I’m bisexual, so I had more than one gay man inform me that I’m gay, I’m just not fully out of the closet yet. I went to one gay event, got groped twice, had a panic attack, and went home. I get it—it’s gay culture. There’s a lot of unspoken rules. But it reminds me too much of being around alphas.
I’ve got on well with a few shyer gay men, but… who’s going to make the first move at that point?
I guess I could name it and claim it. ‘Come out’ as gender nonconforming, as nonbinary. But I’m not sure what that nets me. Finding other assigned-male-at-birth enbies is almost as hard as finding other male omegas. They’re out there, but they tend to do what I do: camouflage. Not make a fuss. Let other people keep the spotlight. People who need it more.
Except Iamabout to be in the spotlight. Sort of. As Jayda and I are going through the questions, I’m putting two and two together on why Morgan picked me.
Having me up there as a male omega kind of… highlights her female-alpha-ness. And I’m comfortable with that, with being on a stage if it makes the spotlight shine brighter on someone else, on someone who deserves it.
The meeting wraps, and I thank everyone for their warm welcome.
Then, I decline the next meetup invite, and when the pop-up confirms what I’d like to cancel, I select “This and all future events.”
#
On Thursday, I have one last all-day session with Jayda to polishmy performance. I’m starting to appreciate just how much preparation goes into sounding off-the-cuff.
We don’t have a script for me, perse. I’ve just answered each of these questions dozens of times by now. Each answer is a little different. I don’t pick quite the same words twice, but I know what I’m trying to get across and how long I should be talking for. I’m learning how to pause instead of sayingum.
I slip up again and apologize to Jayda.
“We’re not aiming for zero ums here,” she assures. “Just as few as possible. You’re an omega, so people will find a little nervousness charming.”
That comment relieves me more than it should. I think I’m supposed to be upset about stereotypes, but aren’t stereotypes kind of the point of this campaign? Jayda has confirmed that part of my purpose here is to be a foil to Morgan’s alpha-ness. So, I believe Jayda: as long as it’s not distracting, it’s okay to be a little nervous. Preferred, even.
A pressure lifts from my shoulders: pressure to be something I’m not. To be perfect and poised. It’s okay to be a little rough around the edges.
I’m thanking Jayda, asking her which phrasing is more clear, when a husky, feminine voice rings behind me and straightens my spine.
“How’s it coming?”
It’s casual, calm, but alpha-ness pulses in every syllable. Morgan.
“Brilliantly,” Jayda says with a genuine smile and another callback to the company motto. I’m not sure how everyone can do that so unironically, but she really means it.
“Glad to hear it,” Morgan says.
I haven’t turned around. I force myself to now, keeping my eyes low, centering on her shoes.
Wow, they’re great shoes. Deep-crimson patent leatheroxfords with a kitten heel. Fuck, even her shoes are hot. And I’m not even a foot guy. I don’t dare raise my eyes, don’t know what I’ll do if I meet her gaze.
Her scent finds my nose again: leather, whiskey, cedar. The cedar is especially bright today. Woodsy, warm and strong.
Part of my brain squirms, begs, aches to be closer to her. But it’s… distant. Like a memory, not an active feeling. My body remains calm, except for the tension in my spine. I don’t erupt into heat.
I dare raise my eyes.
Her expression is relaxed, but still observing. Like a lounging tiger.
She takes a few confident steps over, extending a hand. I jump to my feet.
“Morgan Hunter,” she says, gripping my hand. Hers is strong and calloused and dry and warm. I think mine is super sweaty. I hope she doesn’t notice. “But you can call me Mor. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Jamie Brennan,” I stammer out, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.
Morgan releases my hand and quirks an eyebrow at Jayda. “You sure he’s stage ready?”
My lungs drop into my gut. Oh fuck, how am I supposed to remember anything when I’m sitting next toher? This is a terrible idea.
