Page 4 of Break Me Knot

They’re not wrong.

“Dude, seriously?” One of his friends—red polo shirt and an expensive haircut that screams old money—wrinkles his nose in exaggerated disgust. “She's a fucking grease monkey. Can you imagine what she smells like under all that cheap perfume?”

If he only knew. I douse myself in this shit as an extra level of security just in case my natural scent breaks through under the metric ton of scent blocker I wear. Another black-market expense I can’t afford.

“Twenty bucks says she'd do anything for the right price,” Chad/Brad says, like I'm not even there. His eyes rake over me, calculating. “Look how desperate she is. Bet she's got bills she can’t pay. Or maybe a drug habit to feed? What's your poison, sweetheart?”

They have no idea how right they are and how desperate I am, but not for them. I work hard to keep my voice steady. “We only serve food here, sir. If you’d like some dessert, I’m happy to get that for you.”

“Probably riddled with disease anyway,” Red Polo sneers, loud enough for the whole diner to hear. “Not worth the risk, even if she is desperate enough to fuck for cash.”

“As I said, you don’t get that type of service here, sir,” I say, forcing politeness despite the crush of appropriate words jammed up in my throat. My years of ‘training’ have paid off. I know how to keep a serene look on my face and my comments to myself no matter what might be happening. A few cheap shots is nothing compared to true torture.

I turn away, legs trembling with the effort of staying upright. Their laughter follows me as I walk behind the long counter that stretches across the diner.

Through the service window, Mac's weathered face appears, concern etching deeper lines around his eyes. “You okay, kid?” His gaze flicks to the college boys,then back to me. He's seen their type before, knows what they do to girls like me. Mac's been looking out for me in his own gruff way since I started. Even when he was out sick last week, leaving me and the other wait staff with Andy's cruel management and empty stomachs, he came back with extra food portions to make up for his absence.

“I'm fine,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. The smile might crack my face. “Just tired.”

He doesn't believe me—I see it in the way his brow furrows—but he says nothing. I keep my smile for him, knowing he’ll probably put a little extra in my take-home food tonight, and I could kiss him for it.

I grab the coffee pot with shaking hands, making my rounds to the customers at the counter. Every tip counts when you're paid in tips. No wages, no security, but no paper trail either. Perfect for an omega in hiding, which is why I keep working here. Perks!

An elderly man in a trucker cap holds out his cup, and I start to pour, but another cramp hits, harder this time. The pot wavers, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as a hot warmth drips between my legs and sugared lilac blooms around me. Sweet and unmistakably omega. The trucker’s nostrils flare and he looks up from his study of the worn counter, a slight line between his brows as he seeks out the source of the scent.

Fuck.

The coffee pot nearly slips from my hands. I have to get out of here. Back to my apartment, back to what passes for safety. I hope to hell that one pill will stave off the effects of withdrawal before I somehow find Marcus and beg or threaten him for more suppressants. Anything to stop this.

The bell above the door chimes as the college boys leave, their laughter drifting over the quiet hum of conversation. I glance at their table, plates scattered everywhere, used napkins crumpled and tossed carelessly across the surface and, of course, barely enough money to cover the bill, let alone a tip. Entitled assholes.

“Cindy.” I catch her arm as she passes, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need to go home. Can you take care of my tables?” Cindy is the other waitress. We’ve worked here for months but she’s as cloaked about her circumstances as I am.

She looks at my hand pressed against my cramping stomach, and her face hardens with recognition. “Period?” she asks flatly. There's no sympathy in her voice. Life beat that out of her long ago. She's got her own problems, her own struggles. My pain is just an inconvenience.

“Yeah,” I lie, swallowing hard as sweat begins to dot my forehead. “Really bad this time. You…you can have my tips.”

Her eyes dart to the tip jar, calculating quickly before lighting up. “Fine,” she says, already turning away. “Go.”

I grab my coat from the hook, not bothering to put it on. “Night, Mac,” I call out, catching his worried look through the service window. I can't meet his eyes. He's been too kind, and kindness is dangerous right now.

I'm leaving without tips, without the take-home meal I desperately need, but none of that matters. It might be four in the afternoon, but the sky is already darkening with the snow about to hit later tonight. The streetlights flick on early as I stagger through the streets.

Ten blocks stretch ahead, each step an exercise in agony, but without tips I can’t afford the bus trip, let alone the risk of anyone scenting me. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold. Every car that passes makes me flinch. My legs shake with each step, muscles cramping as my body tries to prepare for something I refuse to let happen.

I tip back my head and blink up at the dark brick of my building, vaguely surprised I’m here as the first drop of snow melts on my face. The last four blocks I must have walked in a daze. That’s stupid. Careless. But nothing I can do about it now.

I stagger through the front doors, noticing that the glass has been kicked in again, and make my way to the stairwell as my abdomen twists. Three flights. Just three flights. I can do this. I must do this. I drag myself up, clinging to the railing, counting each step. I fumble with my keys when I finally make it to myapartment, dropping them twice before managing to get the door open. The lock clicks behind me—one, two, three bolts—and then I collapse against the wood, sliding down to the floor before crawling to the cupboard. My hands shake so badly I can barely work the latch on the hidden compartment and grab the lone bottle.

The pill is tiny and inadequate in my palm. I swallow the pill dry, my throat working against the bitter taste. My hands won't stop shaking as I lock the box and return it to its hiding place. The cramping hasn't stopped, but it hasn't gotten worse either. Small mercies.

The adrenaline that kept me going drains away, leaving me hollow and weak. I need to rest. Just a few minutes before I have to go out again and track down Marcus. The thin mattress offers little comfort as I curl into myself. I don’t know how I’m going to pay him, but my eyes are so heavy, my body so drained...

I wake with a jolt. My phone's harsh blue light pierces through my exhaustion-blurred vision and I realize it was the notification bell that woke me. I pick up the phone and read Stacey's message. I know it’s her because I literally have no one else to add to my contact list.

STACEY: Need you at a different location tonight. 1247 Blackwood Ave. Liam's out sick. Can you cover?

I stare at the screen, my stomach churning. Blackwood Avenue is in Brynwald. I don’t like going to new locations at the best of times, but that area? It's all glass-and-steel high-rises and across the other side of the city. I’d have to take three buses just to get there.

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