Page 8 of Heat Hesitation

Mel snorts, then laughs so big and boisterous that I'm actually a little offended. Trying and failing to sit straighter on my squishy couch, spilling more chips as she goes, she chuckles, "Babe. Babe. No. That's just…" She can't even complete her thought, she's laughing so hard.

"It wouldn't be that bad!"

"You remember when I tried to teach you to walk in heels for that catering gig we had to do at that fancy alpha's retirement party?"

I cringe, recalling the embarrassing scene. Typically, the catering staff wear black vests over white button-up dress shirts with flat black shoes. The uniform, simple and unobtrusive, is so the guests don't have to notice us or acknowledge that we're human beings. That particular event, the alpha wanted all the women working to dress like they were guests of the party, and while I wanted to say no, he offered to tip triple, and I couldn't afford to turn it down. Needless to say, I nearly broke an ankle while spilling an entire tray of champagne on myself, and the only reason I wasn't fired is because my dress became soaked, and the guests near the mishap were leering alphas, all too happy to watch me try and clean myself up.

"So?"

She snorts and flops back down. She gives me a look—the one where she thinks I'm being adorably naive. It's an exchange we have often.

"Okay, well, for once, Red's reaction was nicer than yours."

She shakes her head, diving her hand back into the chips.

"I just want more cash. I feel like I'm constantly swimming upstream," I huff and lean back, sounding as pathetic as I feel.

"Well… I kinda have a favor to ask that could help?"

I sit up straighter, wiggling my fingers in a come hither motion. "Anything. Hit me with it."

"So, there's a really big gig next Saturday, and I was supposed to work it, but Polly's got that play at school. At first, I couldn't turn down the money, so I said yes, but when Polly realized I might not come to her play, she cried for hours."

Mel looks away, dropping the bag of chips in her lap. I may complain about being poor, but I don't have two kids to support. Polly, her youngest, has been practicing for her role as a lobster in some Under the Sea production for weeks. Some late Sunday mornings, you can catch her running the halls between our apartments with her fake red cardboard claws, snapping her arms together dramatically, acting out with her cute little fake French accent.

But Mel needs money and can't afford to turn gigs down either. Because of seniority, she gets to snatch up events first, but once you say yes, it's up to you to find coverage if you can't make it. I'm sure it kills to turn down the money she desperately needs, but I imagine it feels even worse, hurting Polly's feelings.

"Of course, I can cover. I mean, obviously, I need the money. I'd love to."

"Well, that's not all. It's an OFA event."

"Oh." I never say yes to OFA events. Mel knows why, for the most part, and I've managed to avoid detection from the OFA since I was sixteen. It's not like it's illegal not to attend, but they're cult-like in their insistence that all omegas join.

I don't want to say yes; surely she can find someone else. I can't believe I'm turning down the money, but I tell Melanie I can't do it.

She's apologetic when she says, "I knew you wouldn't want to. I've literally asked everyone else to cover, either they can't do it, or they're already working. It's some huge gala, you know they usually throw two or three a year. I hate asking you."

At twenty-six, I’m well past the age of their graduates. I'm a legal adult, I've nothing to worry about the OFA trying to force me to join, even if the idea of having anything to do with them makes my skin feel like it's crawling with fire ants.

But she doesn't know the worst part.

I never told her—I never told anyone—about what happened on that bridge almost a year ago. And one pack that will surely show up to an OFA gala is my scent-match.

I rub my chest, the pain a real, live, beating thing, a sour kind of discomfort I've spent the last year ignoring. My not-mates, as I've grown used to calling them in my head, have been making headlines, as usual, as the most eligible bachelors in the city, photographed with stunning omegas draped over their arms all over the city.

I may have been a little drunk that night on the bridge, but Asher Constantine filled my senses. My mate. My alpha, my scent-match. He was so beautiful. Even in the dark, by the light of the moon, I could see how warm and sweet he'd be if we were together. In that instant, I had a flash, like a vision, or a memory never to pass, of him and I together, by a warm fire, while we made love and stared adoringly into each other's eyes, never wavering despite his needy thrusts.

But he was real, right there in front of me, wearing a tuxedo, appearing out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, there to rescue me—not that I needed it.

When I realized he thought I was going to jump—well, I was, but not because I was suicidal—I tried to reassure him that all was okay.

He's lucky I was drunk. If I was sober, I'd have run away the moment I scented him. I knew what that tuxedo meant, and though I didn't recognize him then, those high-society alphas are control freaks at best. Dangerous, dominant assholes at worst. His pack would likely have had me bonded, giving me no choice in the matter, and that's only if they chose to claim me publicly.

It didn't matter though. He barked at me to stop just as my confused, sad, drunk self was ready to tell him I was fine, and I lost my balance, falling awkwardly into the water below. It took me a while to swim out, shaking off his damned alpha bark.

By the time I made it to shore, I was dozens of yards downstream, outraged that he barked at me, tried to control me before we even exchanged names.

I found them. My scent-matched alphas. And they were a fucking high-society pack. Not just any high-society pack, but the high-society pack. They were so rich, they owned nearly a quarter of the buildings downtown, and their offices at Constantine Industries was the tallest skyscraper in the city.

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