Chapter 17
A Double-Edged Gift
DAN
Perhaps I had preconceptions about Johanna and Max’s company being noisy and hyperactive, with wide open spaces and people brainstorming all over the place—in other words, resembling my fractured memories of Max in college and every time I’d seen him interviewed for a documentary or news story.
If so, any such notions dissolve when I walk through the door.
The remodeled warehouse sits in a mixed-use neighborhood.
Outside the air is redolent with oils and corn, suggesting staff at a nearby restaurant are busy preparing tortillas.
Not a hint of the smell penetrates the indoors except what accompanies me and even that quickly dissolves under the steady whirr of air purifiers.
The clean air settles something in my inner alpha. No matter how much I—and he by extension—enjoy fragrances, he’s always scanning them for hints of alphas and omegas to watch out for as potential sources of danger and confrontation or treasures to protect whether or not they want it.
The air purification works so well, neither he nor I can identify the designation of the young white man at the front desk, with his blue-streaked, waist-length braids and ample piercings, nor of the three apparently unconnected salespeople occupying half of the available seating.
The overhead light is soft and warm, the area decorated in peaceful shades of blue and green.
Little noise from outside penetrates the walls, perhaps due to added insulation, and soft industrial carpet swallows most footsteps.
Everything’s calming.
Maybe this meeting won’t be as bad as feared.
How many times did I consider rescinding my acceptance?
Too many to count yet, here I am. My children would laugh to see me in the three-piece gray suit that’s hung in my closet for years and gets little use, though it still fits.
Mostly. The waistband might be a bit snugger now, but otherwise, it’s fine.
The tie, striped in pale pink on gray nearly strangles me, though I tied it loose. My shoes pinch.
I hope Max left me nothing. If anything, I owed him, even though the last time we interacted in person and were in any kind of competition—not really—he won, and I lost.
I can’t resist touching the breast pocket of my coat. I tucked Max’s last note there for luck, and because I suspect Johanna may want to see it. Despite opening and rereading it regularly, the paper remains stiff under the cloth.
The receptionist nods at my name, then asks me to take a seat as he makes a call.
I wait. I’m here to pay a debt.
My inner alpha does not approve. He has no long-term memory. He lives in the present.
Or is that all me?
There are several schools of thoughts about the tendency of alphas and omegas to refer to ‘their’ alpha or omega, as though they’re separate entities within us.
One school holds that there are no inner alphas or omegas, that those of us with these designations simply develop an oversized, overactive, overimaginative id in our late teens or early twenties, with occasional earlier or later presentations.
That school—not coincidentally including many betas—argues young, rational waking minds cannot easily deal with the biochemical cocktails that morph otherwise beta bodies into abnormal proportions, and therefore attribute differences to a fictional inner entity.
A different theory holds that, in the moments of presentation, alpha and omega minds literally fracture into separate psyches, one based in instinct and the other carrying the weight of years of development, which enable it to mostly rule.
In the fortunate, these two eventually reunite, while the less lucky self-medicate with alcohol, drugs, and violence unless they manage to get decent help and hormonal adjustment.
Then, there are the scientists who posit a preternatural mating between proto-humans and some extinct branch of ancient pre-canine or feline humanoid lineages, resulting in genetic inheritances that spontaneously manifest and change otherwise-normal beta humans into alphas and omegas.
This school of thought argues that alphas and omegas inherit genetic material from these non-human lineages in different proportions—these also being present in betas, just unexpressed—and the competing genetic inheritances effectively make alphas and omegas battlegrounds of human versus animal natures.
I’ve read these and dozens of other explanations, and none of them satisfy.
That said, if anything, I favor those who agree that some, if not all, alphas and omegas have interior psychological divisions or additional selves centered around instincts rather than rational thought, and it’s never guaranteed which side will dominate.
Fortunately, modern medicine has developed workable tools. Over-the-counter rut suppressors are little better than placebos, but the prescription stuff helps balance my alpha’s instincts with my need to survive in modern society.
The calm surroundings and lack of odors soothe my alpha.
Without anything obvious to indicate the others’ designations, he’s curious but indifferent.
