Page 7 of Heat Hesitation

So, we're left with server-type jobs, where getting coverage is easier if we call out. I could sign a bunch of paperwork and disclose I'm on heat suppressants stating I wouldn't need time off for heat or scent-blockers, which confuse my designation, but frankly, I don't want to discuss my body with an employer, under any circumstances. No one else has to, not betas or alphas. It's not fair.

I'm not technically disclosed at my catering job, but they have yet to ask, and they have so many employees that no one cares what you are. Besides, I'm always drenched in cheap scent-blockers, so no one can tell what I am.

I spot Roxy on stage, her legs wrapped around the pole while she extends her arms, pushing her generous chest up toward the sky, swaying upside down like a gymnast with her alphas watching in the wings. She's the only packed-up omega who works here. Her chosen mates adore her more than anything, and the fact that they can watch their beautiful mate take her clothes off and dance like the world's most ethereal creature in front of others without losing their shit is proof that we are more than our designation.

With a quick glance around the room, I find the tables with empty drinks, adjust my bustier, then get to work.

Chapter 4

Ophelia - one week ago

"This was sitting outside your door," Melanie tosses the rolled-up full-color high-gloss magazine on my coffee table after barging in unannounced. "I don't know how you read this shit, it's worse than the Rag."

One glance at the front cover, though the image is distorted by the roll and tie of the magazine, my personal, shameful secret poses right there on the cover.

I pick it up and discreetly toss it on the kitchen counter, feigning disinterest. I am not in the mood to look at another picture of one of the Constantines at a club or lunch with some hot, wealthy, available omega or beta.

It's like a car crash. I can't look away even though every picture fills me with dread and sadness. Longing. Mel's noticed my recent obsession with collecting local magazines and newspapers but there's no way in hell she'd ever guess why.

Fortunately, I don't get time to sulk. She takes in the mess on my old scuffed coffee table, collapsing onto the couch beside me as I spread out all my pills. While I sort through and count, she comments, "It's been almost eight years. Maybe you should take a break."

Ignoring her advice, I counted how many weeks I had left on heat suppressants. The longer you're on them, the more intense your heat can be when you finally wean off, hence her concern. I learned that the hard way.

"I've got another three weeks supply for myself. I'll head over to Queenie's after I pick up my next shipment so I can distribute the rest, but my last supplier was short on birth control. Roxy's waiting on birth control, too. Think you could…?"

"Of course I will. It's ridiculous she has trouble getting a prescription. She has a pack, she's bonded…"

"We feeble minded omegas can't be trusted with autonomy," I joke, though my sarcasm tastes bitter. Truthfully, Roxy could get a prescription, but she'd have to jump through a few hoops, and sometimes it's just easier when you have a hook-up. "Anyway, it's not like I'm getting laid and need birth control myself, but better to be safe." No omega worth their salt assumes sex is entirely off the table, no matter how celibate one tries to be.

Melanie hums in agreement, chewing on a giant mouthful of salt and vinegar chips, the bag in her lap spilling crumbs everywhere. Not that my plaid, softly frayed couch is anything to write home about, but still, I give her a chastising nudge, and she grins, reminding me of her youngest. With her short bangs, freckled face, and mischievous personality, she could pass for much younger than her forty-something years.

I look back to the pile on the table. Though heat suppressants, scent-blockers, and birth control are not technically illegal for an unbonded omega to be on, it's rare for a doctor to prescribe them. Every single doctor I've been to since my designation was revealed gave me a condescending pat on the shoulder and encouraged me to join the OFA or bond with a pack if I wanted pills, reminding me that it was my duty, with the dwindling population of omegas, to bear children and would not write me a prescription.

Nowadays, it doesn't matter if you're an OFA graduate or not, bonded or not—if you live in South Loop, you have no access to decent health care.

Omegas at the OFA are given high-quality heat suppressants to encourage them to maintain their virginal status until a pack chooses them. If I didn't hate the organization for other reasons, that would surely do it.

So, omegas like me, who didn't want to get stuck in the system that perpetuated and infantilized our designation as simpering, fragile, flighty sex bots whose only purpose in life was procreation, we're stuck working the system, making trades and building contacts so we could all get what we needed.

Melanie, my friend, and next-door neighbor has two kids, and despite having her tubes tied, she has no issues getting birth control because she's a beta, so she gets them for me.

Heat suppressants—which help stave off heavy heats, though they don't keep them away entirely—are the hardest to get your hands on. Again, not strictly illegal, but highly controlled. Fortunately, I've got a supplier who works part-time at one of the heat clinics nearby, and I pick up a shipment once a month and make my rounds to all the omegas I know who are hiding in plain sight and in need.

Scent-blockers are the easiest to get your hands on. You can buy shitty ones over the counter, but people tend to avoid those because they have a super-sweet, almost chemical smell to them, which changes with each wearer since they're designed to mix up and confuse your designation. And they wear out after a day. I've never bothered with the more expensive scent-blockers, being fine passing as a fake beta with the over-the-counter cheap ones.

The nicer ones last almost a whole week, sometimes longer, and erase your scent entirely, changing your chemical pheromones from the inside. You could be in heat on those, and still be unscented. But they're harder to get, and I want to make sure the others have what they need before I dip into the stash. Most omegas at Queenie's prefer those, so I buy them when possible.

The drawers in my kitchen make me look like a back-alley pharmacist.

"How's Dante Pack doing these days, anyway?" Melanie asks, bouncing her eyebrows suggestively.

Despite being only three alphas, Red's pack practically runs South Loop, our neighborhood on the southernmost tip of the sprawling city of Arrow Cove, one of the largest cities in the country. The further south you go, the more destitute the neighborhood, a prime location for a pack like Dante to thrive.

The further north in Arrow Cove, the more wealthy, and sitting right at the tippy top is the city's crown jewel, the largest Omega Finishing Academy in the country. They likely have a few thousand unbonded residents, which is unheard of, knowing that less than ten percent of the population is omega.

People come to our fair city from all over the country to shop at the OFA for their perfect little omega.

"They're fine. Queenie's is thriving. I tried to get Red to let me dance on stage..."

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