3. Burying Head in Sand
Burying Head in Sand
Jessie
The brass bell above the front glass doors chimes as the three men step out into the afternoon heat.
The door swings shut, catching the latch with a soft click.
I drop the polite, customer-service smile.
I turn my back to the front windows and head straight for the hallway leading to the treatment rooms.
Out of sight, I exhale a long, shaky breath and brace both hands flat against the cool stainless steel of an exam table.
My knuckles turn bone-white against the metal.
I kept my cool, professional mask in place while those Alphas stood in my lobby, but now, the adrenaline crash hits me hard.
My knees shake under my cargo pants. I close my eyes and force air into my lungs, trying to steady my breathing.
My morning suppressant pill keeps my slick, sweet scent hidden from the world, but the drugs do nothing to dull my olfactory senses.
I smell everything. The moment those three men walked through the doors, my inner Omega jerkes awake.
The physical reaction hits me like a freight train.
I recognize the scent profile the second it washes over me.
The air inside the small building still hangs heavy with the rich, dark base note of ripe fig.
That specific aroma acts as the unmistakable signature of a bonded Alpha pack. It ties them together.
Interwoven with that grounding base are the distinct, individual undertones that make my head spin.
I catch the earthy bite of vetiver from the police officer.
The warm, dark spice of clove radiates from the massive guy in the work boots.
The comforting, steeped aroma of black tea lingers from the guy with the dark frames.
The combination creates a flawless, complementary scent match. It hits every single receptor in my brain. It acts as the ultimate Omega compatibility. Omegas spend their entire lives chasing this. Finding a perfect match guarantees a seamless Heat and a stable pack dynamic.
Instead of joy, a wave of unadulterated terror washes over me.
A scent match means instinctual demands.
It means an overwhelming, undeniable drive to submit, to be claimed, and to put down permanent roots.
My hard-wiring screams at me to run out into the parking lot and bare my neck.
The urge makes my skin crawl. Every survival instinct I developed bouncing through the foster system flares to life, warning me to run.
I learned a long time ago that attachments lead to vulnerability.
Relying on an Alpha pack means giving up the hard-won independence I built my entire career around.
I refuse to give up my power. I rely on myself.
I pay my bills, I drive my van, and I pack my bags the second things get complicated.
I spent years fighting tooth and nail to build a life where I answer to no one.
I refuse to let my nature dictate my future and turn me into a submissive housewife stuck in a small town.
Desperate to clear my head and burn off the panic, I push away from the exam table. I march down the hallway to the supply closet. I grab a heavy plastic scrub brush, a pair of thick yellow rubber gloves, and a gallon jug of industrial bleach.
Heading straight back to the kennel area, Duke left a mess of mud and loose golden fur all over the bottom run.
I throw myself into the physical labor. I dump a generous splash of thick bleach onto the linoleum floor of the enclosure.
The harsh, toxic chemical smell burns the inside of my nose.
I welcome the sting. It overrides the fig and spice, clouding my brain.
I pull the rubber gloves on, drop to my knees on the wet floor, and scrub the chain-link gate.
I put all my weight into the brush, attacking the dried mud on the bars.
The harsh bristles scrape against the metal, a loud, grounding noise in the empty clinic.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I scrub the floor tiles, working the stiff bristles into the grout until my shoulders burn and my arms ache.
I focus on the pain in my muscles. The burn in my biceps feels real and manageable.
I stay on the wet floor for over an hour, scrubbing every inch of the metal and plastic.
Eventually everything is clean. Standing up, I peel the yellow gloves off my sweaty hands and tossing them into the sink.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm.
I lean against the cinderblock wall, letting the cold surface pull the heat from my skin.
My hands still shake a bit, but the panic in my chest fades into a dull, manageable ache.
I survived the initial shock. I kept my mask on.
The guys don’t have a reason to come back here.
Now, I just need to lay low and avoid them.
Evening falls over Willowside, casting long, dark shadows across the gravel parking lot.
Finishing my clinic pharmacy inventory means counting the last bottle of antibiotics.
