Knotted their Beauty (Traumaverse #2)

Prologue

ARLO

My eyes are glued to the screen in my hand as I begin to hyperventilate.

I got a shitty phone with government assistance when I moved to California, but it can still connect to the bank’s WiFi connection.

People walk past me on the sidewalk as if they can’t see me.

I suppose to most, I’m invisible as I sit on the bench in my worn clothes and my entire life in my backpack between my feet.

It’s pathetic how little I have. I don’t blame people for pretending I don’t exist when I sometimes wonder how I survive my day to day.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for six months, and while I hate it, it's better than the farm town where I was constantly beaten like a dog. The truth is that I’ve been too scared to check on my childhood home, and I’ve been busy doing everything possible to keep my head above water.

Jobs aren’t easy to come by in this city, and not all shelters are kind to omegas. I’m sleeping on benches, under bridges, wherever I can catch a few hours of sleep. The problem?

None of it is necessarily safe, and I know I’m one bad day away from being assaulted or arrested for loitering. Being an omega is simply the cherry at the top of a really fucked up situation as a homeless person.

That’s yet another reason my father hated me. He forced me to hide what I was whenever possible, but his blue eyed giant of an enemy saw anyway.

Not only that, he fucking saved me. I wouldn’t have thought he’d bother to piss on me if I was on fire after how his mother died. God, I thank him every day I’m unlucky enough to open my eyes that he helped me get out of Blue Buckle, Tennessee.

Blinking rapidly as tears my family doesn’t deserve well up, I struggle to understand what the news story is telling me.

Something told me to check on things back home. I didn’t dare download any social media apps, because my dad has really underhanded connections. No one would ever believe me if I told them my father and his friends would hurt people and livestock to stay on top.

So I stayed quiet even when I knew it made me just as bad as they were. My silence still helped them get away with murder, and I hate myself for it. Now I’m alive, and they’re not, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

Swallowing hard, I read the news story for what feels like the fourth time. I was scrolling back through months of news articles, scouring for my family’s name, when I saw this.

Blue Buckle Sentry

Murder or a Tragedy?

“A cul de sac in Blue Buckle burned down on Labor Day weekend.

One of the bodies found was Darla Trumaine, a long time resident of Blue Buckle.

Her death is being treated as a casualty of the fire, but an investigation is currently ongoing for the missing family members, as their vehicles were at home.

There are multiple deaths…”

My eyes skim over the news, because I don’t really care about my father’s scum bag friends. I’ve overheard too many of their conversations to be deemed innocent of their misdeeds.

“Riley and Marla Trumaine, Darla’s daughters, were thankfully at a camp where they were spending their long weekend. Unfortunately, their father’s whereabouts are still unknown, and the girls are in their grandmother’s custody.

It is a very sad day in Blue Buckle, as these families have been upstanding citizens here for a long time.”

The article doesn’t mention how they didn’t have two nickels to rub together, or the fact that they lost everything in multiple bad deals.

It also doesn’t mention anything about my brothers being at the house, and I frown at the lack of information.

It would suit me just fucking fine if they were dead too.

I let myself feel a moment of sorrow for my mother because she was decent to my sisters before burying it deep inside of me.

She knew what my father was doing, and the extent of his criminal activities.

As long as the fridge was full and she had fancy clothes to go see her friends, she didn’t seem to care what he got into.

I snort at the thought that anyone could think these people are “good,” because I know where too many of the bodies are buried.

I should have told Bentley what I knew, but he took one look at my black eye when he pulled over in his truck and told me I had one shot to get out of town. When I told him I wanted it, he handed me money for a bus ticket and six hundred dollars for whatever I needed.

I still don’t understand why he did it. Maybe he wanted to fuck over my old man, or perhaps he had some inside knowledge to the devastation that would happen to my family. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has had some kind of connection with the future.

Clairvoyance is easier for me to swallow than believing he’s behind the murders. Bentley Walker was a fucking cowboy with a big city degree. Somehow, I can’t see him as a killer.

Brushing away the tears and shoving away the pain, I put away my phone, and hunch forward to think.

