CHA 3

Heats aren't enjoyable when they're solitary.

She'd know.

She had her first one at sixteen, sobbing into a pillow, pinching her thighs together in agony. Her father, Crayons Arthur, had hired a tutor for her, but it only made things more terrible since the woman was trying to explain to her what was happening to her body.

And even now, years on, it's not the hurt that hurts so much as the loneliness.

It befell some, not others. While the arousal is the thing that ignites the delirium to start, it's the loneliness, the sense of loss, that sends her under, never wanting to emerge.

When she asked Alex Henry about it, her friend just raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

No, it's only her that dramatically dies of loneliness.

Wonderful.

Now, however, there is a financial advantage to her biology. All Omegas smell incredible when they are about to go into Heat.

And tonight, she knows she smells fantastic because the cash is coming in faster than she had expected.

She's been at work for just one hour and already made several hundred-dollar bills.

Just on drink orders.

"You should go on up there," Alex Henry tells her, glancing over at the other side of the stage. "You can use my shoes."

She hesitates, then shakes her head. It's a tempting thought, but she hasn't been courageous enough to do it yet. Even if the pay would be great.

"One day," she smiles at her friend. "But not tonight."

Alex Henry clucks her tongue, her blue eyes sparkling. “Fine. But one night. Maybe if Dean Wason comes back.”

Sama Arthur scowls. “You’re insane. He’s not coming back.” She finishes filling a glass with ice, then turns toward the top shelf of liquor. “And he’s a weirdo.”

“He liked you.”

Alex Henry doesn't blink, and Sama Arthur cuts a look at her. "Well, I don't like him. I don't have room to like anyone. You know that."

And she doesn't. She doesn't know if she has a heart, let alone if she can ever possibly maintain a normal relationship. At least not anymore at this point in her life, when she's barely trying to survive.

No room for Alphas.

Or anybody, for that matter. Except Alex Henry, who gives her a sympathetic smile and smacks her on the back. 

"Sorry," she breathes, edging away to the opposite end of the bar. "You know I love you."

The night goes on, with liquor flowing endlessly. Laughter, chatter, and dance music fill the air as Sama Arthur's gaze sweeps the corridors. She reminds herself it's not to find an Alpha with perfect bone structure and sea-colored eyes.

She was correct.

He wasn't there.

He was just passing by.

She ignores the disappointment that stings her chest and flashes a beaming smile at a blond-haired, grey-eyed man when he purchases a beer.

He is easy to fool, which brings about an oversized tip.

By midnight, she has endured enough pretending to wear her false mask.

She goes to the back room and takes her black peacoat, which she drapes over the leather skirt and black corset that she wears to cinch her waist. She drapes a scarf around her throat and ensures that she is warm enough before she steps out into the cold night air outside the back of the club.

The stars are out tonight, and she's in awe at being able to just step outside, dressed in makeup and heels, looking up at the sky.

Freedom tastes good, though so bitter for ruining her past.

She's here. She is here.

A laugh explodes from her, free and soft as she takes in the frigid air, feeling the chill burn her lungs.

She's going to sit on a bench before something diverts her attention.

Against the outside wall, flyers and posters are hung, most probably nightclubs or concerts.

There's one that catches the eye more than any of the rest. This is the new one, freshly posted up, the face of a young, not-smiling girl with black eyes.

Missing.

Sama Arthur.

$100,000 Reward.

It's her.

It's her goddamn face on the poster.

Her legs feel numb as she robotically walks over to the flyer, peeling it off the wall and holding onto it tight within her fists.

Her father, Crayons Arthur, got her reported missing.

"No." She whispers, her trembling hands as she reads and rereads the missing person's poster.

She cries when she tears the paper into tiny little pieces, observes as they scatter to the floor, and sees the wind sweep them away.

She didn't expect him to get her reported missing.

The less people that are on Crayons Arthur, the better.

If anything, she assumed his men would find her and drag her back to him.

She didn’t expect him to get the authorities involved.

It’s not what he does.

How many more flyers are out here?

She should start wearing wigs. She should wear colored contacts—

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a silky voice murmurs.

She jumps at least a foot.

The low, resonant voice came out of darkness, in the shadows where no one would ever tread.

But Dean Wason appears, dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and pants, arms crossed, his black booted foot hooked casually against the wall.

The businessman of the night before has disappeared.

This man melts into shadows, his ghostly face illuminated by moonlight.

Her memory did not serve his face well. His stubborn jaw now wears dark stubble that is sprinkled all over it, and his eyes are as keen as they used to be.

His voice was accusatory.

In a matter of seconds, he takes another step in closer, so that she finds herself having to tilt her head back just to catch sight of him. His scent envelops her, a warm embrace against her senses.

"No, I'm just cold." She's lying, doing her best to sound stubborn. "And I'm not used to people hanging around at the back when I think that I am alone."

His scent, so close to her, is sufficient to make her womb ache. She wishes he couldn't smell how close she is to being in Heat or how embarrassed her reaction to him was.

At least he doesn't carry on like the guys who work for her dad, Crayons Arthur.

He's not sleazy, but he is intimidating.

She needs to step away from him.

"My apologies. I thought customers could be out here."

He's goading her, based on the quirk of his lip.

"Who are you?" She cries out. All of her is screaming to turn around and flee back into the security of the building, but her legs won't move. She's stuck on small talk with him until she unsticks herself from the spot where she stands.

Her inner Omega frets, unwilling to leave the intoxicating, heady scent of spice and leather.

He tilts sideways, eyeing her cautiously. "Dean Wason," he tells her, as if to a child.

She scrunches her face. "Dean Wason who?"

"Just forgot Dean Wason."

She breathes out, her gaze flicking down to his boots once more. His gaze is so intense that she can't stand its look for longer than a moment.

"What are you doing here?"

"The same as all the rest here." She can hear the roll of laughter in his voice, and it makes her angry.

"Having a drink and flirting with nice Omegas.".

No. What are you doing around here? I've never seen you around, and you're definitely from out of town."

Her flash of anger cuts back to him and recedes when she sees the threat there.

She should stop him and go back inside.

"Hm. Why's that?"

The arrogance seeps with every word he utters, and she snaps.

She doesn’t do well with Alphas looking down on her, and this one is no exception.

“The thousand-dollar suit from last night, the perfectly styled hair, and the permanent, cocky smirk on your face,” she spits.

He looks taken aback, but then he chuckles. “Well, you’re correct in that, Sama Arthur. I’m here on business.”

His eyes soften and her breath catches.

No, he shouldn’t be this attractive.

It’s her cue to leave.

“What kind of business?” She asks instead, cursing herself inwardly for not going back inside.

It doesn’t matter what he does, as long as he doesn’t know who she is.

As long as he’s not here for her.

He takes a step back from her, leaning back against the stucco wall. “I’m a contractor,” he says simply, sighing. “Self-employed.”

His reaction is wrong, and he still treats her like there's a joke she doesn't get.

As if he knows something that she doesn't.

"Just Dean Wason, then," she says. "You can creep around in the shadows. Have a drink if you like, you know where to find it." She makes a final effort, gets the cardboard, the nauseating sweet smile onto her face once more before she turns and heads away, out through the doors and back into the club.

He grunts something in her ear, but she doesn't hear and hurries inside, attempting to calm the frantic thudding of her heart.

After going back into the bar, she wipes the path of slick off her legs.