Knot So Social (Heat Wave #1)

1. Willow

Chapter one

Willow

I should’ve died when lightning hit me the first time.

When I survived only to be struck a second time, I knew for certain the universe would never allow me to be happy.

Two hits; that’s enough to screw your whole life over.

In three twelfths of a second, my existence burned to the ground and reformed into the grotesque thing it is now.

And those strikes still aren’t the worst thing that happened to me.

Maybe the cosmic plan to stomp me down is the very reason I’m so determined to put on a smile for the cameras and pretend I didn’t break.

To anyone who watches my omega advice channel, I’m the stunning woman living the perfect life. The Willow they see is my way of pretending I'm not bearing the brunt of some invisible universal grudge, my way of hiding the scars. Faking being okay.

Warm fur brushes against my leg, making me smile. The one spot of happiness I’m allowed exists in this bundle of golden retriever goodness. Mr Shares leans on my knee, tail slapping the doorway. He looks up at me, pink tongue rolling out between his lower teeth. Dogs are better than people.

“Go on,” I say, brushing my fingertips through his glossy coat.

He lopes out through the front door to sniff at the morning dew drops and mark his territory, brushing a trail through the damp grass.

A stone and wrought iron fence keeps him in the huge front yard, the street beyond alive with activity as people go about their normal lives.

The dog walker wrangles the three poodles from Number Two Blackberry Drive along the sidewalk, a Cadillac with dark tinting rolls down the street, and two school children walk by in smart tartan uniform, adjusting their designer backpacks as blossoms from my plum trees drift over their heads.

The scene’s beautiful—but inaccessible for me.

Mr Shares turns, barking at something out of view. I hover on the threshold of my house. No matter how much I will my body forward, I can’t take a single step outside.

Although no clouds dot the blue sky, a vicious energy hovers out there, waiting for me to risk one foot out the door. I angle my toes, reaching toward the welcome mat, but hesitate, like a vampire afraid of the light crossing the porch. The invisible static prickles on my skin with a warning.

I can’t do it.

What fool would invite certain disaster a third time? I was an idiot to risk getting hit by lightning a second time. Look where that got me. They say third time’s a charm, but in my case, it would mean a funeral.

A van idles down the street, the driver tossing wrapped newspapers into yards.

I crane my head toward the gate. For once the roll flies through the bars on my gate to land inside the fence.

I whistle loudly, calling Mr Share’s attention. “Get the paper, boy.”

He bounds toward me, golden fur streaming in the wind.

“No, the paper. By the gate.” I point.

He skids to a halt, looking at me before swinging around in a half circle. Then he spies the van and runs for the fence. He probably had his head too full of scents earlier to notice.

Picking the paper up in his mouth, he returns at a steady trot.

“Aren’t you a good boy?” I praise.

He drops the newspaper just inside the doorway and licks at my hands.

Unlike the lady across the street in her dressing gown and hair rollers, I can’t even go out to retrieve my own paper.

The breeze gusts at the door as I slam it closed before limping down the hallway. Inside is the only safe place.

My fingers drift down my thigh to where the lightning left its mark, searing an unbreakable boundary into my flesh.

Lichtenberg figures, they're called. Like a magic seal from some fantasy story, the scars scroll and ripple with uncanny char patterns.

When the first strike caught me seven years ago, the doctors said I was both lucky and unlucky.

Unfortunate to be struck, but lucky to survive without any disfigurement.

Lucky? Ha! I’ve never been lucky in my life. And the universe proved it by coming back for round two, this time with scarring and muscle damage in my left leg that will never heal.

Perhaps I should be grateful I don’t have these ugly burns on my face.

Mr Shares settles in his oversized wicker basket in the living area while I make myself a latte, his favorite rope toy under his front paws.

I pour the rich brown fluid into my “Boss Omega” mug before creating my own pretty dollar sign with the frothed milk.

Took me three months to learn how to do that from tutorials online.

But I’m pleased with the skill now. As pretty as it is, I can’t be sure anyone else would say I did a good job.

They always said I made shit coffee.

I carry the mug into my home office and set it down so the logo faces away from me, and then do a quick tidy, checking the pot plants and dusting the big wooden tabletop which is my pride and joy. Six hefty guys had to wrestle the beast inside, but it looks great in my recordings.

