Page 38 of Wild Omega

Now I just need a weapon.

The rib eye steak I ordered cooked medium rare sizzles with heat as the kitchen staff bring it over to the table. Wednesday is steak night and the other omegas around me chatter excitedly as our orders come out together, filling the air with seared beef, garlic, and fragrant oil. Better than smelling all their body odors.

Still, I’m going to miss these ladies and boy when I cut and run.

“Red, how did your scent matching go?”

I slide my finger down the length of the steak knife handle, testing its strength. “Well, actually, I puked all over the floor.” I point the fork at my chest. “If you see new carpet in there, you’re welcome.”

O-18 blanches. “Oh, that sounds awful!”

“Yeah, it stinks so bad.” I cut my steak, watching the pink juices run. Maybe I’m not as keen on steak as I thought. Or maybe it’s the idea of what the beast went through before ending up on my plate.

“You’ve always had a strong sense of smell,” O-9 remarks around a mouthful of honey-baked carrots.

I wrinkle my nose at her. “Thanks to having to put up with all you stinkers.”

The other omegas chuckle. I glance at Samantha eating at the next table over with the other handlers and catch her looking my way. We’re still not on good terms after the heat episode. Is she worried about my next outburst? Maybe she’s concerned I’ll hurt one of the omegas.

She doesn’t know a damn thing about me and how I’ve protected the girls all these years.

I scoff under my breath and cut another piece of steak, watching with satisfaction as the knife cleaves cleanly through the flesh. To be fair, Samantha isn’t treating me any differently since the psych report came out last week. But I’m not in the mood to be fair. No one’s fair to me.

The walls seem to close in around me, filling me with a pressing need to get out. See the real world.

And find those damn alphas who are taking their sweet time coming to get me. Especially now that I’ll probably never be able to stick my nose in that reeking book of scents.

I’m still thinking about alphas when I finish my meal.

“You seem to be deep in thought about something,” Samantha says as she walks me back to my room.

Like I’m gonna tell her what’s on my mind. “Why is the moon white?” I quip, being the crazy, random omega she expects.

“Good question.” She jams one hand in her pocket. “I suppose it’s the type of rock it’s made from that has a pale color and reflects the sunlight.”

“Boring,” I say. “Could be any color. How cool would a magenta moon look hanging in the sky?”

She chuckles and nods. “Well, when you get in good with some of the Ommywood writers, ask them to write a parallel universe where the moon is pink.”

I lift my brows, considering the possibility. At least she’s being genuine and not scoffing at my dreams. She gave me a few printouts with suggestions for a career path in entertainment, including potential classes to sign up for, which was nice. But I don’t have time for classes.

“Good night, Red. See you in the morning,” she offers as she opens my door.

“Good night.” That’s all I can offer, because I have a plan, and it doesn’t involve seeing her tomorrow.

Once I’m sure she’s gone, I slide the steak knife carefully out of my sleeve and place it on the bedside table. Emergency escape plan activated. Then I dig into my other sleeve and pull out the fork plus sugar packets I filched for good measure.

A few nervous shakes trickle through my muscles as I get into the shower, careful not to have the water too hot, which might damage my skin. Looks are an actress’s most valuable talent, after all. And first impressions are critical.

I set an alarm for three a.m. and turn in for the night. Thursday will come in a few hours, and Thursday is trash collection day.

The heavy industrial truck lumbers up to the rear of the Omega Center and swings around to reverse. The crane arms creak as they stretch out on hydraulics to latch onto the huge skip bin and lift it into the air. It tilts, but no trash slides through the lid—because I put a bolt through the mechanism.

The arms lower the bin back down and I hold my breath. The driver might be too sleepy to even notice the skip hasn’t emptied, but I cross my fingers and Lady Luck answers. The cab door squeaks open and a man in his fifties with graying hair grumbles as he climbs down the side.

I dart out from my hiding spot and race around the cab to the open door and haul myself up the narrow steps. My boot slips and I dangle by my arms as I kick wildly, looking for a foothold. Any second the driver will come back around this side and see me.

Grunting with effort, I drag myself upward and get my footing to climb the last step. Behind the driver’s seat is a narrow ledge and I jam myself in there, throwing his rain jacket over my head. Between the odor of rotting scraps and the scent dampener I rubbed into my skin before dawn, he shouldn’t be able to catch my scent, but we will be locked in a cabin together, possibly for a few hours. Assuming I make it out of the Center at all.

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