7. Jeremy
Chapter seven
Jeremy
The hospital room blurs and then refocuses.
A doctor appears as if by warp power. “You’ve got a concussion, Mr Williams.”
“Can I go home?” I blink up at him, his fraying edges merging with the walls.
“Do you have someone who can come pick you up and stay with you?”
I shake my head, creating a fresh set of swirls in the pale mint walls.
“Then, no. You can’t be unaccompanied in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Right.”
He smiles thinly, his face wrinkled with the cares of a thousand patients. “Stay in overnight, and I’ll come assess you in the morning.”
He jots some notes in my chart and strolls away.
Someone at home? That’s a big fat nope, and apparently Joel will be in the doghouse if he even talks to his loser brother. I sigh and lean back against the pillows.
Once the adrenaline wore off, the bruising kicked in, but I’m lucky to have escaped any serious injuries. Concussion aside, of course. No broken bones means I can start looking for another job right away.
Tracey’s words cycle through my mind like a revolving caption.
She’s never been fond of me. At the time Joel met her, I was working in construction, mixing mortar for brick layers.
She took one look at me down her long nose, covered as I was in drying concrete powder, and decided I was a bad influence on her new boyfriend.
Which isn’t right, because Joel’s successful.
Elegant as she is, I didn’t like the way the woman tried to control everything he did.
And the comment she just made about my dick?
Gives me icky chills right now, although that could also be nausea from the concussion.
She accidentally walked in on me pissing in the bathroom one day when I visited their new house.
I’ll never forget how she lingered, her gaze fixed on the cock in my hand, instead of scuttling from the room with an immediate apology.
My thoughts prickle with unease. Maybe I should’ve told Joel the truth just now on the phone, but his tone conveyed how stressed he was. Clearly, he’s not having a good night.
The same stress bunches in my stomach. My hat’s ruined and my truck’s gone.
I’ve worked enough on the fringes of the auto industry to know she’s not repairable.
Plus, she was a half-done custom build I scored from a seller online, putting hours of my own time into sanding out rust and painting.
Even with whatever the insurance company pays out, I won’t be able to replace her.
“Guess I better start job hunting,” I murmur, suppressing a sigh.
I log onto the app and check my profile’s up to date, which of course it is because it’s only been four months since I last applied for something.
I think it’s better to pretend that the Kalone Tire Center position never happened, because if they ring that boss up for a reference, they’ll get an earful about how late I always was.
The usual array of jobs overwhelms me as I scroll.
Most of them require specialist qualifications or ask for junior staff.
I’m neither. Part time won’t suit my situation, given how expensive rent is in this economy.
I kinda miss the days of rooming with Joel in run down share houses.
We were a lot more carefree ten years ago.
My notifications show a ton of new emails, so I scroll through to that app. It's mostly the usual spam along with reward cards citing my measly point tallies and former shopping sites trying to entice me back. I unsubscribe to a bunch of stuff, trying to control the chaos.
A headline from an unknown company catches my eye: Overdue.
“What?” I mutter, clicking on the bar.
Your motor vehicle insurance is now overdue.
My blood freezes while my pulse speeds up, creating a painful pressure all through my body. Surely not. “Please be today, please be today,” I chant as I scroll for the specifics.
One week ago.
“Fuck me!” I cry, making the patient in the next bed jump. “Sorry.”
I put one hand up with my apology. Best to suffer in silence right now.
What do I do? I had a car accident while having no insurance. But I wasn’t at fault, right? Do I pay now, or call tomorrow for more instructions? No point me paying for insurance on a car that won’t ever run again.
My head aches and I lean back on the pillows. I’ll call someone tomorrow.
Under the sheet, my belly churns, warning me that my entire system’s in overdrive right now. I reach for the silver basin beside my bed just in time to throw up in it. Every retch makes my head throb.
Solve things one at a time, Mom always says.
As a great multitasker herself, the advice never seemed suitable, but she repeats it whenever a problem arises for Dad’s sake.
Transport is a problem, but not my primary one.
We have good enough public transit, not to mention Ubers and all.
I’ll get around all right, so long as I leave on time. No, leave earlier.
Once my stomach stops trying to turn inside out, I wash my mouth out and return to the job search app. A sponsored ad catches my eye.
Are you a caring, responsible alpha with a soothing presence? Heat Wave is looking for new staff for our omega-assistance program. Competitive rates and hours available for the right applicants. Take our questionnaire now.
