Chapter 3
I ignore the buzzing on my phone that tells me I've forgotten something important.
It's not for Lauren's calendar, or a call for her private line, so I'm sure it will be fine.
It doesn't stop.
Ugh. Fine.
I slip it from my pocket and peek at the alerts.
Surprisingly, it isn't the normal barrage of calls from unknown numbers that inevitably turns out to be either stalkers, desperate unknowns or their agents trying to pitch their next big flop, or overenthusiastic fans.
All eleven—eleven!—of the alerts are from the Heatseekers app—after we've got the booking squared away, and I've given Pack X my personal number.
All of those alerts seem to be suggesting we check out different packs for her upcoming heat, even though we have already completed the booking process through the sodding app.
According to some of the more aggressively worded alerts, the plethora of the best of the best heat support packs who will be in LA when her heat is due—both locals and packs who are in LA seasonally, because apparently that's a thing—will give her an "unforgettable experience.
" That's an… optimistic claim, considering what happens to our mental clarity and how patchy just about every omega's memory gets during heats.
I mute the app, irritation rolling off me, and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
My stomach pinches angrily. Shit. It's nearly five and I haven't had time to eat yet today… but if I have time to notice that, I'm clearly not busy enough. Of all the things I can let go through to the keeper, something stupid like stuffing my face is probably the least disruptive.
Lauren's sitting, swathed in an ethereal glow from the ring lights.
Rosie Alvarez, the interviewer most starlets would run away from in terror, seems to be in awe of her.
Lauren exudes that perfect omega warmth and comfort.
On camera, at least, she's a far cry now from the girl I knew at the run-down high school on the dodgy side of an Australian backwater town that pretends to be a city.
But while she wears the mask of sophistication and a vintage strapless Dior gown, her warmth never falters underneath.
It's why she's renowned for playing the perfect sympathetic villainess omega.
The one with the sparkling green eyes and winning smile, who destroys packs on screen, ripping the heroines from their fated mates, while still winning the hearts of the audience.
She's the one who makes those god-awful plots believable, those scripts that would be over in ten minutes if the main characters could have a simple conversation, who saves those dull, predictable scripts and turns them into award winners.
"… I'm just grateful to get the opportunity to mentor other unmated omegas in this industry.
My mentors helped me get started, and at thirty-seven, I've had lots of learnings, and I'm glad I can share them.
Pay it forward, so to speak." As her words filter through the hum of the lights, I can hear the strain threatening the composure in her voice.
Lauren's buttery thick scent of coconut and gardenia wafts towards me.
Shit.
I make a "wrap it up" gesture at Rosie, who nods briefly. She talks for a few more moments; then the cameras sag and the lights dim, and Rosie stands and shakes Lauren's hand. Lauren dimples her thanks at Rosie, stands, and turns towards me. I quickly usher her down the hallway.
I hate this part of the building. Someone decided that guests would need mirrors before they went into their interviews, so they lined the hallway with more mirrors than your average funhouse.
It's hard not to notice the contrast between us as I guide her through the corridor.
Even though she's clearly wrecked, she still holds her body with easy poise, her hourglass physique filling the vintage gown perfectly, whereas the flustered, flushed, squidgy figure next to her, with pallid skin and messy dull brown hair and wrinkly, badly fitting clothes…
Ugh. Mind on the job, Dellie. Focus on what matters.
I feel a little surge of relief as I guide her into the dressing room and shut the door.
She sighs, and sags against the wall.
"Fuck. I thought that was never going to end." She winces and slides down the wall, sitting on the floor, the elegant ball gown pooling around her thighs.
I crouch down next to her, careful not to step on the gown, and stroke her hair.
"You've done so good, Loz. Last interview is all done.
Ruby's delivering the last of your nesting materials tomorrow, and your heat supporters are coming in three days.
You stop suppressants on Tuesday when your pack gets here.
Then you don't have to think about anything else for the next three weeks. "
She nuzzles her head into my hand. Lauren has always been super tactile, even for an omega, but with her heat approaching and no regular affectionate pack contact, she's become increasingly touch-starved.
Neither of us are particularly into female omegas per se, but the warmth of a hug borne of true friendship seems to help soothe her omega, even in the face of her impending heat.
I pull her into my arms and enfold her in a gentle hug, my cheek pressing into her long, golden waves. She almost melts into my chest.
