Page 53 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Crisp wind blows in the cracked kitchen windows. The air seemed overheated and stale when I first got home hours ago, but it leaves a chill.

Their promises are both calming and even more stressful. I’ve been living with them for three weeks, but for the first time, the gravity of being in a confined space with them carries weight.

Is Mason avoiding me? Afraid of me?

Vin’s being too nice. He’s sweet as a baseline, but it’s forced now—stomach-churningly so.

And Trick. Sigh. Oh, Trick. I just want the old Trick back. Not the one who treats me like delicate glass. I am anything but breakable.

I slam the windows shut.

And worst of all, I can’t even talk to Jolie about it.

“I can’t believe they sent you home,” my best friend says on the other end of the phone. The device rests on the countertop, speakerphone on, while I unpack the groceries.

“My TM said they didn’t need me for the shift. It’s making me paranoid as fuck. The call center is a shitty job, but it’s stable.”

“Are your stats down?”

“No, my call times are right on the average, my FCR is in the top 10, and my scores are above a 4.6.”

Do they know I’m an omega?

Am I being pushed out of a designation-unsuitable job?

Anxiety swirls while the possibilities lay bricks that confine rational thought.

What do I do if they fire me?

I don’t think the boys would tattle on me, but I never thought Brad would either.

Most of my spare time has been devoted to plans to survive the Admin. My burner is full of pages and pages of saved links for bus schedules, cash-only camping sites, and online data entry jobs that the pinboards say don’t ask for much info.

Being on the run is a false idea of freedom. I’ll never be able to put down roots once my name is in the Admin’s records. Losing Jolie and my family would be a heartbreak I’m not sure I’d recover from.

Alternatives circulate in my thoughts, and the gentle ease of the life I’d been imagining evaporates.

Or I could stay. Submit. Let the puck fall where it’s dropped.

Sounds like torture.

I’ve been saving every penny I can, and not having much overhead has been a dream for my rainy day fund, but I won’t last more than a few months on my own. That’s doubly true when I’m setting aside as much as I can to repay Trick for painting my car.

“Do you think they figured it out, Jolie?”

She’s silent for an interminable half-minute.

“No. If they did, it’d be a lot more invasive than cutting a shift. Someone would be at your door.”

“Then it’s a regular termination and not a discriminatory one.”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions yet, but it would be a good idea to plan alternatives.”

There are no other options. The more I think it through, the more I realize I have to maintain my course. Panic does not lead to solid decision-making.

“I don’t have any other options,” I tell her. “I need a job that’s flexible.”

“Right, for the puck boys you’re definitely not involved with.”

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