Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Leif
Ihunch my shoulders and pull my baseball cap lower over my face as the men in the corner booth cast me another appraising stare.
I had asked for a table away from the window, but at this time of the morning, near the docks, getting a seat at all had been a miracle.
The plan had been to arrive and head straight for the water taxi pickup area, but I was paranoid about being late for my first day as a tutor/nanny at Misty Pines, and I arrived way ahead of schedule.
Not wanting to hang around out in the open, I had sought refuge in the diner nearest to the docks. I now sit wedged in a sticky booth in front of the bay window, my bag of lesson plans clutched to my side.
The waitress swings back by my table with a carafe of coffee. “Another top off?”
I check the time on my phone and weigh my caffeine shakes against having a valid reason to continue to take up space. “Yes, thank you.”
The toast I ordered to go with the coffee sits stacked in cold triangles on the plate beside my mug.
It didn’t come with butter, and the waitress never brought me the jam I requested to help it go down.
Ignoring it for the moment, I add several packets of creamer to my coffee to mask the burned flavor.
As I take a sip of the hot liquid, my phone buzzes on the Formica tabletop.
I check the screen, and my stomach curls into a knot.
Carson
Where are you?
He’s been sending me messages every twenty minutes since four in the morning. He must have gone by my apartment and seen that my car was missing. Did he spy the empty living room through the blinds in the front window? Or will it take him a few more days to realize I’m not coming back?
I ignore this message along with all the others and force myself to take a bite of the toast.
My courtship with Carson hadn’t lasted long. A month and a half in, I had realized what a red flag of an Alpha he was. Carson never yelled. He didn’t need to. He could make you feel small with a single calm sentence, the kind that sounded like advice until you realized it was an order.
Thank goodness I hadn’t gone into Heat while we were together.
He didn’t take being rejected well. When he tried to contest the termination with the Omega Registry, they flagged his file for harassment, something only obsessive Alphas risk. It should have ended there, but he keeps finding ways to reach me.
The three men at the counter are too loud for this early, voices thick with sleep and beer residue. They wear work jackets and thick denim, with beat-up leather boots.
The shorter one in the middle shoots me another glance, then leans into his buddy, murmuring into his ear.
I stir my coffee and ignore them.
A second buzz from my phone, followed by a third. He’s not letting it go.
Carson
When are you coming back?
You made me look like the bad guy.
Don’t ignore me, Leif.
We both know where this ends.
Really, how much is too much before it’s considered crossing the line?
I had met Carson at the school where we both worked, where he volunteered to be my mentor.
He liked to say he was shaping me into someone worthy of the profession.
Every compliment came with a correction, every correction with a touch.
In the beginning, I assumed that since we were both teachers, it meant we shared similar goals and values.
Boy, had I been wrong.
Carson isn’t one of those people who loves children and wants to nurture them to grow. He wants a degree so he can belittle them and prove how smart he is.
I reported him to the school board before leaving town last night, which I’m sure will go over real well. I can already envision the new slew of messages. At least he doesn’t know where I ran off to. I canceled my lease and left no forwarding address.
Good riddance.
And I learned my lesson about dating in the workplace. Never again.
I put the phone in my pocket and scan my lesson plans, looking for comfort in the order and logic of multiplication tables and spelling words.
I’ve got two weeks’ worth of activities mapped out for my new charge, Quinn Patel, color-coded by day and cross-referenced for attention span.
It’s all a waste of time. Kids can sniff out nerves faster than bloodhounds. But it helps calm my anxiety.
I need this job to pan out.
A loud cough draws my attention, and I glance up in time to catch the oldest of the three men rolling his broad shoulders and flexing. I muffle a snort and look away. No thank you.
The clock on the wall announces I’ve wasted enough time, and I raise my hand to catch the waitress’s attention.
She comes over with my bill as I put my papers back in my satchel.
When I stand, I almost knock over my coffee.
Righting it, I shoulder my bag as the three at the counter snicker, and one lets out a whistle.
Assholes.
I move to the register and pay fifteen dollars on the six-dollar tab for the inconvenience of hogging the space for so long without getting anything more expensive.
“Have a good one, hon,” the waitress says, softer now.
“You, too.”