My sisters are safe. My grandmother had a falling out with my father, and that’s why they stopped speaking.

Not many people even know we have any remaining family because of it, which means social services had to have really dug up that information.

While I wish that I could see or speak to my sisters, I don’t know how to get in contact with my grandmother. Fuck, I don’t even know if she’d be willing to speak to me now that I’m all grown up. Dad always complained she was puritanical about what’s right and wrong.

However, I think his views were so skewed, he wouldn’t be able to tell either due to how far up his ass his head was.

Rolling my eyes in disgust for fighting with a dead man, I stand and sling my backpack over my shoulder.

I can’t offer my sisters anything of value, so I’ll keep my ass right here in California.

I need to stop at the soup kitchen to eat before I can go to The Center to speak with someone about a temp job.

I’ve applied for several months, and it took me a long time to figure out how things work in LA.

Even then, no one has called me back from all of the applications I’ve put in.

I don’t care what it is, I’ll fucking take anything at this point.

I simply need something that’ll allow me to get off the streets. It’s not safe, and I’m terrified of having a heat out here. I’m downing heat suppressants that I bought with the last of the money Bentley gave me, but I’m desperate and living on borrowed time.

My father may be dead, but there are other Boogeymen in Los Angeles, and the memory of a black eye is simply the tip of the iceberg.

One year later

“We’re having complaints about how you answer the phone, Arlo.”

Mr. Massey sounds angry and out of patience as he towers over my desk.

The emotion is almost too extreme for a job where I answer the phones, and I gaze up helplessly at him.

I’m working at Holdstone Records, a music company that has hopefuls trekking in and out of here every day, hoping for a break.

Unfortunately, this is Hollywood and few get what they’re looking for.

I was lucky enough to hear they needed someone to answer the phones and do basic office work eight months ago. The Center changed my life with clothes from their career closet for the interview and a bus pass. As soon as I have a little money saved, I want to donate some of it to them.

I don’t think I’d survive much longer out on the streets.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say slowly. “The phones have been busy, and I answer every call the same way. Everyone gets the same level of respect—”

“That’s the problem!” Mr. Massey explodes. It takes everything inside of me not to cringe away. He’s a massive alpha who isn’t concerned with how his anger feels like the flames of a chemical fire, or his voice sounds like the crunching of glass.

I sit and listen to him rant and rave about how I should be hanging up on the losers who call instead of making the important people wait. While I’ve gotten more comfortable with recognizing hopeful agents from other music company owners, I’m terrified of not responding to someone correctly.

So yes, I give everyone respect, which means the wait times are longer.

“I’ll do better,” I whisper. He doesn’t want to hear what I have to say because I’m simply a body. I don’t matter, and people here remind me every day that I am replaceable.

It would be nice to know that I’m good at something no one else is. However, I have no real skills. So yes, I am merely a body with a voice and arms that moves through the day with no other purpose than to be pissed on all goddamned day.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he seethes. “Here is the data entry for today.”

He dumps a pile of paper on my desk before stomping away, not seeing how I deflate in defeat. There’s no way I can answer these calls and also input all of this. Looking through it, I see it’s bullshit I’m not even responsible for.

“Arlo.” I look up to see Suzy Sutton who works at the Human Resources Department and is currently five months pregnant. Unfortunately, it has not made her glow, and instead she’s grouchier than normal.

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?” I ask, organizing the paper in front of me and placing it to the side.

“Mr. Massey said you were going to input the paperwork for me for our new hires,” she says smugly. Oh. That’s what he gave me. “I need it in spreadsheet form and sent to me by tomorrow. Do you think—”

“I think it’s outside of the scope of my duties, and as such it may take me more time to complete,” I reply pleasantly. “I’m happy to help, however, the phone is ringing and I have a job to do. Thank you for understanding, Suzy. Have a good day.”

I answer the phone by tapping my headset, my eyes firmly set in front of me in order to ignore the disappointment in her eyes.

She wanted to put me in my place, yet doesn’t understand I’ve been lower than this.

I have no dignity or shame. I simply want to keep my head down and receive my paycheck every two weeks.