Page 4 of One for the Money
Cirque de Mordu, a traveling circus geared towards adults with their death-defying stunts and acrobatics, needed a physician to travel with them for their upcoming tour. It’s not what I would consider a dream job, considering it’s going to be filled with dude bro Alphas, but it meets my needs exactly.
A six-month contract with a generous paycheck that includes my own trailer.
It promises a place to start over.
But of course, all good things come with a catch, and this one is no different because there is a teeny, tiny problem with this arrangement.
Omegas aren’t exactly known for being great companions on the road. We have too many needs, too many sensitivities. And though we’re good at managing people, and a lot of Omegas run companies, a traveling circus is not the ideal place for an Omega.
A place like this is sensory overload on the best of days, and I know it will be my worst nightmare when I’m in heat, but it’s better than the alternative.
Most people think being a doctor means you have your shit together. After all, how are you expected to take care of patients if you’re a hot fucking mess, struggling in your personal life?
No, society would prefer to pretend that their doctors are mindless robots with the sole purpose of taking care of others.
Wouldn’t that be nice if it were the truth?
I’m a smart girl.
I’ve been told that my whole life.
But as many smart girls learn, smart doesn’t mean shit when you’re in love.
Because everything you learned as a smart girl gets buried deep down when someone with smooth words wraps his hands around your waist. When he whispers sweet nothings in your ears, and spoils you with time, attention, and gifts.
And then suddenly you’re so twisted up in him you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.
You’ve lost yourself.
That smart girl is gone, and in her place is a simpering little girl who can’t tell you up from down.
It was almost too late for me.
My ribs still ache, but at least I can tell they’re not broken.
Perks of being a doctor, I guess.
The striped tent in front of me isn’t what I think of when I imagine a circus. That word produces images of bright colors and clowns, sweet, sticky food, and tinny music. Maybe balloon animals, raucous crowds, and positive childhood memories.
But not Cirque de Mordu. It’s sleek, almost sexy, and carnival games don’t spill out of the big top. There are no jolly clowns holding balloons.
This is not a place for children.
The show starts in six hours, and then in the morning, I’ll be on the road with the crew. My two bags are dragging behind me as I seek out the trailer described in the showrunner’s email.
I pull open my phone to reread it for what is probably the fifteenth time since it arrived two days ago.
Dr. Shields,
We are excited to welcome you to the Mordu family. Please report on June 12th at 4 pm for your onboarding. At that time, I will introduce you to the staff and show you to your trailer, where you can get acquainted with your clinic.
Please see the attached countersigned contract. Your six-month term will end on December 9th, with the option for mutual renewal based on performance.
You can find me in the gray trailer withthe red stripe down the side. It’ll be behind the big top, next to the smaller, dress tent.
Looking forward to meeting you in person!
Jude Oliver
