As I take a sip of the hot liquid, my phone buzzes on the Formica tabletop.
I check the screen, and my stomach curls into a knot.
Carson
Where are you?
He’s been sending me messages every twenty minutes since four in the morning. He must have gone by my apartment and seen that my car was missing. Did he spy the empty living room through the blinds in the front window? Or will it take him a few more days to realize I’m not coming back?
I ignore this message along with all the others and force myself to take a bite of the toast.
My courtship with Carson hadn’t lasted long. A month and a half in, I had realized what a red flag of an Alpha he was. Carson never yelled. He didn’t need to. He could make you feel small with a single calm sentence, the kind that sounded like advice until you realized it was an order.
Thank goodness I hadn’t gone into Heat while we were together.
He didn’t take being rejected well. When he tried to contest the termination with the Omega Registry, they flagged his file for harassment, something only obsessive Alphas risk. It should have ended there, but he keeps finding ways to reach me.
The three men at the counter are too loud for this early, voices thick with sleep and beer residue. They wear work jackets and thick denim, with beat-up leather boots.
The shorter one in the middle shoots me another glance, then leans into his buddy, murmuring into his ear.
I stir my coffee and ignore them.
A second buzz from my phone, followed by a third. He’s not letting it go.
Carson
When are you coming back?
You made me look like the bad guy.
Don’t ignore me, Leif.
We both know where this ends.
Really, how much is too much before it’s considered crossing the line?
I had met Carson at the school where we both worked, where he volunteered to be my mentor. He liked to say he was shaping me into someone worthy of the profession. Every compliment came with a correction, every correction with a touch. In the beginning, I assumed that since we were both teachers, it meant we shared similar goals and values.
Boy, had I been wrong.
Carson isn’t one of those people who loves children and wants to nurture them to grow. He wants a degree so he can belittle them and prove how smart he is.
I reported him to the school board before leaving town last night, which I’m sure will go over real well. I can already envision the new slew of messages. At least he doesn’t know where I ran off to. I canceled my lease and left no forwarding address.
Good riddance.
And I learned my lesson about dating in the workplace. Never again.
I put the phone in my pocket and scan my lesson plans, looking for comfort in the order and logic of multiplication tables and spelling words. I’ve got two weeks’ worth of activities mapped out for my new charge, Quinn Patel, color-coded by day and cross-referenced for attention span. It’s all a waste of time. Kids can sniff out nerves faster than bloodhounds. But it helps calm my anxiety.
I need this job to pan out.
A loud cough draws my attention, and I glance up in time to catch the oldest of the three men rolling his broad shoulders and flexing. I muffle a snort and look away. No thank you.
The clock on the wall announces I’ve wasted enough time, and I raise my hand to catch the waitress’s attention. She comes over with my bill as I put my papers back in my satchel. When I stand, I almost knock over my coffee. Righting it, I shoulder my bag as the three at the counter snicker, and one lets out a whistle.
Assholes.