shouldn’t pay for pub food. I need to save every penny I can. The only places I can afford a first-last-security on will be crumbling studios with a fifth floor walk-up.
But, hey, that means I won’t have to tag onto Jolie’s gym membership anymore.
“My ass is going to look amazing,” I mutter to myself as I sip on the beer. Dane only raises an eyebrow while dusting the bottles that line the mirrored wall behind him.
“Inside joke, you wouldn’t understand,” I tell him.
“This is an inside joke with yourself?”
“I’m great company.” I give him a cheeky grin.
That’s it, Izzy. Turn it on. Everything will be fine.
He tosses his towel onto the drink well and leans on the bar with crossed arms. “You good, Izzy?”
Critical fail.
“Never better.”
“You caused quite the scene on Sunday.”
“You’re welcome. Does the entertainment get a staff meal?”
Dane considers me for a moment. He’s been the barkeep at Fluke’s longer than I’ve been coming.
“Sure,” he says.
“Then I’ll have what they’re having.”
He delivers a definitive nod, scribbles gibberish onto a pad, and stabs the ticket onto a metal spike near the pass through.
My phone swoops the assigned sound in my pocket, but I don’t have the energy for Mason. He kicks off horny golden retriever energy so hard.
A bit of flirting would renew my spirits, but Mason won’t want to merely flirt this late at night. He’s usually at invitations within a handful of texts.
And there’s no one here for me to meet with. No one to talk to. There’s no one except Dane to smile for and have them smile back, and he’s disqualified. I don’t shit where I sleep.
Sulking, and to pass the time, I set up a half dozen new emails and create user names for Brad’s favorite fantasy hockey league site. It lets you rate and review the players, and I know from personal experience that Brad checks his rank and rating several times a day.
So, of course, my first step is to up-rate Wyatt, Vinson, and LaMille and down-vote Brad. It’s no effort at all to post several varying takedowns of Brad’s modest stickhandling, heavy skating, and lack of on-ice focus last season.
To give the accounts more legitimacy, I have them engage with each other and then with other users regarding various players and games.
Addevale’s star captain could use humbling. I only wish I could be there when he opens the app. His face is gonna be fucking hilarious.
Another two accounts and a fun exchange with someone about the Century City Leafs’ season prospects pass by before Dane sets a double cheeseburger, a pile of fries, and a slice of cheesecake in front of me.
“This isn’t a staff meal,” I say.
“Entertainment gets special treatment.”
“I didn’t ask you to do this.”
“Stop bein’ pissy about how I feed my staff. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”
This, friends, is why you never jeopardize a sanctuary.
“No need to be rude,” I reply with a wink.
He harrumphs but then exchanges the abandoned stout glass for a freshly poured one.
Bobby Vinson emerges from the crowd of college kids and finds his way back to his beer at the bar.
The man’s deep, mahogany eyes skim over me and quickly avert, which is just as well. I probably look unhinged, desperately scanning the room and cackling at my phone.
Still, he doesn’t acknowledge me when he sits, which hurts for some reason.
Who am I kidding? I full-on made out with this man a few days ago and he’s acting like I don’t exist.
“Thanks for the fresh one, Dane,” he says.
“Thanks for humoring ‘em. You know we’ll treat you and the rest of the team special. We’re Cannons through and through, and you’re good for business.”
Vinson chuckles. “I guess we are. The one time fame comes in handy.”
I realize I’m staring and pivot back to my free-burger, but it’s hard not to watch him from the corner of my eye.
Every now and then, he glances over and then pretends he hasn’t. He does it a handful of obvious times while I pick at my food. I don’t finish off the burger but I make a good dent.
The cheesecake is sharp and sweet on my tongue. I savor every bite and lick the fork clean for Vinson’s enjoyment.
He shakes his head but doesn’t comment.
I smile, stretch, and enjoy his image in the mirror behind the bar while he watches me do it.
See, I’m fucking hot and I know it.None of this mopey shit anymore. Jolie is moving on and I should too.
If only I could figure out a way to make the next stop be Brad.
Unless . . .
Abandoning my half-eaten dinner, I gracefully shift off the bar stool and strut the five or so feet to where the Cannons’ star goalie is watching me like he’s both excited and terrified I’m coming over.
My favorite red heels clack on the wooden floorboards, the cadence building my confidence with each step.