One may be an alpha, given the interactions between the three, but without strong signals to that effect my alpha feels no need to establish dominance.
I’m less sanguine. I spend the minutes-long wait identifying signs of stress in myself—twitching toes, fingers tugging at an ear lobe or drumming against a leg—and suppressing them.
Finally, the receptionist tells me I can go on back. A straight path down a hall to the end, a walk through a door into a smaller suite of offices. An assistant at a desk to the side gives me a nod. A knock on another door. Then, I’m ushered into an office with only one occupant.
Johanna.
Meeting her alone wasn’t what I expected, but neither is it a surprise. Ensconced behind her desk, computer monitor off to one side, she doesn’t rise at my arrival. No smile, or open handshake, nor invitation to settle into one of the relatively comfortable-looking armchairs facing the desk.
I don’t presume to seat myself without the offer, so I hang back several feet from the desk rather than striding up and forcing her to choose between being seated but having to look up at me and rising to a more level playing field.
It’s for her sake, but not the way she might think, if she even considers the matter.
Rather, I prefer to keep well out of arm’s reach because my alpha appreciates being close to her again.
He always has. When I was young and stupid and in over my head, one of the few things we agreed on was that Johanna was worth every minute spent in her company, even when it involved her yelling at me.
The angry warnings changed nothing, only time and the hard lessons time offers made a difference.
That, and luck smiling on me.
Despite the air purifier at work in the corner, a hint of cranberry sweetness, faintly tinged with must, clings to the room. It’s hers, with her stamp all over it—not a hint of Max’s orange and rum anywhere, and only the vaguest hints of any other fragrances.
Her face holds more color than it did at the memorial service, a becoming blush despite her solemn expression. Sleek, silky fabric covers her upper body, shimmering with her every movement.
Gray glints in her hair as she looks up at me, still seated, but she’s as lovely now as ever.
Am I supposed to feel like a schoolboy called before the principal? If so, the intention fails, not by design, but because my inner alpha perks up at seeing her, drinking in the aura of calm we both remember from before.
Johanna sets her hands on the desk, one half-covering a pen, an attitude of control undermined by the faint but constant twitching of her little fingers.
She realizes quickly that sitting while I loom tall before her, despite the distance, does not equate to a position of power and waves for me to take a seat.
The chair is well-cushioned, though it creaks under me.
She remains silent, just looking at me. Her elbows press tightly against her sides as she starts rolling the pen back and forth.
Max’s cousin sent the invite. His daughter confirmed my attendance.
If Johanna’s waiting here without them, it’s by her choice and their assent.
I’m fine with waiting, letting her set the terms of our encounter. But she’s uncomfortable, based on her old tells—twitchy fingers, stiff arms, and playing with things like pens—which unsettles my alpha. He wants to wrap her in our arms, purring and rocking her until she eases.
For his sake, I speak first. “Ask me anything.”
She jerks, letting go of the pen which rolls my way. “What?”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll answer as best I can.” I’m no lawyer, but I know better than to offer more than I can promise. I catch the pen, still warm from her hands and smelling of her, and set it on the desk, although my alpha wants to tuck it into my pocket as a keepsake.
Her lips tighten; then, she nods. A bargain struck.
“Why did you demand I choose between you and Max?”
Of course she’d go straight to the jugular. “Do you want the short answer or the long?”
“Both.”
“Short first, then.” Lifting my chin, I take a deep breath and get ready to open old wounds, which ache despite the passage of time. A bitter, coppery taste floods my mouth.
“I was pretty sure you’d pick him. Had a ghost of hope you wouldn’t, but it was only a matter of time before you’d face the choice. I figured the longer it took to get there, the more it’d hurt when I lost you, so I might as well push and lose you earlier, in case that would make it hurt less.”
“Did it?” She reaches for the pen, leaning far across the desk to do so. The movement sends a whiff of cranberry my way, temporarily countering the bitterness in my mouth.
“No telling, but it near broke me then”—I rub the center of my chest—“and that’s not counting what it did to you.”
“Or Max,” she adds.