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As if never having had a real job isn’t bad enough, I'm not even sure what I'm capable of anymore. I question my abilities daily, and I’m constantly reminded of the countless times I let my alphas down.
I wonder if this will just be a repeat in different packaging.
What if I’m not cut out to work and this is all I’ll ever amount to? An omega in hiding, barely scraping by, or a doormat for undeserving alphas.
The image of my exes threatens to creep into my thoughts again, and the voices I thought I'd grow old listening to twist into taunts that cut me to the core.
You look like a slut with your hair up like that.
Who'd want to hire you with no real work experience?
Someone so useless should have been born a beta and not have to play pretend.
"Shut up," I hiss as I smooth my hair back into a high ponytail before I attack it with hairspray to keep it in place.
Doubt can’t get in the way today. I won’t let it. I don't have another option.
I need this job and everything it promises. The little money I had saved from my babysitting job has nearly run out, and if I don't find something with a consistent paycheck soon, I'm going to starve.
After touching up the black liner around my eyes, I step back to give myself a sweeping glance in the mirror–only the top half, since there are no full-length mirrors in gas station bathrooms. My features are too soft against the harsh lines of my black suit, but it's the most professional thing I own. My old alphas always said I needed to be more serious, to look sophisticated whenever we went out.
They didn’t approve of the bright colors and fun clothes I prefer to wear. I should have known it was a red flag, that it went much deeper than dressing a certain way and trying to act more serious, but I was blinded by those storied rose-colored glasses. They made those warning signs look way more attractive, but I learned my lesson.
I’ll be avoiding all rose-colored things like the plague from now on.
Even though my suit is a little stiff, I have to admit, I look good. I look like I could work the front desk at any upscale office, and as I hurriedly pack my things into an oversized shoulder bag and rush out to my little red sedan, I can't help but feel a little bit hopeful.
A strange sense of calm, the feeling of knowing things are about to change for the better, washes over me. I'm going to get this job, and things are going to start looking up.
They have to.
I don’t have a backup plan.
Driving downtown is the fucking worst, especially around lunch, but I finally find a parking spot a block away from the Jarvis & Jerald office building and nervously check the clock on the dash. I still have twenty minutes.That’s plenty of time.
I take a deep breath to calm my anxiety then check my makeup again in the rearview mirror.
The only job I've had in the last four years was as a nanny to a couple who lived down the street from us with four kids. I took care of them when they were small, but once they started school, I was let go. I don't have any office experience, but the listing said that wasn't required, and I meet most of the other qualifications.
I open my texts and scroll to the automated message I received to double check the details. Everything seems right, which I already knew, but the prickly nerves trying to suffocate me makes it easy to second guess myself.
I’ll be able to breathe again when I’ve secured the job. Until then, I’m going to be a mess of jitters, so I might as well get a move on.
No amount of sitting in my car and psyching myself up is going to make a difference.
I lock the doors, tossing a glance at the overflowing backseat. Between it and the trunk, everything I own fits in the car, a visual reminder of how little I have left. There are some clothes, toiletries, a pillow, and a blanket. My scent blocker and de-scenting spray are buried underneath it all–I can’t risk anyone finding them.
If this plan is going to work, no one can find out I'm an omega.
I’d carry the scent neutralizers with me to keep them safe, but despite the taser I carry in my bag, there’s no guarantee my purse won’t get stolen while I’m out, and I can’t risk losing either. I don’t have enough money to replace them.
Leaving them is also a risk, but one I’m willing to take.
I throw my purse over my shoulder and head down the sidewalk toward the office, running through common interview questions and responses I researched as I go. I’m ready for almost anything they can throw at me, and I’ve done everything I can think of to prepare.
There’s no way I’m not getting this job.
It's the first step to getting my life back to a semblance of normalcy.