A nurse bustles in and beelines for my vomit bucket.
“I can do that,” I say, holding out one hand to block her.
She smiles. “It’s best you don’t move around too much yet, Mr Williams. You’ve had a big event.”
Her gaze tracks down my arms to the bandages over some scratches.
I move my hand away. “Well, thanks. And I’m sorry you have to put up with that.”
“It’s okay. That’s my job. Ninety percent of what we do is cleaning.”
“Do you like your job?”
She chuckles and hefts the bucket. “You’re asking me that right now?”
I return her smile with a floppy one of my own. “Yeah, I guess not so much when cleaning vomit. In general, then?”
“Well, in general, yes. I like helping people, and I’ve always had a good mind for emergencies.” She cocks her head. “From what I hear, you do too, running to the other cars to make sure everyone got out safely.”
I bat her comment away. “Pish. Anyone would do that.”
She smiles like she knows a secret. “No, actually. Did any of the other drivers come running toward you?”
“That’s different. They were hurt worse than me.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “A concussion is no small injury, Mr Williams. If anything, it’s more dangerous. So, be a good patient and try to rest, yes?”
She looks meaningfully at my phone before turning away.
“One more question,” I call, and she turns back.
“Do you think I have a soothing presence? For an alpha?”
“Oh, most definitely.” Her eyes light up. “I can’t say this is scientific, but I think it’s in the pheromones. Some alphas put you on edge, like you never know what they’ll do next. And others, like you, make people feel as if their shift hasn’t been as bad as they thought.”
She ducks her head and strides for the door. I grunt softly, watching her go. That’s just because I talk a lot and listen even more. Chat usually puts people at ease.
The phone warms in my hand, drawing my attention back to the ad. I’ve been driving past the Heat Wave clinic every day for the past four months. It’s very accessible.
“What do you think?” I breathe out so no one else can hear, spreading my legs.
I’m an alpha, with an alpha sized cock and a thick knot that springs to attention even before I’ve come the first time. That might be handy for an omega. Joel’s girlfriend meant it as a put-down, but maybe I should use what I’ve been blessed with.
Can’t hurt to do the questionnaire right?
I go through the checklist, which starts with basic information about my health and physicality, then dives into sexual preferences. For availability I tick all hours, at which point I learn Heat Wave also offers home visits. No wonder they need someone responsible.
I get engrossed in the questions, wondering every time I click next if a message will pop up to say I’m not suitable for their program. Nothing appears. Maybe it’s a sign.
Either way, I’m desperate enough to apply.
Just after I hit “submit,” my battery dies. Well, my eyes won’t stay open any longer, and the nurses already turned the lights down for the night. I set my phone on the bedside table and gratefully roll into the pillows. It’s been one hell of a day.
I’ve stopped throwing up by morning, but the doctor keeps me in for the full twenty-four hours.
I catch up on sleep, and then, since my phone’s dead, I take myself off to the activity room where I play chess with an old man stuck full of tubes.
I have plenty to be grateful for, especially when I hear the way he wheezes for breath after the slightest exertion.
That crash could’ve killed me.
Life is a gift that shouldn’t be wasted on stressing over every little thing.
Que será, será, as they say. Especially here in the hospital, people are always short on time and even shorter tempered, except for those waiting to die.
Perhaps once it’s no longer possible for us to be busy, we accept the solitude with grace.
I don’t want to wait until my life is ending.
The doctors clear me in the early evening, and I make my way home through the humid sunset, on a train crowded with too many bodies.
My humble one-room unit welcomes me with the scent of instant noodles and used socks as I collapse in the single recliner.
“Good to be back,” I murmur. Takes me a good half an hour to rouse myself and put my phone on the charger.
I drop it on the desk and boot up my old PC, which a decade ago used to be top of the line for gaming.
Flicking through my emails, I get a shock when I see a response from Heat Wave asking me to come in for an interview in two days.
“Geez,” I mutter to myself. That was quick.
I scan the information, noting a registration I’ll need to get as well as a police clearance certificate. Not bad, for a job that pays like a trade, plus overtime. My phone gets enough charge in it to turn on and lights up with half a dozen missed calls. All from Joel.
That’s weird. Is he the one with an emergency, because he never calls first?
My finger hovers over the button when someone pounds on my door.
“Jeremy? You there?”