Page 9 of All In

Money isn’t a good excuse to avoid getting answers, even though my anxiety tries to convince me it is.

I buckle down and call to schedule an appointment. Luckily, they’re able to fit me in tomorrow, but I’m still nervous about the entire ordeal.

My appointment is a disaster.

I’ve been on suppressants for just shy of two years, which is apparently the longest most doctors will prescribe them without a year break in between.

Dr. Meyers flat-out refuses to refill my prescription. She won’t discuss the possibility of a stronger brand, and she talks over me any time I try to bring up my very legitimate concerns.

I try to explain that the only reason I’ve been able to keep a job is because I take suppressants. She doesn’t seem to care or understand that I don’t have a family pack that I can rely on to help me financially.

The nurse comes in to draw blood for lab work, and Dr. Meyers explains my blood tests will be back in a few days. It should give an indication of exactly how soon my heat will start after my last dose of suppressants.

She also tries to give me a card for matching services and a pamphlet for the OPA, better known as the Omega Protection Authority. Unfortunately, that place is corrupt as hell. They push matching for unbonded omegas, even if it isn’t an ideal match.

I want no part of any of that.

I’m open to bonding and finding a pack, but I need it to be made up of people I’m genuinely attracted to.

I honestly don’t know where this leaves me.

I’m able to afford my apartment, and life in general, because I work five or six days a week.

If I miss an entire week—or more, considering she said my first heat after taking suppressants for so long could be hellacious—there’s a very real possibility I will lose my job.

I have a little money saved up, but not two months of bills. This could have devastating consequences for my future.

Also, I need to find alphas that I like.

Fast.

Like, between now and when I take my last suppressant.

I have less than three weeks of pills left.

My chest feels so tight, I think I’m on the verge of having a panic attack as I shove out the glass door leading to the parking lot.

I’m actually more stressed out now than I was when I went to get tested for STIs after learning Will was cheating on me. We always used condoms, but I still needed to be sure.

Luckily, everything was negative, but this feels like my world is falling apart.

I exhale heavily, aiming for the parking lot.

Picking up my car from the restaurant the other morning was a pain in the ass, but even when we go to the club, it’s so close that we walk instead of driving and fighting for parking there.

I take the corner to walk to the back of the building where the parking spots are, but I slam face-first into someone’s shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” Kennedy says. “Hey, girl!”

I recognize the voice before I can see her face.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Will asks, holding on to Kennedy’s arm.

I’m left to keep myself upright on my own, and my shoulder slams into the brick wall of the building.

Seriously?

I have to see the happy couple again?

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