MAC MASTERS
4 MONTHS AGO… RUT CONTROL CENTER AT LOS ANGELES MEDICAL
“Please,sign here giving us permission to proceed with treatment today.” An all-business nurse donning a tight bun pointed to a highlighted signature line. After two weekly visits over the last couple months, the check-in procedure felt pretty routine.
I signed.
“And here.” She flipped the page, indicating the second highlighted area. This staff member either didn’t know who I was, or didn’t care. I preferred that over being recognized.
When I finished signing, she had me check the patient wristband to confirm name, date, and year of first rut. I was also grateful that this nurse didn’t comment on my age. I’d gotten some sympathetic stares last time. Fourteen years in rut and no mate bond apparently made me one of their more ‘serious’ cases. Either that or, according to whispers, I wasn’t much of an Alpha. I hated when they knew who I was, and I always wondered when the first trash mag article would come out about Mac Masters and his Alpha problem.
If it were my style to be confrontational, I’d have shown every gossiper here the monster I kept at bay in public. I hadn’t even let the guys see the darkest side of my struggle. I knew why I chose to suffer insilence. That’s how I was raised. It was a sin to be selfish and burden others with our shortcomings. If I really needed relief, I should turn to scripture. Even though I now knew that often my family wrapped cruelty inside a facade of faith, I still sometimes felt like that little boy having his hands beaten with a bible for straying. It was safer to keep quiet and go solo.
“Are things running on time today?” I asked, letting the nurse encircle my wrist and secure the plastic bracelet.
“So far,” she spoke briskly, eyes on a computer. “But you know how that goes since this isn’t your first rodeo.”
“Right,” I nodded.
“Go have a seat and we’ll call you back shortly.”
“Thanks.” I offered her a smile, even though her focus was still trained elsewhere. My usual seat by a large plant that hid me from view was taken, so I grabbed a seat by the bank of windows which overlooked the medical center’s garden.
The others still thought I was taking piano lessons to refresh my skill. At first, it amazed me they’d fall for such an obvious lie—considering I was classically trained and could play Chopin from heart at seven—but we were all becoming more self-absorbed as our Alpha natures deteriorated. Them choosing not to pick apart my fabrication was no different than me ignoring the various ways they were coping. Dixon constantly in the gym, like bigger muscles meant bigger control, when all it really meant was more destruction when he lost his shit. Ryder constantly trying to string notes together in the recording studio, playing until his fingers bled and singing until his voice was hoarse. And our devil-may-care Tray suddenly throwing his entire energy into earning a degree he’d likely never use. I wasn’t even sure what college he was attending. Somewhere with rolling admissions I suppose since he started on a whim two months ago.
Half an hour passed. I checked my watch every five minutes, legs crossed and top foot bouncing in response to my barely checked anxiety.
“Mac Masters?” My name often ended up being a question here. As I answered, standing up and coming into view, the pixie-haired nurseholding a clipboard couldn’t hide her surprise. To her credit, her expression recovered quickly.
I closed the distance, and the woman made no move to lead me into the back treatment area. I glanced behind her pointedly and then cleared my throat when she still seemed frozen in place. Guess the shock hadn’t been so short-lived after all.
“Are we heading back or did you call my name for another reason?” I didn’t raise my voice, I kept an even temper, even as my insides began to boil. Sometimes it would be great to trade places with Dixon. I could lose control whenever I needed to. I could break shit. And no one would be surprised. Not me though. I was reliable, calm, mother hen Mac.
“Oh, right. I’m so sorry. It’s only my second day.” She stepped to the side and held a hand towards the inner hallway. “We’re ready for you.”
She led me into triage first, running all the typical pre-tests. After that I was taken to treatment room D. That hit me as funny, considering I’d just wished to trade places with Dixon.
“Doctor Moorehead and his assistants will be in soon. Please undress and put your personal belongings into the provided patient bag. The gown is on the table.” She handed me a white plastic bag stamped with the medical center logo.
When she left, I hesitated. Not for the first time, I wondered if this was worth it. It wasn’t the worst pain I’d ever gone through, but it might be a close second, and all for a chance at delaying my worsening rut cycle. I couldn’t deny that the blocker pellets they pushed into a small incision on my ass had worked better than anything else over the counter. But the scent stripping process that lowered gland production felt like walking through a damn volcano.
Resigned, I took off my shoes, stripped out of my clothes and placed everything neatly in the bag. I took my watch off last. My vintage timepieces were becoming something of a security blanket. I was literally naked, but when I undid the band and freed my wrist, I felt truly bare. Even the thin medical gown didn’t make me feel clothed. Didn’t help it was hard to fucking tie by myself and I could feel a breeze through the slit up the back.
One knock, followed by the door swinging open announced the doctor’s arrival. He filed in with more than the normal number of assistants at his back. I wondered how he worked here as an Alpha. Being around so many people riding ferality’s edge had to be challenging. He was mated though, and part of a larger pack who’d chosen the multiple Omega route, so maybe all the swirling pheromones and raging ruts didn’t get to him. Last time I was here, there was a guy so deep in it that the entire hallway outside his treatment room smelled like a sex-fueled boxing match. Just blood, sweat, adrenaline and raw need poured off him. I wondered how many blocker pellets that guy’s ass ended up sporting.
“Mister Masters, I’ve got a few students from the pre-med program shadowing me today. Will that be okay with you? You are, of course, welcome to refuse.” Doctor Moorehead was flipping through paperwork per usual, checking over my patient notes.
“I’m fine with it,” I said, even though I really wasn’t fine with it at all. My inner Alpha wasn’t so keen to lie though, sending a spray of disgruntled scent into the air. A few of the students sniffed, one crinkled her nose.
“Ah, students. This is a great learning opportunity,” the doctor quipped, “What physiological mechanics caused Mister Masters’ maximus and minora glands to react?”
“Oh!” A freckled Beta raised his hand excitedly, “Alpha and Omega glands are directly linked to the brain’s limbic system.”
“And what is the limbic system’s purpose?” Doctor Moorehead probed, ignoring the teacher’s pet who quickly jolted his hand into the air a second time. When no one stepped up to the plate, the doctor directly asked someone. “Miss January, don’t be shy."
A petite Omega nervously moved around the larger bodies blocking her. Her own glands perfumed the air. Not only were she and I incompatible, but we both were currently secreting a warped version of our natural smell. It was the opposite of aromatherapy.
The girl quietly began to answer. “The limbic system is all about emotions. It also controls our survival behaviors. I think,” she swallowed,trying to work up her courage, “he must be lying.” She inhaled deeply, pale pink mouth drawn into a sharp, thoughtful line. “Or he’s just anxious about the treatment. I can’t really tell because our chemistry is pretty contraindicative.”
