Friends in Low Places

Holland

The next morning, reality tried to reassert itself. It did it in petty, ordinary ways: the coffee machine refusing to cooperate until I smacked it, my favorite slacks wrinkling in the dryer because I’d forgotten them, a chipped nail catching on my blouse. Somehow the stupid comforts of annoyance steadied me more than sleep had.

I told myself I’d keep my head down. I’d treat this like a job, which it was. I’d do my work and not think about upstairs. Not think about his hand on my arm. Not think about how ridiculous it had felt to want to stand there in his office with my mouth open and my heart acting like a traitor.

The rental counter welcomed me with the usual morning chaos: two voicemails that were mostly breathing and muffled curses, a vendor invoice with numbers that didn’t make sense, a customer insisting the truck he returned last night had been full of gas (it hadn’t), and a man in a ball cap who kept calling me “sweetheart” like he thought it might earn him a discount. I did my job. Polite where it mattered, blunt where it was necessary. I found my rhythm and tried to surf it, not drown in it.

Mid-morning, the drive-thru bell chimed and I nearly jumped. It was only a parts delivery. I breathed around the spike of adrenaline, cheeks heating at my own nerves.

Don’t be stupid, I told myself again—like a mantra now, a charm against the strange.

A few hours later, the shop noise ratcheted up and I decided I needed air. I’d learned quickly that if I took a short lap around the lot when things eased, I could reset. The fresh air did me good. I admired a line of box trucks like they might answer a prayer if I looked long enough.

By the time I came back in, the lobby felt manageable again. A man I didn’t recognize was leaning on the counter just inside the shop door, dark hair slicked back, beard that begged a comb, well-cut forearms framing a clipboard. He looked like he belonged—like he could pick up any truck out there and move it with a word.

He turned when he heard my footsteps. The smile he flashed could have sold glass to a desert. “Hi,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Sean. Omega in the pack. Account manager here at Smith.”

My brain skidded on the word and stalled, wheels squealing. “What is an Omega?” I asked before I could stop my mouth.

Surprise flared across Sean’s handsome face; then, oddly, he glanced around like we had invisible eavesdroppers. “There are many Omegas in a pack,” he said in a careful voice that made me think he was quoting someone. “Technically the lowest ranking, but essential. We keep everyday things running smooth.”

Pack. There it was again, that word pressed like a thumb into a bruise.

A quiet little alarm in me went off. Two options lit up in the dashboard of my brain: one, this was an elaborate joke; two, I’d fallen into a den of people very committed to a very specific shared delusion.

I went with survival courtesy. “Right.” I pasted on a smile that probably looked a size too small for my face. “Nice to meet you, Sean.”

I pivoted and walked the other direction, heart tapping too fast under my blouse. There were a dozen perfectly normal things I could do that didn’t involve that word, that world, that skin-memory. Talk to sales. I needed to reconcile an account anyway. Breathe.

I found the office corridor and stopped at two doors with brass nameplates: Sharlotte Edwards and Banks Thompson. I couldn’t remember which was which—not that it mattered—so I knocked lightly on Sharlotte’s door and hoped she wasn’t the type to mind interruptions.

“Come in,” a bright voice sang, and I pushed the door open to find a woman who looked like summer personified: strawberry-blond hair in a clip, green eyes, freckles, and the cutest gap between her front teeth. She glanced up from her computer and lit up at my presence like I was good news.

“Hi,” I said, trying to match the warmth. “I’m Holland. Rental department. Are you the sales manager by chance?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Banks next door runs sales. I’m Sharlotte—website and internet campaigns. It’s really nice to meet you. We don’t have a lot of female presence here, so adding another is refreshing.”

My soul did a small, grateful shimmy. A normal conversation. A bland sentence right when I needed one. “You’re so right,” I said, meaning it. “We women have to stick together. Do you enjoy it? Running the site?”

“It has its days,” she said cheerfully. “Mr. Smith likes plenty of promotion, so sometimes I feel stretched thin. But it beats being bored.”

The mention of Remy’s name sent a strange voltage through me: not pleasant, not unpleasant, just… charged. I nodded like the name didn’t make my shoulders tense. “Well, if you ever need a break, come up and say hi. I’ve been taking laps around the lot when it’s nice—gives me a breather.” I laughed, self-conscious. “I could stand to get my steps in anyway.”

She grinned. “You and me both.”

I knocked on the next door and stepped into Banks Thompson’s office. She was on the phone, but waved me in with that harried kindness particular to people who juggle everyone’s problems. Banks was tall—easily a foot and a half on me—long brown hair straight as a rumor, eyes a sharp small brown that missed nothing. A window in her wall looked into Sharlotte’s office; they could see each other as they worked. I wondered if that felt like comfort or surveillance.

She hung up and smiled like we’d been mid-conversation already. “What brings you in?”

“First—hello. I’m Holland. Rental counter.”

“Ah! Our new rental rep.” She stood, shook my hand, and sat again in a well-practiced motion. “How’s the counter treating you?”

“Not bad.” I hesitated, then decided to risk honesty. “I actually wanted to check in on a couple of accounts that have expressed concerns. I could use help getting those issues resolved. I thought I’d try sales since… well.” I grimaced. “I ran into Sean in the shop and, if I’m completely candid, I wasn’t comfortable talking to him.”

