Page 17 of Feeling the Heat: Part One
Fuckingfinally.
I’m dying to know what the hell Ambrose meant about his “unusual” omega encounter. It’s not every day that our resident calm and collected doctor gets so flustered.
Still can’t believe he jacked off at work. Who knew the dirty old man had it in him?
Of course, right when he was about to tell us more details, he goes and disappears because “work needs him”. Talk about conversational blue balls.
I’ve spent the last hour coming up with ideas of what might make this omega so unusual and texting my guesses to the group chat.
She’s a celebrity in disguise.
She’s lost all her memory and doesn’t know her own name.
She’s on the run from the law.
Maybe she’s all three!
I want to loop River into my guessing game, but his office door is shut—his signal that he’s working and doesn’t have time to chat.
It sucks. I want to talk to someone. I don’t want to be spending my night doing laundry, even though I desperately need to.
Tonight was supposed to be a pack hangout. We were going to watch the new season of Omega’s Choice and make fun of the pompous alphaholes together. I’d already started making snacks.
Yet here I am, waiting for someone to give me a scrap of attention. Even Dahlia is asleep.
Yes, I’m being melodramatic. But I’m bored!
Also, a bit butthurt because as soon as Ambrose got the call to fill in for someone at work, River headed off to sequester himself in his room without even considering doing something else together, just the two of us.
Rationally, I know he didn’t mean to be rude and that he’s slammed at work. It’s just hard not to get pissy when your best friend for over a decade doesn’t prioritize spending time together unless his boyfriend is there too.
I scramble to pull my phone out of my pocket, eager for any kind of interaction, and almost drop it onto the hard laundry room floor in my haste. Holding it with both hands so I don’t end up with a cracked screen yet again, I unlock the screen.
Damn, the notification isn’t a message from Ambrose. It’s from work’s automated system.
My disappointment at not getting more details about the mysterious omega doesn’t last long as I read it over.
Client Booking—First Time Heat Services.
Requires availability starting tonight (as soon as possible) for the full duration of heat. Unbonded omega with no pack ties, 1 other heat minder to be confirmed (Theresa, alpha).
Oh, hell yeah, finally!
It’s been almost a month since my last booking. Both of my regulars found their packs, which is great for them, but shit for my wallet. I’ve been on the call list for weeks, and was starting to worry that I’d have to look for another job. Which would suck, because I’m finally doing a job I enjoy.
I mean, it’s kind of hard not to. I get to fuck for money in a safe and comfortable environment. Alphas would pay out the nose—and probably do—to get to participate in an omega’s heat, but I’m the lucky bastard that gets to have a ton of sex, and make decent cash in the process.
A last-minute heat pays double, so I won’t feel like a piece of shit when the mortgage payment comes around this time. The guys swear they don’t mind covering it, but it’s embarrassing to leech off of them.
When I quit my soul-sucking job at the law firm, I swore to myself I wouldn’t let it affect my contributions to our pack. I have to pull my weight. A first heat with an unbonded omega could mean a steady gig for a long time.
As long as I don’t fuck it up.
I’ve had no complaints from my clients, but the perfectionist side of me is always thinking about what I could’ve done better.
I don’t want to be adequate. I want to be the best.
I text work back with my acceptance, all thoughts of boredom and frustration over my pack ignoring me gone at the prospect of this job.
