Please, please, please, please. I don’t dare to breathe.
I left my door unlocked so I wouldn’t have to fight with the key. It’s not like I have anything to steal anyway. I slowly turn the knob and push with my shoulder. Just as it gives, the kitchen light flickers on in Papa’s house.
Stepping in, I close the door as softly as possible. I put my back against it and count to one hundred. Long enough for my breathing to slow. Long enough to know he’s not coming.
I turn the deadbolt and shrug off my coat, hanging it and my bag on the hook. The bag slips with a thud and hits the ground.
“Fuck.”
He can’t possibly have heard that from the house, right? As I snag the bag up, a lipstick, my wallet, and random papers slide out. I dig into the zippered pocket and pull out Reed’s pocket knife, stashing it between the leaves of the snake plant by the door. Papa sometimes searches my bag, but even he isn’t paranoid enough to frisk a houseplant.
The little knife is the only thing I have left of Reed’s, and that’s only because Papa doesn’t know I have it.
The purple dress is suddenly a rash on my skin. I tug at it, yank the zipper down, and wiggle out. The lining snags on my hips, and I nearly trip, legs tangled in the fabric. I drop it, naked and shivering in the kitchen, and let it lie crumpled on the floor like it’s dirty. My chest heaves.
It’s just fabric. It’s just a stupid dress. Bought to make an alpha happy.
I should ask Marilyn for a refund. Or a bonus. Or something. There has to be some kind of policy for this. Date insurance, maybe. You get handed off to another alpha mid-meal, you get your money back. That seems reasonable.
I snort softly to myself as I gather up the dress, smoothing the fabric even though I’ve already decided I hate it. It isn’t the dress’ fault. It did its job. It made me look like something I’m not. A real omega.
Timber said he’d give me to Beckett, his teammate. The words replay themselves whether I want them to or not. I know, rationally, that he didn’t mean it like that. He was awkward, careless,trying to fix a situation he’d already ruined. I pause, letting the dress unravel in my hands.
Beckett is his teammate.
Beckett is his teammate, and he doesn’t have an omega.
I take the five steps across my apartment. My foot makes contact with the lipstick I forgot to pick up, and it skitters across the bare wood floor. I wrench my bag open and dig into the corners, then dump all the contents. The two envelopes with my paychecks flutter free, along with torn-out pages of my receipt book and other trash I haven’t dealt with. A flash of hot pink catches my eye, and I fumble for it, snatching it up from the floor.
Marilyn’s card with her contact information.
Marilyn owes me a date.
Chapter two
ASH
Ijoltatthetwo little dings. My heart stops for a second and then kicks in like it’s falling down stairs. The sound feels so loud that it won’t actually fit in my head. I want to cover my ears and duck, but instead, I wipe my hands on my apron. The last thing I need today is to drop another platter of fries.
There are four plates at the window. After my first week working here, my arms were so sore and tired I couldn’t even lift them to take my ponytail out. I’d wondered if there were training programs just for diner waitresses. Am I supposed to be spending my time in the gym working out my biceps or something just to do the job? Kai, our busboy, can carry twice as much as I do, and it never fazes him. He isn’t even an alpha, and he can carry an entire stack of plates balanced on his fingertips.
And Estelle? She can line up two plates on her forearm and carry two more in her free hand without breaking a sweat. She grew upworking here, so maybe it’s just in her DNA. Maybe it’s because she’s a beta?
Maybe omegas are just weak.
“Ash. Order up.”
Ed hits the bell two more times, even though I’m standing right here. They are still gunshot loud, but it doesn’t hurt as much.
I smile weakly at the cook, but he doesn’t look up from the grill. The plates are sitting in the pass-through under the lamp, catching the light, minding their own business in the spotlight.
Lies. It’s a trap. They don’t look dangerous, but even one minute under the heat lamp turns them into lava. I don’t know what these plates are made of—probably military-grade ceramic—but they hold a grudge and bite back as if they are getting revenge for their fallen brothers. I’ve broken so many plates, I don’t blame them for lashing out.
I tap a finger to the edge of the first plate, just testing, fast. No yelp, no hiss, no instinct to shove my finger in my mouth. Safe enough. The first time I burned my fingers, Estelle bumped my hip and told me I’d have to develop “asbestos fingers”.
I look over at table three. I’m pretty sure they’re betas, so I think it will be fine to make two trips. I get a firm grip on two of the plates and hold them high as I skirt the edge of the counter. The lunch rush is mostly over, so I don’t have to tango with customers on my way to the table.
“Here you go,” I say. The betas sit up straight and move notebooks and printouts to clear space.