At the door, I adjust my hat, the brim shadowing my eyes, and brace myself for the shift from greasy warmth to the hot morning air outside.
The breeze off the water brings brine and the distant funk of low tide. I keep my head down, focusing on the splintered boardwalk as I put distance between myself and the diner.
I make it a block before I hear the scrape and stomp of three pairs of boots keeping pace a dozen steps behind. My spine stiffens, and I quicken my pace, eyes on my destination.
The morning sun crests the scaffolding on a dry-docked ferry, turning everything to bleached shadow and glare. I can feel the men’s eyes on my back, the fine hairs on my nape rising.
I grip the strap of my satchel tighter and slip my hand into my pocket to wrap around the whistle I bought in case I lose my way on the island where I’ll be spending most of my time.
I shouldn’t have left my car at the docks and walked to the diner, but it was so close, and Pinecrest is so quaint, that I thought it would be safe.
“Hey,” one of the Alphas calls out, not quite a shout. “Big guy’s in a hurry.”
I ignore it and keep my eyes on the seawall ahead. Sometimes ignoring them works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
“Heard you order the whole grain,” another pipes up. “Is that why you’re so tall? Drink lots of milk growing up?”
More laughter, closer now.
Their boots scrape faster across the planks, and before I can cut left toward the parking lot, the short one slides in front of me.
He grins up at me with a mouth full of nicotine-stained teeth. “Got a light?”
“Don’t smoke.” I lengthen my stride, but he jogs to keep pace.
The larger one flanks my right. “You with the new resort? Lotta work going to out-of-towners.”
I pivot toward the parking lot, but the shorter Alpha cuts me off.
“What’s the rush? You shy?”
They crowd closer, and I resist the urge to cover my nose. The tang of last night’s cheap whiskey sweats out of their pores, but over it comes the abrasive stench of their pheromones.
The older one reaches out and knocks my hat off with a flick of his finger. It skitters across the planks, landing in a puddle of harbor water with a gasoline-rainbow shimmer on the surface. “Almost mistook you for a Beta. But that hair in the sunlight?” His tongue skims his bottom lip. “Omega.”
My pulse spikes. Three to one. I could take one. Two if I go fast and dirty. Three’s a gamble. And I can’t show up on my first day with bloody knuckles and a split lip.
They fan out into a half-circle, cutting off the boardwalk.
“Gonna get down on your knees and pick that up?” The short guy gestures at the hat.
Pulse pounding, I shake my head. No way am I lowering myself to the ground to give them an advantage. If I swing my bag, I could drive them back and run. They might let me go, but more likely, they’d chase. That’s part of the fun for guys like these.
They take one look at an Omega bigger than average, and some instinct in them demands they force me down, just to remind themselves they’re the dominant ones.
The biggest guy moves close enough for the stubble on his throat to catch the light. “Didn’t know Omegas came in linebacker sizes.”
He breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, trying to catch my scent, but he’ll find nothing. Blockers work, at least until they sweat off.
My hand tightens on my satchel strap, my options dwindling.
The whine of a diesel engine cuts through the call of seagulls, and I turn in time to spot a battered but well-kept truck rumble to a stop by the curb. The engine dies, and the door flies open hard enough to bounce off the hinges.
A woman hops out, taller than me, which doesn’t happen often, with hair like cut steel and a hard scowl on what would otherwise be a pretty face.
She swings a crowbar out of the cab and lets it rest on one broad shoulder as she walks. Her heavy boots echo on the boardwalk as she strides straight toward me and my would-be welcoming committee.
The three men break formation, their bravado crumpling under her hard stare.
The short guy fakes a laugh. “Just having a chat, Em. No harm meant.”
Eyes flat as slate settle on him. “Didn’t look like a friendly chat.”
Big guy holds up both hands, mock surrender. “No trouble here. Right, boys?”
The older guy is already backing away, hands buried in his jacket, head down.
She ignores them and turns to me. “You okay?”
I nod, not trusting my mouth to form anything convincing.
She bends and picks up my hat, now with an oil smudge decorating the crown. She wipes it with the hem of her shirt and holds it out.
For a split second, I want to leave it, a casualty of the morning. But she’s waiting, so I take it and jam it back on my head. “Thanks.”