Once everything is in place, I sit down and record from a few angles for B roll content while I check my schedule. Today’s topics include low energy days and omega security. Last Friday’s recording—a numbers-heavy exposé on my investment portfolio—awaits my final approval.

Before I begin, I check on my dog once more.

He lets out a little whine when I poke my head around the corner, and trots over to nudge his wet nose into my palm.

My heart warms as I scratch under his collar.

I love this boy so much. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say I couldn’t live without him; the loneliness would destroy me

I spend a good couple of minutes stroking his super soft golden-brown fur, calming myself with his affection. Lingering by the front door for too long gave me the jitters.

“What do you want to do?” I ask Mr Shares. “Go outside, or sleep in the office?”

He bounces lightly, encouraged by my upbeat tone. Whisking in happy circles, he runs back to his basket to collect his knotted rope. The end dangles to the floor as he trots into my office and settles on his bed in there.

I hobble back to my desk, one hand braced on the wall to steady my steps.

At least I’m no longer using a walking frame.

That’s something of an improvement, although I’ll never walk without a limp.

Which is one of many reasons I don’t want people to see the real me.

I still remember like it was yesterday when I left the hospital, a child pointed at me and asked, “Why does she walk funny, Mamma?”

I shouldn’t care what other people think about me, but after years of being told I was dumb, ugly, and no good, it’s hard to ignore.

Pretending to be perfect is easier.

I check the weather app and then switch to work mode.

With today’s topic being omega security, I type up a quick outline of what I plan to say.

When I first started this influencer gig, I used to write the whole script, but these days I’m confident enough to ad-lib so long as I have a few dot points.

It helps that this is an easy topic to talk about. It’s been ten years since I’ve been on my own, after all, and I have plenty of security on the house. A company monitors my yard, and if a tree fell on my windows and broke one, a team would arrive in under ten minutes.

I slide open the top drawer and check my remote for the security systems is in place. An omega like me, who can’t run away, needs top level protection.

Even if I don’t like having the primarily alpha teams come around the house.

Once I have my dot points, I head to the bathroom.

Mr Shares trots along behind me and settles down on the carpet runner just outside the door.

After humming a song to warm up my voice, I set my phone on the cradle by the mirror and give myself a quick once over to check none of my scars are showing.

Then I hit record and flash a bright smile right into the camera.

“Good morning, Omegalings! Let’s chat about the most important topic this year for omegas. You don’t want to miss this one. Curious? Well, hang on for one second. If you’re new to my feed, pull up a chair and stick around.” I rub my moisturizer and primer in while I record.

“I’m Willow, and I’m an advocate for ‘Omancy’ which is short for Omega agency! Omegas are supposed to be taken care of by their packs, right? Let the alphas look after the work and the dollars? Well, I call bullshit on that.”

I dab foundation spots over my cheeks and beam at the phone.

“I thought the same thing, until my alphas screwed me over, and left me homeless with not a penny to my name. Let me tell you, omegalings, we’re vulnerable. And that’s why I dedicated myself to teaching all of you how to be independent and financially smart.”

My foundation blends neatly under my busy fingers and then I turn my attention to the dark marks under my eyes. We had a big wind blowing last night, and I didn’t sleep too well. Pausing I hold up the bottle.

“And can I just say, this cover-up from Omyrtle is so good. Look how smoothly that goes on and hides all that shadows under my eyes. I’ve been searching for a good one, and I think this is the winner.”

The drawer grates as I pull out my eyeshadow palette, opting for clean brown tones that pair nicely with my blue eyes.

“Okay, here’s the all-important topic I need to talk to you about today: security.

Now, I’m sure there are some kick-ass omegas out there doing martial arts and standing up for themselves, but I’m certainly not one of them, and I’m guessing you’re not either.

Honestly, we are the weaker designation.

Frailer, more emotional, more sensitive to environments, yada yada.

Can’t avoid it. And to prove my point, the abuse rate against omegas is fifty percent higher than crimes against any other designation. ”

With a decisive jab, I poke my brush tip toward the camera. “So, what’s my number one tip for staying safe in this jungle?”