Page 64 of The Rejected Omega

The bar gets more crowded as the night wears on. Connor’s scent keeps most of the obnoxious alphas away, but one smeared in cologne and wearing a polo with a popped collar is becoming persistent.

"You smell ripe, baby," he says as he tries to grind against me.

I slide away from him. I’ve been an omega long enough to know when it’s time to leave.

I glance around for Roy or Tessa, but I’ve lost them in the growing crowd.

My head is pounding, my stomach swirling with alcohol, and I desperately need to get something on my stomach. The drinks are going straight to my head.

I pat myself down for my phone and curse when I remember I gave it to Roy.

I spend the next ten minutes searching the dance floor for Roy or Tessa to no avail. My head is starting to swim, and the onslaught of scents overwhelms my senses. Alphas, omegas, betas—all in one sweaty knot of pheromones, alcohol, and sweat.

I make my way to the bar through the crush of bodies and wave down the bartender. She’s got jet-black hair with red tips cut into a severe bob, and it’s a battle to get her attention.

People to my sides jostle me, and I brace myself by resting my arms on the sticky bartop. “Can I order some food?”

“Kitchen’s closed, honey.”

Fuck. No way am I eating the bar nuts. I’ve read those studies.

I scan the crowd for Roy again, but he's nowhere to be seen, and I just want to get out of here.

I spot Lance grinding up against another omega, shooting me a nasty glare.

“Do you have a phone I can use?” I’m in no condition to drive myself home.

The bartender hands me a sticky wireless brick of a phone with a rubber antenna and faded buttons. So much for Uber. Crestwood is too small for a taxi service or public transit, and Callahan’s is close enough to the university that most kids just walk back to their dorms from here.

I rack my brain for who to call, stilling when I realize the only useful number I have memorized is for Mac’s house, from calling Connor when we were children.

I lift my head to ask the bartender for her cell, but she’s already serving the next clutch of clamoring patrons.

So I dial and wait, half hoping he won’t pick up. I’ll have to explain to him why I’m covered in his son's scent. He’ll probably be fucking elated, and I don’t want to give him false hope.

Hell, maybe he finally got rid of his landline?—

The call clicks as it connects.

"Hello?" Says a man's deep voice.

"Hey, Mac. I need some help."

There's a long pause. Is he busy? His usual weeknights consist of jazz music, wine, and rewatchingThe Wire. But I’ve been encouraging him to get out more lately. His mate died over a decade ago, and he never moved on. It was depressing.

"This is Connor."

Fucking fuck. What was Connor doing at his dad's? Them spending time together was dangerous. I much preferred them estranged.

"Oh. Nevermind."

I pull the phone away and search for the end call button on this antique.

"Lana? Is that you?"

I close my eyes and sigh, then lift the receiver to my ear again.

"No."

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