"Oh, babes. I needed that. Thanks," she murmurs into my chest, resting her forehead against the crook of my neck.
I let my arms drop against my sides as she sniffs loudly twice, then pulls out of the hug, glaring at me.
"Babes. Be honest with me. You've been putting off your own heat, haven't you." It's not a question.
My gaze slides off her face momentarily as I shrug. She frowns at me. "Dellie. You know how much I enjoy a game of funny buggers. But you haven't told me the truth, have you? Now spill."
They say it's alphas that bark, but I've never met anyone whose instructions are more compelling than Lauren's when she's on a tear.
"Well…"
Lauren sighs. "You smell like a bunch of freesias fell into a vat of preservatives. When was your last heat, anyway?"
I curse inwardly. "Uh. Um…"
Lauren rolls her eyes. "For fuck's sake, Dellie.
Don't beat around the fucking bush… oh." She pauses, frowning, and silently counting on her fingers.
"Oh, fucking hell, Dellie. You were supposed to go on heat leave in…
June, weren't you? But then those fucking photos leaked the week before you were booked to go… "
"Mmmm-hmmm." I look away.
Lauren leans her head back against the wall. "It was November the year before last, wasn't it." She isn't asking.
I nod, my eyes sliding to the floor.
"Fucking hell! Dellie!"
An indignant noise shoots out. "But Loz—there was just so much that needed sorting out, and it would have caused so much disruption—I just thought—"
Her nostrils flare in irritation. "What would you say to me if I went a full year and a half on suppressants?"
I bite my lip. "I'd kick your arse," I mumble.
"Ugh, my omega is too riled up for this right now," she murmurs under her breath. Then she turns and looks me in the eye. "Right, babes." She squares her shoulders, the steel she hides so gracefully on screen emerging from her softness. "Here's what is going to happen. You have a choice."
I raise my eyebrows. She rolls her eyes.
"You can either get your own profile set up on Heatseekers tonight and book your heat in with a lovely pack of professional heat support workers that I will be funding—uh, no arguments, please, and you will be having your heat in the next couple of weeks, by the way, come hell or high water—or…
or you can go out tonight and find yourself some gloriously hot alphas to test run and see if they are good enough to help you through your heat. Capiche?"
"Loz, I would, but there's so much to do—"
"No, there fucking well isn't. You've got everything set up for me already, 'cuz you're a fucking rock star, and you know it."
"But Loz, I don't need a hookup or a Heatseekers account. I'll just use Packr again—"
"Over my dead fucking body, Dellie. The best that can be said for Packr is that you can sue the fuckers if there's an unauthorised claim or if you get trafficked.
If you can get to a lawyer. You're finding a pack who's actually decent and who's gonna treat you the way you deserve, whether you verify it in person or from the reviews.
" She shifts, glaring at me. "Today's Saturday, right?
You go off suppressants today, your heat'll kick in on—what, Wednesday? Thursday?"
I shrug. "Probably."
"Good. Well, as you said, I don't go off my suppressants 'til Tuesday, and you've dotted every bloody i and crossed every bloody t, so consider yourself on heat leave—uh, excuse me, paid heat leave, thank you very fucking much—until then.
If you start your heat on Wednesday or Thursday, you'll have three days of getting serviced by some hunky alphas, then have a few quiet days to recover, 'cuz mine won't start 'til next Saturday or Sunday—and by the time that my hired hotties roll out the door, you'll be feeling like yourself again.
So, no more fucking excuses. Got it?" She prods my shoulder, glaring at me.
I chuckle and roll my eyes, nodding. "Yes, miss Lauren ma'am."
Her mouth is grim. "Damn right. Now, be a legend and help me up, will you? This fucking straitjacket weighs a tonne."
I laugh and stand, then turn and help pull her up. She turns away, lifting the soft golden waves of hair from the nape of her neck so I can undo the long row of tiny buttons.
"Ohhhhh thank fuck. That's better."
I help pull her arms through a soft, fleecy zip-up hoodie, close it nearly to the neck, and pull down the corset of the strapless gown out from underneath her jacket.
It's the technique we developed to preserve her modesty when she still had to share dressing rooms, and while I know she now thinks of her boobs as just another patch of skin, I hate invading the parts she used to want to keep for herself.