"You’re heating your caravan with a hairdryer and…" Maeve’s voice dropped. “I saw you scraping mold off the wall.”
My cheeks heated. "It was just a spot. Penicillin is good for you."
"Presley." She reached out, covering my hand with hers. Her skin was rough, chapped from washing dishes. "Thiscould be it. The way out. The payment could be enough to get a proper flat."
I looked at the ad again. The words sparkled on the page.Kensington.A place of white stucco houses, wrought iron fences, and people who didn't know what a pre-payment electric key was.
"They won't want me." The shield I’d built meticulously over the twenty-three years I’d been on this earth locked into place. "Look at the requirements. 'Discreet.' I have no filter. 'Healthy.' I eat chips three times a week. They want some posh London omega who smells like Chanel Number Five and went to a finishing school. They want pedigree. I’m a mongrel from a caravan park in North Yorkshire."
"You're pretty," Maeve argued. "You've got the hips for it. And you're clean."
"Thanks. I’ll put that on my CV.'clean and has hips.'"
"I'm serious! Just call them."
"Why don't you call them?" I shot back. "You're an omega. You need money just as much as I do."
Maeve flinched. It was small, a tightening of her jaw, a flicker in her green eyes. She pulled her hand back. "I can't leave the park, Pres. You know that."
"You can. We could go together. We should both get out of this dump."
"No. I'm safe here," she said, and the finality in her voice shut me up. She looked out the window again, at the gray trees. "Nobody looks for people here. It'soff the map."
"Maeve..."
"Besides," she forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I… I doubt I'd be enough for a high value pack in London."
The air between us grew heavy. We never talked about her life. We never talked about the bruise she’d had on her arm when she first started working here, or why she flinched at loud noises. She was hiding from something, or someone, but assumptions weren't always good. For instance, people assumed when my parents died, I was going to be rich.
I took a sip of tea to wash down the lump in my throat. "Fine. I'll think about it. But they won't pick me."
"They might." Maeve bent down and rummaged in her bag on the floor. "Which is why you need to be prepared."
She slapped a plastic Tesco bag onto the table. There was something long and hard inside.
I peered into the bag.
"Maeve, why have you got me a turkey baster?" I whispered, looking around to see if the old man from caravan fifty five was at the counter watching. He normally came in at this time of the day.
“Don’t let Dave know about it. I put it on the food delivery order. It’s technical support," she whispered loudly. "Shows initiative and professionalism, Presley! If you get the interview, you whip that out, show them you know how the mechanics work. Save them the awkward conversation."
I choked on a laugh, nearly snorting tea out of my nose. "You think I should sit down with a rich alpha pack, and slap a ninety-nine pence turkey baster on their desk?"
"It’s hygienic!"
"You’re mental."
"I'm practical." She pushed the bag toward me. "Get in there first. They’re probably gay and don’t want a baby the natural way.”
“Why not?”
“Because as pretty as you might be down there.” Her finger wiggled as it pointed between my legs. “They won’t be interested.”
I shook my head, but I took the bag. "If I get arrested for having a concealed weapon, I’m blaming you."
"Deal."
“Do you think they’re gay?” I asked.
