Chapter 5
Lark
There are no hot alphas in the look book. There is no look book.
“Miss Jensen, you may follow me.” The pretty beta woman guides me to a short hallway just behind a lobby door. She’s at least four inches shorter than me, so I’m not surprised when I hear her say, “You’re tall for an omega.”
I’m not. Omegas, like betas, come in every size and shape. And my size is five-seven, curvy but athletic. Still, every beta under five-six comments on my height like I'm a sasquatch walking down Main Street. My grandmother was five-eleven. I can only imagine the comments she caught.
She opens a door on the right, and leads me in. “Have a seat. Alice will be right in to go over the details of our service. In the meantime, can I get you anything to drink?”
I hold up my half-full cup of latte, the lamest possible answer to her question. Her teeth flash before shutting the door.
The room is antagonistically beige. Beige walls. Beige tile. Beige frames on the mostly beige art. There’s a wooden table. Beige stain. Four chairs.
Four!
Are we workshopping my heat? Four chairs is exactly two too many chairs. My pulse spikes, traitorously fast.
Stop it.
I press my palms flat against my thighs.
“Get it together,” I say under my breath.
Seriously, though, who brings a plus one to a heat clinic?
My throat goes dry. Oh my god! What if this is where I meet the alphas? That would explain the extra chairs.
I swallow down a lump of anxiety. “You’ve dealt with harder stuff,” I tell myself.
Seriously, though. I’ve been through worse. Survived losing my parents. Started a thriving company from scratch from my dining room table. Figured out how to run a business from a hospital bed and then living room.
So what if absolute strangers are going to knot me over and over? I sit with that thought for a second. Two seconds. It doesn’t get more comfortable.
And over. My omega’s tail swishes lazily.
I roll my eyes. I’m going to be an omega hit-it-and-quit-it station and she’s over here twitching her bottom.
Meanwhile, I’m sick, stomach rolling, and I seriously regret that third donut.
Rationally, I know this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me. Heat clinics serve a necessary purpose. Lots of people use them. But…
There’s always a but, right?
A door opens revealing a small omega with a stylish dark bob and a ring of bonding marks around her neck.
My omega grumbles.
I get it. Honestly. Bonded omegas who work at heat clinics are a particular kind of cruel joke the universe likes to play.
It’s not her fault she’s bonded and we’re not, I silently chide.
“I’m Alice.” She reaches across and shakes my hand. “I can see you are nervous,” she continues, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and giving me what I think is meant to be a comforting smile. “There’s no need. You are in complete control here.”
I roll my eyes. Internally, of course.
She sits and taps on her tablet screen. “Your records indicate a difficult heat history.”
I grimace. “Yes. They are typically long and painful. I tried to ride the last one out alone but I only ended up making myself very ill.”
Her mouth dips in a sympathetic frown. “Yes, heats are generally harder when alphas aren’t involved.”
I nod.
“What about the ones before that?”
I tighten my hands on the arms of my chair. “Um, before that a friend’s pack assisted me.” It’s not an unusual solution to heats. Omegas across the world use friends as heat partners to avoid the embarrassment of partnering with total strangers or the pain of going it alone.
She places the tablet on the table. “They were unable to help you last time?”
“They found their omega.” I shrug.
“Yes, that does change things. When they were helping you, how long was your average heat?”
“Five days. But they all worked so they couldn’t be there with me all the time. Maybe it would be different if someone was with me more regularly.”
She considers this. “Maybe, though that’s not always possible with our service. Availability depends on the schedules of the alphas you match with.”
Right. The service.
“Can you explain the process to me?” I hate how small my voice sounds. I hate that I can’t seem to help it.
“Absolutely.” She opens a folder on the table in front of her. Then she spears me with large, blue eyes. After a brief moment, they soften.
“Listen, I know this is stressful, but our process was built to give omegas without packs better options than what you would get at the traditional clinics. Heats are better when they’re spent with people you know and can trust. We can’t help you find your mates, but we can help ensure you are treated respectfully and are partnered with alphas you like and are attracted to. ”
“The website was light on the whole getting-to-know-you part.”
She smiles, a genuine one this time. “Ah yes, the infamous Contact Us for More Information clause.”
She turns a glossy paper filled with lists and check marks toward me.
“We have three options for you to choose from.” Pointing a manicured finger at line one, she begins.
“Our basic option allows you to review alpha bios and scent profiles, then pick the ones of interest. If the alphas are also interested, then we can schedule them for your heat.”
I cringe. This option is only moderately better than the traditional heat clinics where unknown alpha volunteers service omegas during their free time.
Hard pass on option one.
“And the second?”
“I thought you would say that. Almost no one chooses that one.”
She slides her finger to the second column.
“This is our most popular package. In addition to reading bios and choosing the ones of most interest, you can also message the alphas in our secure Riverside Elite app. It allows alphas and omegas a chance to get to know one another personally before experiencing the intimacies of heat.”
That’s better, but still a little on the gross side. “And the final package?”
“Yes, our elite plan. It’s pricey, but if you can manage it, the most comfortable choice for an omega. In addition to texting the alphas, you get a chance to meet and greet the ones you like best before your heat starts.”
“The meetings, are they—” I clear my throat. “Are they private?”
Alice fervently bobs her head, dislodging the strand of hair out from behind her ear. “Oh, yes. All alphas and omegas involved must sign an NDA.”
Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner!
I look down at the glossy paper. My next heat is coming whether I'm ready for it or not. I'm not ready for it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for it.
"I'd like to sign up for the Elite package."
After my payment is confirmed, they hand me an iPad. With shaking hands I sort through hundreds of profiles and surveys. I'm glad no one is watching. I'm glad there's no one here who can smell how not-okay I am right now.
Rank scents. Check.
Swipe through bios. Check.
Pretend this is all normal. Check.
Don’t think about what normal actually looks like. Checkity-fucking-check.
After reviewing a seemingly endless list of applicants, I select my top thirty.
“I’m finished.” I hand the iPad to the beta who first greeted me. She takes it from me, and I feel the loss of it immediately, which is strange.
She checks her computer screen. “It’s all loaded to your account. All you need to do is accept the app request in your text messages.”
I check and sure enough, there it is.
“A notification was sent automatically to your preferred alphas. They have the option to accept or deny your request.”
I force a smile and hold it there a moment too long, the way you do when your face needs a second to catch up with your performance. It screams ‘This is such a normal way to get to know an alpha. So normal I can’t even deal with it’.”
Hey, I saw your bio and scent profile. Wanna see if we’re compatible? I’m going to need a knot soon.
“You can send your first message whenever you are ready. They won’t see it until they accept your offer.”
All the water in the East River could not cool my heated cheeks.
“Thank you,” I croak.
And I mean it. Sort of.
Everyone’s been nice. And I can’t do this alone.
Been there. Done that. Have the hospital gown to prove it.
But I’m officially over pretending that shopping for heat mates is a totally normal experience.
This experience was more trauma-adjacent than traumatic. That's what I'm going to keep telling myself. Probably while drinking tequila. This is what cheat days are for, right? Omegas need at least one day a week to drown their sorrows in calories.
Me: Are you free? I need margs.
Me: And tacos.
Me: And maybe churros.
Cammie: That bad?
Cammie: Rosie’s in 10?
I thumbs-up her last text and tuck my phone in my purse. Today sucked, but tacos and margaritas make everything better, right?