Page 12 of Shaken Knot Stirred

I clung to the edge of the woods and did my best to circle my trailer, looking for evidence that it had been tampered with. I rolled my eyes at myself. I wasn’t some detective, but I had done my fair share of breaking and entering, so you would think that would help right now. It didn’t.

This place wasn’t under my name. I was technically squatting, but the bar wasn’t in my name either and Beg had found that.

I stepped out of the woods and covered the short distance to my front door quickly. I jiggled the handle. The door was still locked. If you were a psychopathic drug dealer and pimp who broke into some random girl’s trailer, would you lock the door behind you?

I tipped over the flowerpot with spindly dead mum stems and grabbed the spare key, sliding it into the lock. I pushed the door open. It creaked just like it always did. Relief poured into me. I felt ridiculous for sniffing the air like a dog, but no other scents lingered here but my own. No slimy pine of my… scent match.

Damn it.

The trailer felt like a dollhouse. An empty shell dressed up to make it look real. I had whitewashed it when I moved in so it wouldn’t be so dank and depressing. Half-dead plants that had barely survived my short-lived cottage core period littered every surface. There was a small collection of takeout containers on the coffee table, looking like a magic ritual that had been interrupted. A creak from the bedroom in back skyrocketed my heart beat. I froze, straining my ears. This rickety place shook with the slightest breeze.

This wasn’t home. This was just a place I kept my clothes. Maybe if I said that enough, it would be true.

Without looking, I grabbed a duffel bag off the top shelf of the closet and tore it open. I made the rounds of the living room and kitchen, picking up knick knacks I thought were important. A makeup bag, a stack of mail, a pencil case full of those colorcoordinated markers with little cartoon froggies on the top. Shaking the bag, I looked into its depths. These were all markers of a life I couldn’t have anymore.

Tipping the bag upside down, all the little items rained out. I swooped to pick up the makeup bag. That was the only thing that was actually useful.

Starting in the bedroom, I swiped some of my favorite clothes and some of the more practical ones. I paused with a handful of panties, hovering over my collection of bras. I’d have to forgo my “matched set” phase. I also grabbed T-shirts, comfy jeans, and a plastic-y windbreaker that I hated. I swiped some dresses. You never knew when you’d have to dress up and date for dollars.

My collection of wigs hung on the back of my door. Tapping my lip, I contemplated my options. Auracles were born with colorless hair, devoid of pigment. For unknown reasons, aura damage often resulted in changes to hair color. There was a theory that auracles were created because of aura damage. I didn't believe that. Wigs were a staple, and I’d been flirting with vibrant and otherworldly colors lately, but those wouldn’t serve me now. I picked a selection of boring colors in a couple of different lengths. Being as gentle as possible, I tucked them into a net lingerie bag. They’d be a bitch and a half to brush out, no matter what I did.

I almost gagged at my reflection in the mirror that hung next to the door. I was covered with filth. Twigs and leaves were embedded in my powder blue wig. Mud and blood straight across my face and arms. I didn’t even want to know what my ass looked like.

I ripped the wig off and let it fall to the floor, shaking out my hair. This one wasn’t even worth saving. I stripped clothes off while I waited for the water to get warm in the shower. Time was ticking away, but a filthy girl would stand out more than some random chick in a colored wig.

A ribbon of blood circled the train like a bad omen. The cut I’d opened up on my leg probably wasn’t too bad. Dripping wet from the shower, I held my leg over the sink and bit back curses when the peroxide stung. The last thing I needed right now was an infection from all the mud that’d stuck to my skin.

“Well kiddo,” I said to my reflection, “You’ve done this before. You can do it again.”

I’d always known that this was going to happen, always known that I would have to burn it all down and run again. I picked up the locket Nico stole for me and absolutely refused to think about the last time I’d run like this. I shook it to hear the pills rattle.

I’d have to go back to the bar.

Sure, blockers and suppressants were sold at gas stations. It was pretty common practice to reduce the impact your scent and pheromones might have when you were on a bar crawl or in large groups. The last thing you wanted when you were out with your besties was to get an alpha all alpha-y to ruin your night. But these were beyond prescription strength. Rumor was they had been discovered in a failed medical experiment. They were so new and untested they didn’t have a street name. I probably had a couple month’s supply at the bar. It would save me the hassle of cozying up to a drug dealer. For a little while anyway. Maybe I should even call up Marty’s dealer on the way out of town to see what he had.

Marty. Helena. What was I going to do about them? I owed them a goodbye at least, right? Could they run the place between them without me?

My head spun with all the things I’d have to do to set them up to handle the bar. Helena knew how to order supplies. She had had to take over for me when I had “a family emergency” and had to go out of town a couple times a year, when really I was fucking my heat away in a hotel out of town.

Taxes. Would they even know they had to pay taxes?

I pulled on jeans, a tank and a lightweight oversized sweatshirt that had the neck cut out so it hung off one shoulder.

Fuck it. I could just leave them. They’d figure out I was gone and not coming back. What did I care? I felt queasy, my stomach twisted up.

I looked around my little bedroom. It was a mess. Very unbecoming of an omega. I always wondered if the notion that omegas were all neat and tidy and particular about their homes was a self-fulfilling prophecy or an actual instinct. I wasn’t very homey. I let laundry and dishes pile up. My nightstand was scattered with soda cans and sex toys. This was just a bedroom and not a… nest.

I wrapped my arms around my stomach, hoping to prevent the soul deep ache that sprouted anytime I even said that word. I had never had a proper nest. Even with Nico. We’d moved so often, from shit hole apartment to shit hole apartment. I had told him nests were too fussy, too much of a bother. It was a lie, of course. I had never wanted a nest because I’d never wanted to face the trauma of having a place that meant that much to me and having to leave it.

I took a settling breath and pulled the sweatshirt out from under my pillow. It trailed behind me, dragging on the floor, and I headed for the door.

I stuffed Nico’s hoodie deep into the duffel bag so I wouldn’t have to think about it and stepped out. I groaned and teased out one of the sleeves. I rubbed it between my fingers and brought it to my nose. Nico’s fresh mint scent didn’t cling to it anymore, but my imagination didn’t know that, and it was good enough for now. Nests were all about comfort and safety. This was the only thing that made me feel that way.

I locked the door and tucked the key back under the flowerpot. The irony was not lost on me. I was a criminal, concerned about criminals crime-ing in my home.

I hoisted the bag higher on my shoulder and cursed.

Damn it.

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