Chapter 22
Home safe xx
I tap out the quick message to Loz on my phone, then turn it off as I climb out of the taxi and drag myself up the chipped concrete stairs to my crappy K-town apartment.
I hardly ever come here these days. Most nights, when I'm not on a shoot with her, I stay at Loz's Hancock Park mansion.
Aside from the fact that she has better snacks than me, and more empty bedrooms than some hotels, she tends to get antsy when she's left alone for too long.
But, an omega's gotta keep her nest somewhere—but even though I know I can afford somewhere a lot nicer now, given how little time I spend here, it's never quite crappy enough to justify the time and effort it would take to move.
Any other morning after the night before, Lauren and I would debrief over milkshakes masquerading as coffee, and giggle about whatever absurdity one of us—let's be honest, usually her—had encountered the night before. But I can't giggle or squeal about last night.
It was easily the best night of my life. And now, forever the most painful. Not to be melodramatic or anything.
I unlock the door. There's a thin film of dust on the empty coffee table.
The worn beige chintz sofa I thrifted years ago is still draped in the ugly grey polyester blanket I haven't worked up the energy to replace.
The aging, yellowing mini-fridge hums grumpily, empty apart from a few half-used condiments.
The sagging floral printed twin mattress is still bare on the Spartan steel bedframe from when I took the sheets to the laundromat and didn't have time to remake the bed before I was needed on set to help Loz.
It's like entering a mausoleum. Everything is just as I left it. Not a hair out of place.
I hate it.
My omega is scrambling in my chest, tugging at my heart, whimpering quietly inside me, trying to move my feet out the door and back towards where I woke up.
She desperately wants her pack, her alphas and her precious beta, and she wants them now.
I try to placate her, remind her we need to protect them, but she just wants to throw caution to the wind and go and drown herself in their scent.
She's pulling at my core, doing everything she can to drag me back to them.
My fingers clutch at the t-shirt sticking out of my purse. It's not quite right—it needs more mint and basil to be properly right—but its fragrance both soothes her and reminds me of what's missing.
I open the hall cupboard and crawl under the bottom shelf, dragging the t-shirt behind me. I whack my head on the shelf above, knocking over the stack of fitted sheets. But right now, I don't care. I collapse into my pathetic excuse for a nest, and huff the shirt like a damn inhaler.
I'd be embarrassed to bring any packmate into this ridiculous facsimile of a nest. But, like I always do, I tell myself this is enough for now.
Even if I could bring myself to let them throw away their careers, I don't think I could face them.
I quietly sob into the shirt until the scent is drowned out by the smell of burnt freesias.