Page 29 of Knot Just A Fan

The heat might be over but a headache blossoms in the back of my skull. With some measure of agony, I stand, strip off my pajama pants, throw them in the clothes hamper, and start the shower. I count to ten, hoping it’s warm enough, and step inside.

“Fuck!” I screech.

It’s not.

But after a few minutes, I get used to the cool and by then, it’s warmed. After I’m clean, I brush my teeth and let my wavy hairair-dry, and pull on some fresh clothes. Shiny black leggings, tank top, and a black fuzzy oversized jumper. With some socks on, I grab my slip-on Doc Martens and a long wool-blend button-up coat.

“Cami?” I call. I enter the sitting room and the sofa, which sits centered in the room, facing the front window and the TV in the corner. Cami’s braids are undone, hanging over the arm of the sofa. Her mobile phone sits on the cushion in front of her face, and she’s snoring slightly. I smile.

“Thanks for moving the dresser away,” I whisper. Clearly she’s overdone it, sitting up watching over me. I look at my smart watch and realize it’s not been charged in—God, what day are we on?

January 2nd. Okay, it’s only been about a day that I’ve been in heat.

I leave her a note on the kitchen table.It’s over. Thank you, BFF. I’m going to get us coffee and pastries. I think you’re working this evening. Text me.

I get to Danni’s Coffee & Cakes, a tiny local shop that’s been our favorite since it opened two years ago. There’s one empty table and my favorite barista’s working behind the bar, and since Cami hasn’t messaged that she’s dying for caffeine, I order one for me and take a seat. I pop on headphones, cover a yawn, and blink a few times. It’s 1 p.m. I’ve had a heat. I didn’t wreck the house or hump a stranger.

Then I remember: I’m also not going on tour with Arcadia Echo. I have no job.

And no Grayson.

I swallow down the hot coffee and pick at my nail polish. The couples and groups circling tables around the small room are full of warmth and New Year’s greetings and laughter and excited whispers.

And here I am, back where I was before I even joined the Guild. Who will hire me, having been ousted? How will I afford to live?

Panic starts to build, but I do breathing exercises. In for five, hold, out for ten. I still can’t believe Echo would do this—that Grayson would do this. Something’s happened and I can’t understand it.

In fact, this happened one other time. A guy I dated—the guy I lost my virginity to, in fact. Chris. We were an item for weeks. He was a Beta, and I think excited to bag a young Omega without a pack. He was a few years older than me, but more worryingly, he was separated from his wife at the time. I should’ve read the signs, but he was so good at acting sincere. Then one day, he stopped returning my calls, my messages. I dropped by his place and there was no answer. I went to his work, because you do those kinds of desperate things when you’re that age and thinking you’re in love, and he had no expression when he came out to meet me. He told me it was a tough time, that his ex was making life hard, and he didn’t have the capacity, but he’d “be in touch.”

He just didn’t clarify with who. Because a month later of being ghosted, I saw online that he was back living with his ex and they’d patched things up. I tried to contact him but he never replied.

I never knew what I did wrong.

And I still don’t.

I start scrolling job boards online. I know of one site that advertises jobs for unmatched Omegas, but I’ve never personally had to use it. It doesn’t have the best reputation, but after an hour of sitting there (and a text from Cami saying she has to leave for her job in a half hour, she’s so glad I’m okay, andanything for you, girlfriend, see you tonight around 10, we’ll work this out!), I start to scribble down a couple possible leads.

They won’t pay much. But a few of them offer “basic medical coverage.” Doesn’t say insurance, but maybe it’s all I need. After all, if you’re looking to hire a packless Omega, you better believe her not going into heat is in your best interest.

One listing talks aboutsome equipment is provided, and then it hits me: my equipment.

I brought my camera home in its separate camera bag, but my equipment bag—lens, filters, cleaning stuff, tripod, remote, spare batteries and cards. Fuck, even my work laptop. I don’t know why I brought it to that gig.

Over-preparedness out of nervousness for my first gig with them in the best part of a decade. That’s why. Shit.

Ash’s number rings as I think this through, quickly, and probably way too hastily. I need my stuff back, but also, this might be my one chance to speak to Grayson.

But Ash doesn’t answer. I text him.

I’ve left a bag of equipment at the venue. How can I get access?

In case you’ve deleted my number, it’s Briella.

That last part was added for passive-aggressiveness.

I finish off my second coffee and the pain au chocolat I splurged on. I shouldn’t be spending any money, but if I’ve ever needed a French pastry more, I’ll be damned.

Ash’s reply comes within a minute—in the form of an actual phone call.

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