Chapter 8
Saint
The station coffee is appalling. The beans are good.
I know because I roasted them myself. A medium-dark Ethiopian I've been tweaking for three months, trying to nail the roast profile I've been building in my head since before everything went sideways.
But the coffee maker is shit and the brew sat too long on the burner.
I drink it anyway.
Desk duty means paperwork, fluorescent lights, and trying to input incident reports with my one working hand. Watching the guys don their gear and roll out while I sit here in a sling, pecking at a computer so old it might have been used in my mother's typing class. It’s fucking brutal.
Torn rotator cuff. Six weeks minimum healing time, the doctor said. No lifting. No climbing.
No overtime.
It left me alone with my thoughts for weeks. With my memories.
I open my banking app before I can stop myself. I leave myself just enough to live on. The rest goes to replenish my savings. What's left of them, anyway. My mom's death. My injury. The time I couldn't even leave the house because grief and pain were pinning me under.
Graham would lose his mind if he saw how little money I spend on myself. Silas would do his best to bulldoze me into using the pack account to pay it off.
We have one. A Pack Caron account. And from what I've gathered in pack meetings, it's genuinely obscene.
Major purchases. Shared expenses. House repairs.
Life stuff. Graham's patent royalties alone would make most people's eyes water.
Silas builds furniture that sells for more than most people's cars, and somewhere along the way he turned that money into more money.
Investing in business and property, something Graham tried to explain once that I mostly tuned out.
The point is, the account is not hurting.
Neither would blink an eye if I used pack funds. I don't. I paid off my mom's hospital bills. She was my mom. My responsibility.
Dreams can wait. Savings can grow again. Until then, I'll keep blending special roasts for the pack and the station.
My phone buzzes.
Riverside Elite: 1 new notification.
I hesitate for a second before unlocking it.
Omega219: So what’s your screening question?
I like that she doesn’t flirt. Her chats are easy.
CoffeeGuy789: Going with my first instinct. How do you take your coffee?
Omega219: Brown sugar latte. Best one is at Nayda’s Café.
CoffeeGuy789: That’s not coffee. That’s sugar disguised as coffee.
The typing bubble pops up immediately.
Omega219: Coffee snob much?
I smirk.
CoffeeGuy789: Guilty. But my way’s better.
CoffeeGuy789: Black. No sugar.
Omega219: I expected nothing less.
I get the feeling she's smiling. It makes me smile.
CoffeeGuy789: Builds character.
Omega219: So does joy.
I chuckle. The guy at the other desk looks over.
“Text from my packmate,” I say.
He nods and goes back to his screen.
No one knows about Riverside Elite Heat Clinic. And they won’t ever. This isn’t about heat or sex.
It’s math. Temporary. A way to earn some money while my shoulder heals well enough to get back on the truck.
That’s all.
CoffeeGuy789: Brown sugar brings you joy?
Omega219: Don’t judge my coping mechanisms.
CoffeeGuy789: That’s fair.
Omega219: You mentioned a pack yesterday.
I glance toward the bay. Empty. The engine is out on a call.
CoffeeGuy789: Yeah.
Omega219: What’s that like?
I picture Silas and Graham.
CoffeeGuy789: Someone’s always around.
Omega219: That sounds nice.
It is, actually.
CoffeeGuy789: I’m learning to get used to it.
Omega219: You didn’t grow up in a pack house?
CoffeeGuy789: No. Just me and my mom.
I wait a few seconds before sending another message.
CoffeeGuy789: Did you grow up in a pack?
Omega219: I did. One dad. Two moms.
Omega219: I miss it.
CoffeeGuy789: Do you go home to visit?
The typing bubble pops up, then disappears. I hold my breath, willing her to answer.
Omega219: My parents passed. It’s just me.
I sit up straighter.
CoffeeGuy789: I’m sorry.
It feels inadequate.
Omega219: It was sudden. Car accident.
I grip the phone harder.
CoffeeGuy789: My mom, too.
CoffeeGuy789: Eight months ago.
Omega219: That sucks.
CoffeeGuy789: Yeah.
Omega219: Are you okay?
CoffeeGuy789: I’m fine.
It’s automatic.
Habit.
I decide to be honest.
CoffeeGuy789: Depends on the day, I guess.
Omega219: I get that.
Neither of us type for a few minutes. I assume she’s done with the conversation when a new message pops up.
Omega219: What made you sign up?
I stare at the screen.
Money. Replenishing my wiped out savings account. Two months without overtime.
CoffeeGuy789: Timing worked out.
Technically true. Close enough.
Omega219: Sounds like you’re busy.
CoffeeGuy789: Not lately, but usually.
A few seconds tick by before she messages back.
Omega219: Changing topics.
Omega219: I rethought the crush question. :)
I chuckle. Again. My office mate doesn’t bother to look up this time.
CoffeeGuy789: Oh yeah. Who is it?
Omega219: Mine’s the same.
Omega219: You lied about yours.
Damn. She’s perceptive.
She probably never heard of my real crush.
CoffeeGuy789: So who do you think it really is?
Omega219: You tell me.
Omega219: Be honest.
That’s not going to happen.
My crush runs an omega company. Silas found her when he was searching online for gift ideas for his sister.
Our entire pack stood mesmerized at the kitchen counter as she talked about why she started her business.
She was all business. Zero interest in being sexy, and damned if I wasn’t hard for hours, anyway.
I watched the video four times after the guys went to bed.
For all I know, Omega219 is a subscriber.
CoffeeGuy789: I’m sticking with JLD.
Omega219: You’ll tell me eventually.
The radio crackles to life in the bay. The guys are on their way back.
CoffeeGuy789: Gotta go. CoffeeGuy789: Talk tomorrow?
Omega219: Sure. I’ll have another screening question.
I tuck my phone away just as the bay doors rumble open to let in Engine 43.
Tonight, Silas will have dinner on the table. Graham will talk about research like we all understand him. Tomorrow, Omega219 will ask another screening question.