Page 15 of Feeling the Heat: Part Two
“Yeah, it was hard not to beat the shit out of them, but I got out of there as fast as I could. The next thing I knew I was at Camille’s place, and she looked awful, and… I’m done keeping my distance. Ambrose agreed. And now you’re here.”
“She needs her pack,” I say. “Herwholepack.”
River nods. “She does, but I have no clue how to get her to even consider speaking to me. I’m the one who is the problem.”
“I swear to god dude, if you suggest we kick you out of the pack so we can get Camille again, I’ll strangle you,” Jackson snaps.
“I wasn’t going to! I fucking want her and you two so bad it keeps me up every night.”
My eyes widen at his declaration, as do Jackson’s, but River doesn’t seem to notice the connotation of the words, barrelling forward in a huff. “I’m just saying that she won’t want anything to do with me.”
“Okay, fine,” Jackson grumbles. “I needed to check.”
“Well, you did, and you were wrong, but I get why you thought that,” River huffs back.
Affection swells in my chest at their prickly demeanors. I know arguing should seem like a bad sign, but to me it’s saying we’re not too broken to fix our pack. And if River is changing, and we can figure out how to get through to Camille, we could be better than before.
I’m ever the overly romantic optimist, even now.
Jackson’s brow furrows in thought. “I might have an idea of how we get Camille and you in the same room.”
“You do?” I ask.
“Yeah, but it’s going to require we get new dress shoes,” Jackson replies cryptically. “Dahlia chewed ours up when you moved out.”
7
You knowthings are rough when a trip to the mailroom has your palms sweating and heart rate spiking. Every stray look my way has me wanting to turn away, even from neighbors who I’ve seen around the building for years. Every phone in someone’s hand is a chance for someone to record or photograph me. I considered wearing sunglasses or a face mask to hide my features, but talked myself out of it. For now, my oversized hoodie pulled over my hair will have to do.
It’s not rational at all. I’m featured in a handful of viral posts, but there are billions of people on the planet. The odds of someone recognizing me are low, but my omega doesn’t get that. She’s on high alert, waiting for the next threat to emerge and begging me to retreat to my nest where it’s safe.
Not that it’s much better in there. When I’m alone in my nest, my mind immediately goes to the influx of messages from Ambrose and Jackson. The ones I got after Jackson’s impassioned visit and, like a fool, read. I’m torturing myself with thoughts of them coming over and helping me like the messages offer. Smiling at the dumb jokes and dog picsJackson sends. Crying at Ambrose’s gentle reminders to take care of myself. Wondering if I’m being an idiot and I should welcome them back into my life, then reminding myself what happened the last time I tried letting them in.
By the time I’m back in the safety of my apartment, beads of sweat drip down my spine and I’m trembling. Ripping off the hoodie, I have to stand in front of the open freezer to cool off. When it takes longer than usual for my temperature to regulate, worry creeps into my thoughts. It doesn’t help that my stomach was a little crampy this morning. I have to reassure myself that I’m not going into heat by checking the sleeve of heat suppressants to make sure I haven’t missed a dose.
As it turns out, the symptoms of stress and anxiety overlap quite a bit with going into heat. Which is just great, because not only am I stressed about the social media shitstorm I’m weathering, but I’m also freaking out every time my body reacts to said stress. And what’s really fucked is that I can’t take my anti-anxiety meds because they can interfere with the heat suppressants.
Once I’ve stopped sweating, I go grab the strawberry cow from my nest and hug it, closing my eyes and focusing on the purr it emanates. I’ve given up on feeling embarrassed that I’m a forty-year-old woman who has to use a toy for babies to self-soothe, because Bessie is the only thing that helps.
Yes, I named her. We’re practically life partners at this point, so it felt rude not to give her a name.
My omega settles first, the instinctual parts of my brain going out of high alert mode as Bessie snuggled tight against me signals that I’m safe. In the wake of the stress comes fatigue. I slump down onto the couch, eyeing the boxes I retrieved from the mailroom, already exhausted at the prospect of trying on their contents.
My phone pings in quick succession with incoming messages, and I dig it out of my pocket with a weary groan.
Lauren: Did you get the dresses?
Lauren: Which one do you like the best? Send pics, I want to see!
Her enthusiasm pulls a weak snort of amusement from me, even as dread rises. The last thing I want to do is get up and try on a bunch of cocktail dresses for the launch party.
Well, no, the last thing I want to do is go to the launch party. But not attending isn’t an option. Lauren saved my ass and has kept me relatively sane, and not going to the launch party for the company she founded—and that I work for—would be beyond rude.
Even though I dread it with every fiber of my being.
Hauling myself up off the couch with a sigh, I set Bessie down and start opening boxes. My omega lights up a little at the act of opening what she sees as presents, since Astrid is the one that picked out a bunch of options for me when I was having a meltdown over having nothing to wear. She used my credit card, so I paid for everything, but haven’t seen any of the dresses. Which I’m realizing now was a mistake as each box I open reveals another over-the-top, skimpy dress.
They’re far better suited for a much younger woman trying to seduce a pack of wealthy alphas than for attending a professional event as the subject of a not insignificant amount of internet ridicule. There’s no way to blend into the crowd in any of these dresses.