Her brows did a quick dance. “If you don’t mind me asking—what did Sean say?”

I puzzled my words into order. “He introduced himself as an Omega.” The title tasted ridiculous on my tongue. “In the pack.”

Banks’s expression did a strange thing—somewhere between neutral and pinched. She glanced toward Sharlotte’s window, and when I followed her eyes, Sharlotte was already looking back. Their gazes exchanged a message I couldn’t read.

“If I can speak freely,” I added quickly, lowering my voice even though the door was closed, “I think he and Mr.—Remy might be… playing some kind of prank? Or running a hazing ritual on the new girl?” Saying it out loud made me hear the immaturity of the conclusion.But it still felt more plausible than both Remy and Sean being batshit crazy.

“Why do you think that?” Banks asked, but gently.

“They keep bringing up packs. Werewolves.” I tried to smile like this was a funny misunderstanding. It didn’t land. “It’s like they want to drive me crazy.”

Another shared glance through the glass. Sharlotte’s mouth pressed thin; Banks’s did, too.

“Do I sound crazy?” I asked, hating how small the question sounded.

“No, Holland,” Banks said, and the kindness in it made my throat sting. “You don’t sound crazy. Just… ignore them. Send me an email with the account numbers you'd like some help with and we will work on a game plan to assist with their needs.” She added a smile that felt like she was putting it on for me, like a coat that didn’t fit.

“Right.” I stood, because there was nothing left to say that didn’t tangle me further. “Thanks for your time.”

I made my way back toward the lobby with the awkward certainty of someone who has just discovered the edges of a map and realized there’s less charted than they thought. As I stepped through the door, the faint crackle of the overhead intercom bled in from the shop. Banks’s voice, calm and professional: “Sean, please meet me in Mr. Smith’s office.”

For a split second, I wondered if she was in on whatever this was. If there was anyone in this godforsaken company who wasn’t. The question rang in my head like a dropped wrench.

I shook it off. Work. Paperwork and phones and problems with solutions. Keep your head down. Keep your hands steady. Don’t go upstairs.

My fingers brushed the edge of the counter and, unbidden, memory answered: the place on my arm where his hand had closed, the way sparks had chased my nerves like they wanted to teach me a new language. I yanked myself back to the present and forced my mouth into a shape like a smile for the customer approaching the desk.

“Hi there,” I said, and prayed my voice didn’t betray the storm churning under my skin.

Remy

Jacek and I ate at a diner far enough from the shop that I couldn’t hear the intercom or the lift or the particular ring of Holland’s laugh when she startled herself by being amused. The waitress flirted with Jacek because he looks like the kind of man who could fix your sink and carry your couch by himself, and he blushed like he always does. I pushed food around my plate and pretended to be human.

“Stop pretending,” Jacek muttered across the table.

“At what?” I forked a bite and couldn’t taste it.

“At being fine.”

“I’m not fine,” I said calmly. “I’m in charge.”

He rolled his eyes. “Same thing, some days.”

“Not today.”

He sobered. “You going to tell the Council?”

“About a human mate?” I snorted. “They’ll sniff around on their own soon enough. They always do.”

He nodded. He knew the rhythm: strong Alpha. Unmated for too long. Pack sends whispers to the Council. Council shows up pretending to check on our border agreements, asks about ‘succession planning,’ which is just a polite way of saying we want to make sure you don’t die without the power properly bonded. They like their power documented, cataloged, blessed. They hate variables.

“Pierce?” he asked, meaning: can you hold him?

“For now.” I flexed my fingers around the water glass, feeling the wolf shift under my skin, restless as weather. “He’s loud.” A wry smile. “He’s also smug.”

“He would be.” Jacek grinned. “He’s waited years to be right.”

We paid. We didn’t rush. And still I walked back into the building like a tide being dragged by a new moon, even as I promised myself I’d keep my distance. I didn’t go downstairs. I went to my office. Closed the door. Sat. Tried to make sense of a spreadsheet and only understood the shape of Holland’s name in the thoughts I kept trying to smooth flat.

Minutes later, the intercom clicked. Banks’s voice, brisk and neat: “Sean, please meet me in Mr. Smith’s office.”

Jacek glanced up from his phone, one brow arched. “Trouble?”

“Order,” I said, though I wasn’t sure. “We’ll keep the pack out of the lobby talk.”

“You mean the truth.”

“I mean order,” I repeated, and the word had enough iron in it to make him nod.

He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, ankles crossed, the picture of a man who trusted me to keep the world from breaking, even when it changed shape under us. “You’ll get her there,” he said, quiet, certain.

“Or I won’t,” I said, more honest than I liked. “And I’ll protect her anyway.”

He stared at me for a long second, then let out a breath that sounded like respect. “Claws deep,” he murmured. It’s a saying older than us, older than Kale and Percy and the old songs: when the bond sinks that far, the choice is already made. Not by the head. By the bone.

I didn’t argue. There are some truths you don’t deny. Not out loud.

I turned back to the painting. The wolf in the fog looked like he’d been caught mid-step, deciding whether to disappear into the trees or to walk forward and be seen. I had the same choice.

I didn’t know which was braver.