Page 2 of Knot for Sale

In addition to the random personal threat, there was another text from Jessica, reminding me that the rent was due in two weeks. Also, one from a fellow model I’d met at the show tonight, asking me if I wanted to go out for drinks. I replied to both, trying to ignore my still-pounding heart—I knowandno thanks, too tired, respectively.

Voice mail had to wait until I was at my stop and outside of the noisy station in the Lower East Side. Keeping an eye on my surroundings and a hand resting close to the pepper spray in my pocket as I walked, I dialed and set the phone to my ear.

“You have one new message.”

“Please be my agent with a new gig,” I muttered. Gigs had been too few and too far between in New York, especially lately.

“Emma. Darling. It’s Paul.”

I sucked in a breath, hope sparking. Just one more decent job, and I’d at least be set for this month.

“I need you to come in first thing on Monday, pet. Another client has canceled on us, and the higher-ups are getting antsy. Jared and Clio want to discuss your future with the agency. You know I’m on your side, sweetheart, but—”

I disconnected the call mid-message, my stomach roiling as clammy sweat popped out on my brow. ‘Your future with the agency’might as well have been code for ‘we’re cutting you loose.’ Stumbling to a halt outside my apartment building, I stared up at the window of the cramped, eighth story flat I shared with two other random people.

A couple of hours ago, I’d been a demigoddess. Now, I was about to be unemployed, someone was sending me anonymous threats, and I only had enough money for maybe two weeks before I was broke and homeless, as well.

TWO

Emma

SINCE STANDING ON the pavement staring stupidly up at the dingy gray edifice where I lived wasn’t a practical long-term strategy, I eventually kicked my arse into gear and went inside, trudging up eight flights of stairs. ‘Stairs’ versus ‘lift’ was an ongoing existential debate in this building, based largely on the fact that the lift smelled like cat piss and made alarming grinding noises when it moved.

Tonight wasn’t the kind of night where it felt safe to tempt the patron saint of fifty-year-old steel elevator cables.

The hallway leading to my shared flat was an ode to flaking plaster and poor paint-color decisions. Whether the second to the last door on the right could be considered a haven from my troubles largely depended on Jessica’s presence or absence. Not because Jessica was a horrible person or anything like that; she was just the one with her name on the lease. Elijah and I were subletting from her. As such, my guilt at not being able to come up with this month’s rent would be exponentially worse if I had to look her in the eye this evening.

I wasn’t sure if Elijah would be home either. Like me, he was an omega.Unlikeme, he didn’t try to hide it or contort himself to fit inside a beta-shaped box. He’d slunk away a few days ago smelling of rose petals, rainwater, and arousal, after informingus that he was off to share a natural heat with one of those skeevy rent-a-packs who advertised on night club notice boards. Not that he’d used the word ‘skeevy,’ of course.

I had no idea how he managed it without coming apart at the seams.

The UK at least had robust alphomic anti-discrimination laws in place, yet the country was still massively beta-dominated. On this side of the pond, there were far fewer legal protections for our kind, and the prejudice was a lot more open. As far as I could gather, Elijah had taken one look at the prevailing societal headwinds, shrugged indifferently, and proceeded to do whatever the hell he felt like doing.

In his defense, it seemed to be working out pretty well for him. He was in high demand for both catalogue and runway modeling jobs, and I never had the impression he was hurting for cash. Maybethatwas his secret. Maybe there were more expensive rent-a-packs out there that weren’t as skeevy.

But...nope. The idea still made my skin crawl... though at least thinking about it had distracted me from my own troubles for a few minutes.

I stuck my key in the lock and let myself inside the flat—orapartment, as the Yanks insisted on calling rental units. The place was a mess, but that was no surprise. It wasalwaysa mess, and I was one-third to blame for that.

In other circumstances, calling out, “Hey, I’m back! Is anyone else home?” at a quarter past eleven would be rude. In a New York flatshare occupied by three fashion models, it was a given that no one would be asleep before midnight.

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