Page 44 of The Rejected Omega

I have work.

Friday meant no classes, but I worked back-to-back shifts at the café and grill instead.

No, you don’t. I called the café and talked to your boss. Cecilie—nice lady. Told her I had a surprise for you.

Fucking hell. She already ships me with half our customers.

I’ll be there at 8.

You don’t know where I live.

Give me a little credit, Crane. I’ve known that for years.

My heart skips a beat, and another message appears.

I used to sit outside your apartment when I came to town for holidays.

To see if Mac was lying about me being out of town?

I just wanted a glimpse.

And did you get one?

Go to sleep, Birdy.

I could run. I don’t really have anywhere to go, and I’d be setting myself back terribly, but I could. Like one of those omegas in a Lifetime A/B/O flick who move to the middle of nowhere with five bucks in their pocket, get a job at the town diner, and start dating the charming alpha sheriff.

But those movies didn’t usually feature omegas with crippling suppressant dependencies. Even if I ran, my problems would chase me.

Connor’sat my door five minutes early, coffee and croissant in hand as his black Camaro purrs behind him.

The hour-long drive into the city is excruciating. The weight of all the things I revealed, true and untrue, hangs between us. Riding in his car with him reminds me of our lost years, but it was a mistake to not take my vehicle. His scent is soaked into every surface of this car, and I’m soaking it up like a cat in the sun.

Connor turns up the radio and drives. I’m grateful he's behind the wheel. I hate driving in heavy traffic, especially in an unfamiliar city like Canterfield. He’s an even better driver now than when he was a teenager, making smooth shifts between lanes and controlling the speeding vehicle with cool confidence. When we were younger, riding with our peers would have me gripping the crash handle and tensing every time they broke late, but I’ve always trusted Connor.

He lets me control the radio and the air. I almost put my feet up on the dash, but that's a little too close to our former familiarity to be comfortable. The old me would've been digging through the center console for gum and organizing his glove box, but I force myself to sit quietly.

“Would you like to talk, or just sulk?"

I don't deign to give him a response.

"Sulking it is, then."

When familiar signs start popping up, I offer him an olive branch. “Do you know the exit?”

“Looked it up this morning.”

"Right."

Our silence continues until we pull into the parking garage beneath Mercy Medical Center’s shining towers.

Another couple hustles into the elevator after us—a very petite, very pregnant omega, and her mate with the frame of a linebacker. The alpha stands between us and his mate, curving his body around hers. A conscious choice, or just instinct?

I studiously avoid looking at them, staring at the red digits above the door ticking up.

The couple gets off on the floor before ours.

Connor's throat works as the number ticks up to our floor. He looks uneasy.

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