I am fire.
I am a goddess.
I am not sleeping with this man, no matter how tempting.
My shoulders are back and my head is held high because if there’s one thing I’m good at, its playing fake it ‘til I make it.
Maybe I can convince him to flirt. Buy me a drink. Do something that will lift my spirits.
That is, if I can get past the specter of Brad. I don’t know where Vin stands on my former fling-cum-boyfriend.
I hook a heel on a stool’s metal rung and then lounge backward on the seat. It means I can lean my elbows behind me on the bar, flip my hair, and emphasize my boobs.
“Surprised to see you here without the team,” I say.
“I could say the same.”
His voice has this deep, raspy richness to it, like each word costs him. A pact for his soul in exchange for sounding like an eloquent Vin Diesel. When he first joined the team, I’d watched his interviews on repeat.
Getting to kiss him was certainly on my bingo card. Once Brad showed an interest, I’d assumed it was off the table.
And there are no regrets about that kiss.
Once he got past the shock of it, there was something so vulnerable about it. He didn’t attack like LaMille or surround me like Wyatt. Not that there’s anything wrong with either. They were both amazing in their own ways.
But the way Bobby Vinson kissed me... I’d almost think he’d been waiting to. He had no expectations. He didn’t push or pull. He met me in the middle, and it led to this strange sensation of helplessness that I hadn’t fully digested until right now, in the worst possible moment.
Collect yourself, Iz. You get to flirt with Bobby Vinson!
“No?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. I got lost in my head. What?”
He smirks, and dark hair falls from behind his ear into his face. “I asked if you wanted to sit with me. Is your mind so twisted it’s easy to lose your way?”
“A lot of empty space up here.”
“Boxes with cobwebs making it hard to navigate?”
“You too, eh?”
“All the time. I know I shouldn’t ask again, it was impulsive the first time, but do you want to have dinner with me?”
This is going better than I thought it would.
The plates are easy enough to move, especially since I’m mostly done.
Dane sets another plate—this one with a pressed sandwich and a salad—in front of my new dinner companion.
“You both good?” he asks and examines us carefully.
“All good, D,” I reply.
Vin adds his own nod, and the bartender returns to wiping dust off of bottles.
“How was practice?” I ask. I keep the tone light, but I’m sure they’ve been catching whatever shit Brad is flinging when I ignore his messages.
“Good. Making progress. Preseason is mostly about learning to move as a team. New people, old people, rusty skills.”
“How much flak are you getting from Brad?”
“Eh, don’t worry about it. We can handle his big feelings. That’s what the pads are for.”
I chuckle. “He does like to tantrum, doesn’t he?”
“He’s very experienced at it.”
“Well, I’m sorry all the same.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He tilts his head to smile at me, and I tuck the errant lock of hair behind his ear before I can think better of it.
Our eyes meet, and I can see it as if we’re joined that he’s thinking about the kiss.
Moments pass while we relive the twenty seconds that changed everything.
I hadn’t realized it had until now.
Because I want to kiss him again so very much.
I can’t. Shouldn’t. Brad won’t like it.
My brain whirls while I do the mental calculations to see if Vin would be enough for the Admin.
But of course he won’t. He’s a beta. Even the star goalie of the hockey league isn’t enough if he isn’t an alpha.
The thought stutters my trilling heart rate. I break the eye contact and return to picking at the fries.
“Where’d you just go?” he asks.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I . . . Er, what?”
“Literally don’t mention it. I’ll admit I was hoping to flirt with you when I came over, but now that we’re here it feels wrong. So, don’t mention last week. Please?”
“I’m sorry if I was inappropriate.”
“You weren’t. I was. In fact, I should go.”
“No, wait. Izzy—”
I’m already on my feet before he can react. I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Wait,” he says again and chases after me. He snags my arm before I can make it to the door.
“Where’d you just go?” he asks for the second time. “Where are you going?”
“Home, I guess.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Exactly what the question implies.”
“Do you always talk in circles?”
“I don’t need to with most people. Tell me what’s actually going on.”
I glance at him, then the half-eaten burger, and then my former seat across the bar, and the empty room spins in my head. By the time I’m back to him, tears are welling up in my eyes.
Vin doesn’t question it; he springs into action. He tosses a few twenties on the bar top and ushers me out the door.