Page 32 of One for the Money
Not after what happened last time.
I spin on my toes and rush for the opposite side of the tent, where the second entrance is, in hopes of escaping the men.
A hand presses between my shoulder blades and shoves, and I go flying. My head hits the side of one of the tubs.
If this were a cartoon, little birds and stars would be spinning around my head, and my eyes would have little ‘x’ marks over my pupils. But it’s not, and instead, my vision is white in the corners because of the sharp pain.
But I can handle this. I’ve been here before. This is nothing new.
I’ve felt worse.
I struggle to my feet, pivoting in an attempt to escape again, but they’re on me, crowding me against the tub. With every step they take, I mirror them, eventually pushing the backs of my legs against the cool metal of the tub.
They haven’t spoken. Not a single sound has crept around the corners of those terrifying masks. It’s like something out of a nightmare or a horror movie.
They barely seem to be breathing, their chests still and bodies held rigid. Like they’re not even real. Not alive. Statues that were purchased from a discount Halloween store.
But this is not a nightmare.
This is not a horror movie.
This is the continuation of my fucked up life, and I’m going to have to figure a way out of this.
“I don’t know what this is about,” I begin, trying and failing to keep my voice even. Demure. Unoffensive.
Don’t make the men angry.
Don’t make yourself too big.
Keep your head down.
Keep your voice low.
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Omega bitch,” one of them snarls. It looks like I’ve found out who has hemorrhoids. His mask looks as if it were dipped in acid, with the skin and makeup melting down its face. “No one wants you here. You’re going to fuck everything up with your Omega bullshit. Leave now or there will be problems.”
“I’m just here to do a job. You won’t even know I’m here.” Unfortunately for me, I’d rather deal with the creepy clown triplets than what is waiting for me back home.
I wonder if that’s a unique experience. Has anyone else ever made the decision to face a trio of horrifying clowns rather than return to their pack?
My hands are shaking, so I curl them into tight fists. “I won’t screw up any dynamics. You have my word.”
“You already have,” another spits. This one’s mask has a fake knife sticking out of one of the eyes. At least, I hope it’s fake. “We can’t even scent your pheromones, and you’re already getting everyone in their heads.”
I want to rant that it’s not my responsibility to ensure that Alphas know how to control themselves around an Omega, but something tells me that won’t go over well with this particular crowd.
My head is throbbing from the impact with the tub,and my ribs ache from exertion and memories. It’s not the first time I have been at the whim of three angry men, and I’m struggling to keep my wits about me and not drop to the floor and cover my head with my arms. “Just let me go,” I whisper, hoping the whine I feel building inside me doesn’t escape.
The third, silent until now, takes a big step towards me. We’re nearly chest to chest, and I can’t look away from his mask. Half of the face is a skeleton, the other a sadistic clown that looks like something out of hell.
“What will you give us for your freedom?” he whispers. It would probably be a sexy whisper after a lengthy discussion on boundaries with an emphasis on safewords, but in this one, it may as well be a blade shoved into my eardrum.
None of these men sounds familiar to me, but I haven’t been here that long. How would I hope to recognize them? It’s not like I’ve talked to everyone at length.
I do know this isn’t Jude. None of them are broad enough, large enough, to be the showrunner Alpha.
It’s not the twins. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
