“What are you doing,” Quinn all but squawked into the phone.
“I’m sending over cab fare.” Another muffled conversation ensued, a higher pitched voice joining into the fray. Mr. Rey growled something which made everyone else go silent. Quinn didn’t like it one bit. “Now I want you to get checked out and let me know what’s going on. We need to make sure everything’s legit before you go dancing on the floor, yeah?”
“I still… work there?”
“Of course you do, honey. When’s your next shift?”
“Tomorrow—I mean tonight.” Quinn wriggled further upright in the nest, leaning back against the cold, damp wall. She still had a job. She wouldn’t be homeless.
“Well, that’s not happening. I’ll move some girls around and get you back on the rotation next week.”
“O-Okay? I mean, thank you, Mr. Rey.”
“You got something to write with? I want you to call me direct when you know what’s up.”
“One sec.”
Scrambling from the nest, Quinn jogged to the kitchen. Scrawling the number he listed off on the back of a worn out receipt and promising to call as soon as she knew what was going on, she felt a sudden rush of relief so strong that her knees went watery. Uncertainty crawled in so close on its heels it had her gripping the counter to stay upright.
“Mr. Rey… why are you doing all of this for me? I’ve seen you fire girls for less and I’ve only been there less than a year.”
“Let’s just say your admirer made it real clear how unhappy he would be if we got rid of you over what happened.”
Eyes rounding and lower lip trembling, she gripped the counter tighter. She made the right sounds to Mr. Rey as he gave last-minute instruction, but damned if she heard any of it. Shame was a corrosive wave against the back of her throat. Ice floes of anger etched through her veins, chilling her to the core.
The man who had treated her like a cheap whore and left her standing cold and covered in his disgusting slime in a nightclub bathroom had saved her job.
Another garbled number came through the crackling P.A system, far too many ahead of Quinn’s little ticket for her to even bother listening through the din of crying, coughing, and cursing. She huddled in the uncomfortable plastic chair and watched the rain pelting the windows of the clinic.
Even after scrubbing her skin raw with the exorbitant soap made for the purpose, she caught the faint smell of her slick and the Alpha’s musk. It would have been more than enough to cause problems. Though Mr. Rey had been good to his word and sent the paycheck and even extra cash for a cab, she’d need all of it to keep the apartment and to see the medico. Even walking the quiet streets of early morning had more than enough people to notice.
Swimming in borrowed clothing from her neighbor’s teenage son (poor woman, to deal with this funk daily) she had made the almost two-mile trek to the nearest low income clinic, taken her number, and now it was just a waiting game. All while praying no one caught a whiff of her under teenage male stench.
Hours passed. Quinn gazed with undisguised longing at the vending machine with its glittering cornucopia of illuminated packages. She stared just like everyone else when a bristling, massive male strolled in with a gunshot wound in his shoulder as if nothing in the world was wrong. The tight knot of Omegas that had squeezed themselves into a single corner also interested the impatient mass of people.
They should have known better. Don’t group together was one of the first things you learned when your status was confirmed at the onset of puberty. It was easier for a wandering eye to think you a small Beta, or even a teenager, if you are one among a crowd. To have several diminutive bodies so close to compare, they might as well have put up a neon sign. They weren’t young enough to be new to the cat-and-mouse game Omegas were forced to play, but maybe they weren’t old enough to have had a good scare knock some sense into them.
Part of her knew she should say something, tell them to scatter. That would have been the right thing to do. There were too many eyes staring at that group of women though. She was nervous and warm. They’d know what she was the moment she got near the other females. Smelling of slick, they’d grab her first. If there was a single strung out Alpha in the mess of sick and wounded crowded into the dingy clinic, she’d be fucked. Literally.
“Now serving number four-oh-eight. Number four-oh-eight,” the crackling voice said over the ancient P.A system.
Quinn glanced down at her ticket and muttered a curse. Scrambling up from the hard plastic chair, legs half numb and aching, she made a stilted jog around the perimeter of the lobby towards the bored looking nurse waiting by the desk.
“Ticket,” the nurse said through an impatient huff of air, arms crossing over the drab gray of her scrubs.
“I’m very sorry to bother you ma’am, but could someone go and talk to those women,” Quinn asked the bleary-eyed receptionist while showing the nurse her ticket.
“Someone will take care of it,” the receptionist mumbled, staring at her monitor with a hand cupping her chin.
“This way,” the nurse said, pivoting on the heel of her squeaky shoe and striding towards the doors leading back into the examining rooms as if she were being chased by rabid dogs.
“When might they take care of it?” Quinn took a couple of steps away from the desk, trying to look in every direction at once. The nurse wouldn’t wait for her, the receptionist couldn’t even bother to look at her, and there were two males who had stood up and started through the crowd. One of them was the gunshot victim, and his watery blue gaze rolled over Quinn as she stood frozen in the open space.
“You need to come with me now or let the next person who is ready get called,” the nurse snapped.
“It’ll be handled, miss,” the receptionist said, flicking a glance at Quinn and then to the group of Omegas.
There was nothing more she could do. If she lost this spot, she’d have to come back tomorrow and do it all over again. Her sigh was one of resignation, but she quick-stepped towards the nurse.