Before shutting the place down for the night, I step out the back door into the cool Colorado air.
The gravel crunches under my boots on the walk over to my van.
Unlocking the side door, I slide it open and grab a canvas tote bag from the front seat to raid my built-in mini-fridge.
Sliced turkey, a block of sharp cheddar, and a loaf of bread go into the bag.
Sleeping on strange mattresses gives me the creeps, so I strip my favorite soft sheets and a quilt off my memory foam bed.
Balancing the awkward pile of bedding and my groceries, I lock the heavy van door tight and haul the load back inside the brick building.
Double-checking the deadbolts on the back doors takes a second, followed by locking the medicine cabinets and flipping the switch for the main overhead lights.
The clinic plunges into darkness. Down here, the silence feels heavy, broken just by the hum of the air conditioner and the sterile sting of bleach still burning the inside of my nose.
Retreating up the narrow, creaky wooden stairs brings me to the second-floor apartment. The air up here feels stale, but a safe, solid barrier exists between me and the rest of the town.
Dropping the supplies on the retro kitchen counter, I turn just in time.
Winston greets me the second my boots hit the floor, letting out a soft, vibrating trill.
The tuxedo cat weaves around my legs, unbothered by the frantic, chaotic energy radiating off my skin.
Scooping him up hauls his warm weight against my chest.
Burying my face in his soft fur grounds me, and I take a deep breath. He always smells like fresh laundry. Running a hand down his spine reveals solid muscle and a smooth coat; he’s in perfect health.
Setting him down on the checkered linoleum floor, I grab a tin from my veterinary supply bag and pop the aluminum tab on a can of premium wet food.
The label lists beef hearts, liver, and organs as the primary ingredients.
Protecting his kidneys from failure requires a strict moisture-rich diet, so I scoop the rich, meat-heavy pate into his ceramic bowl.
Preventive medicine is my job, and Winston deserves the best. He dives in, purring a rough, heavy rumble between bites.
I make a plain turkey and cheese sandwich. Zero appetite plagues me, but forcing down the dry bites gives me the calories to keep my energy up.
Leaving the kitchen, I walk with my sandwich into the small living area and sit on the edge of the faded floral sofa. The vintage springs groan under my weight. Dust motes dance in the fading light filtering through the windows.
My eyes lock onto my suitcase. It sits zipped and ready next to the front door, right where I left it. The worn fabric bears patches and scuffs from dozens of state lines and temporary clinics.
The urge to grab that handle, carry it down the stairs, and throw it into the back of my van hits me hard.
It would mean crossing the state border by morning, finding a new clinic in a town without an Alpha pack waiting to ruin my life.
The flight response hums in my veins, demanding action.
Every time things got complicated in the foster system, packing my bags in the dark and vanishing kept me safe.
Gripping the edge of the sofa cushion, I force myself to stare at the blank wall and review the raw facts.
This contract lasts three months. Covering a staffing shortage means collecting a massive paycheck from the town board.
Keeping my head down, doing my job, and driving away when the time runs out remains my one plan.
Surviving far worse things than a pesky instinctual pull proves I can handle three months of avoidance.
Despite the logical pep talk, my mind betrays me. The quiet apartment gives my thoughts too much room to spin. As the last dry bite goes down, the afternoon replays frame by frame.
Jake standing at the laminate counter dominates my vision. His broad shoulders filled the space, projecting a calm, undeniable authority. The silver badge on his chest caught the light, but his warm, dark eyes held my attention, tracking my movements with a deep, unwavering interest.
Beside him, Edward’s solid, large frame offered a strange sense of comfort. He looked like a human mountain in those scuffed work boots. The deep, rumbling timber of his voice offering thanks still vibrates in my core. His wide chest and thick arms promised safety.
Nolan provided a quiet balance to the group. The capable way his hands handled the muddy golden retriever’s leash matched the intelligent look behind his dark frames. He watched me with a soft, steady focus, making a hot flush creep up my neck.
They looked at me with genuine fascination. That kind of undivided attention shouldn’t exist toward a boring Beta. Alphas don’t look at Betas like they hold the secrets to the universe.