Page 2 of Knotted their Beauty

I simply need something that’ll allow me to get off the streets. It’s not safe, and I’m terrified of having a heat out here. I’m downing heat suppressants that I bought with the last of the money Bentley gave me, but I’m desperate and living on borrowed time.

My father may be dead, but there are other Boogeymen in Los Angeles, and the memory of a black eye is simply the tip of the iceberg.

One year later

“We’re having complaints about how you answer the phone, Arlo.”

Mr. Massey sounds angry and out of patience as he towers over my desk. The emotion is almost too extreme for a job where I answer the phones, and I gaze up helplessly at him. I’m working at Holdstone Records, a music company that has hopefuls trekking in and out of here every day, hoping for a break.

Unfortunately, this is Hollywood and few get what they’re looking for.

I was lucky enough to hear they needed someone to answer the phones and do basic office work eight months ago. The Center changed my life with clothes from their career closet for the interview and a bus pass. As soon as I have a little money saved, I want to donate some of it to them.

I don’t think I’d survive much longer out on the streets.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say slowly. “The phones have been busy, and I answer every call the same way. Everyone gets the same level of respect⁠—”

“That’s the problem!” Mr. Massey explodes. It takes everything inside of me not to cringe away. He’s a massive alpha who isn’t concerned with how his anger feels like the flames of a chemical fire, or his voice sounds like the crunching of glass.

I sit and listen to him rant and rave about how I should be hanging up on the losers who call instead of making the important people wait. While I’ve gotten more comfortable with recognizing hopeful agents from other music company owners, I’m terrified of not responding to someone correctly.

So yes, I give everyone respect, which means the wait times are longer.

“I’ll do better,” I whisper. He doesn’t want to hear what I have to say because I’m simply a body. I don’t matter, and people here remind me every day that I am replaceable.

It would be nice to know that I’m good at something no one else is. However, I have no real skills. So yes, I am merely a body with a voice and arms that moves through the day with no other purpose than to be pissed on all goddamned day.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he seethes. “Here is the data entry for today.”

He dumps a pile of paper on my desk before stomping away, not seeing how I deflate in defeat. There’s no way I can answer these calls and also input all of this. Looking through it, I see it’s bullshit I’m not even responsible for.

“Arlo.” I look up to see Suzy Sutton who works at the Human Resources Department and is currently five months pregnant. Unfortunately, it has not made her glow, and instead she’s grouchier than normal.

“Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?” I ask, organizing the paper in front of me and placing it to the side.

“Mr. Massey said you were going to input the paperwork for me for our new hires,” she says smugly. Oh. That’s what he gave me. “I need it in spreadsheet form and sent to me by tomorrow. Do you think⁠—”

“I think it’s outside of the scope of my duties, and as such it may take me more time to complete,” I reply pleasantly. “I’m happy to help, however, the phone is ringing and I have a job to do. Thank you for understanding, Suzy. Have a good day.”

I answer the phone by tapping my headset, my eyes firmly set in front of me in order to ignore the disappointment in her eyes. She wanted to put me in my place, yet doesn’t understand I’ve been lower than this. I have no dignity or shame. I simply want to keep my head down and receive my paycheck every two weeks.

Shit like this seems to happen every month. Every department asks Mr. Massey for help, and each time it’s dumped on me.

While Suzy is fucking scary, I’m more scared of losing this damn job.

The rest of the day flies by, and I leave with my job intact. I need to begin looking for another as soon as possible, because I can see the writing on the wall. I’ve long passed the ninety day mark as a receptionist, and if they want to fire me, Mr. Massey will need to find a better reason than what he currently has.

I not only do my job, but those of others, and I still manage to answer my calls. His reasoning for coming to my desk is bullshit. If I hung up on someone, he’d complain about that too.

Sometimes, there’s no pleasing people.

My bus ride home is almost always delayed with detours, and it takes me forty minutes to arrive at my apartment building. The place is run down and I never leave my little rented room after the sun sets because the crime is so high here. I live in this three bedroom apartment with three other people, and I’m the only one with their own room due to my designation.

I hide less behind all the blockers my father used to make me take, but I faithfully buy my heat blockers every month from my supplier. One day I’ll be able to afford to go to the heat clinic, however I don’t have two hundred dollars to spare on that.

I’ve heard other cities offer safe places for omegas to have a heat for free, but the City of Angels is not that altruistic. Instead, everyone is one bad mental space away from stabbing each other. The entertainment industries are even worse, and I’ve witnessed band members yelling and fighting as they leave Mr. Massey’s office.

It always ends in fines, and sometimes the dissolution of contracts. If I was lucky enough to catch a break and had any talent at all, I swear I would never squander it. Not ever.