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“Oh, no, of course I’m not saying he’s a liar. I’m only saying that the reason for me being fired is more complicated than that.”
Alec leans toward me. “What is more complicated than watching porn at work?”
“I wasn’t watching porn.” I take a breath. “Mr. Mosley asked me to join the team for a celebratory dinner, but it actually turned out to be a dinner with his pack. I got freaked out and left the restaurant without saying bye. Then I was fired, and the porn is why I was fired.”
“So, you were watching porn?” Mordor’s eyebrows scrunch together.
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “No, they said I was watching porn, but I wasn’t. That’s the excuse they used to fire me.”
Alec shakes his head. “Mosley is old enough to be your grandpa. You’re a pretty omega, but I have a hard time believing he’d try to set his pack up with a subordinate. Now, a young omega chasing after her older and well-situated boss...that’s a different story.”
The energy in the room shifts, and I recognize the moment the meeting fluctuates from interview to powerful alpha versus nameless omega. There’s always been a dynamic that puts alphas above the rest of us, I know that, but this is different. This is wrong. There’s nothing I can say to convince these two that Mr. Mosley was the problem.
Bros before hoes and all that.
My skin grows tight and hot. I cast my eyes down, steadying my breath, so I don’t add hysterical to the list of things that are wrong with me. With as much composure as I can manage, I grab my purse and smile at both of them. “I appreciate the opportunity to interview with Eling and Yonder.”
I hold my hand out for them to shake. Mordor’s eyebrows slam together, and he simply stares at my waiting palm. Alec isn’t as horrible. He stands and quickly shakes my hand, wiping his palm on his pants after, like my particular brand of omega is contagious.
“Thank you both again. I hope you have a great day.”
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
The elevator takes far too long, my neck pricking as I wait, but I don’t look back or acknowledge the whispers from the receptionists. I make it all the way home before I finally allow the anger to consume me.
The guys are gonewhen I get home, and it’s a good thing too. If I saw Brady while I’m in this mood, I’d probably rip his head off. I pack the scent roller order for the wedding—one hundred vials of perfume, custom made to match the scent notes of the lovebirds—and schedule a pickup for it before heading back to make new inventory for the store.
I grab the vials, the container full of various essential and fragrance oils, the little funnel, eye droppers, and the gloves I use to ensure none of my descenting lotion interferes with my concoctions.
My little business started out as a hobby, but when I realized there might be other omegas out there missing the scent of their pack—for whatever reason—I decided to open a shop online. I set out twenty vials and grab the orange and vanilla oils, along with the measuring cup. While I love the citrus smell, nothing compares to the scents that haunt me.
Maybe every omega feels the same way about their matches. Though I’ve been around enough alphas to know that, generally,they smell good. Mr. Mosley and his pack are the first I’ve encountered where I was actually repulsed. My nose wrinkles as I recall the distinctly ammonia odor that clung to his skin. It’s enough to make me nauseated.
He was delusional if he thought I’d be flattered by his come-on.
Lifting the measuring cup to my nose, I breathe in, but even that’s not enough to get rid of the putrid memory of Mr. Mosley closing in. I set the cup down and rush to my en suite bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and grabbing the middle roller. Austin’s scent soothes me more than Brady’s or Dylan’s—maybe because every time I smell it, I can feel the memory of his lips ghosting over mine. The silky soft ball rolls over my wrist, leaving a trail of perfume behind. I apply more than normal and lift my wrist to my nose and inhale.
Fresh rain erases any trace of Mr. Mosley. Releasing a harsh breath, I return the roller before heading back to the kitchen to finish what I’d started. Austin’s scent keeps me grounded as I work, and I turn on my favorite playlist, humming along with the songs until my favorite sad song comes on.
The lyrics are heartbreaking, and maybe it’s a little pathetic that I sing along with them. Maybe it’s a little depressing that I find too much in common with not feeling like enough, but the song speaks to the wound my real dads left me with. Mom cried the first time she heard me listening to it. The next time, we sang along together, both of us teary-eyed and lost in our own pain. That was before she met my stepdads.
She healed and moved on to a better pack.
Then came meeting my scent matches.
I’ve been dying inside ever since.
I sing from my soul, embracing every emo part of me and blink back tears. Scent matching is sacred. I know better than anyone how viscerally one responds to their match, but to leavea child and never come back, to never check in or make sure they’re okay? That’s cruel. That’s heartless.
Did I really meannothingto my dads?
Knowing I’m about to hurt my own feelings, I grab my phone and shoot off a text message to Reggie, the dad I always felt the closest to. The bubbles indicating a response appear, and I suck in a shaky breath.
Usually, he doesn’t respond.
The message that hits my phone is a knife to the heart.
Reggie
