Page 4 of The Gift
“Nah. They’re still stuck on a few, but the memes the public keep coming up with are killing any suggestions,” someone adds from down the table, drawing a few grunts of agreement.
“Wonder why? I mean, what was last week’s? Another nod at omega anatomy or what it can do? They should call it SLICK.” Tracey laughs.
“Come on, the funniest yet was TASTE,” Ben lobs from the sidelines after getting caught up laughing.
“The marketing agency running that for the government should be disbanded and those people should find other careers,” I offer sassily, smiling. The laughter was needed, lifting us up during a difficult reminder of an event that should never have occurred.
“I’m voting on OVA.” Carmen smirks, picking up her phone to place her vote.
The marketing agency has taken to public voting on the name, since apparently to fix the problem, every one of us has to become the solution. Dumb shits. They should call it “we’re so fucking sorry” and make it stick anyway they can. In some ways, though, the agency is doing a stellar job, all these names, the memes, the endless arguments, and public debate is slowly erasing the Government’s old name, Omega Control Department.
Changing a name isn’t enough, throwing the directors of the program and government officials in jail isn’t enough, putting the lead scientist on death row isn’t enough. Fuck me, starting their reconciliation from scratch again won’t be enough. The damage was done years ago.
“The compensation money hasn’t been touched either. Don’t you think that’s a good sign that the omegas that did escape want to be left alone?” Tracey suggests. And with that a lot of the lightness of the mood gets vacuumed out.
“What if they don’t know that money is available for them?” Ben argues back in an instant.
There’s a high probability that some of them don’t. But every person around the table is ignoring that fact, much like most of the country turned a blind eye on the Regalo Program before it was discovered and disbanded. The warning signs were there though. If people had looked a little harder, they would have seen the signs. The desperation from the government itself was a pretty big indicator.
“Let’s get back on track. Who else have we locked down for involvement?” I wave my hand impatiently. The room is starting to feel like the ceiling is dropping down, my anxiety piquing. Understandably though.
“We’ve secured a walk-through of the new retreat facility. It’s ready to go and the new government is hoping to open soon, as a display of how ready they are. The facility can house up to fifty omegas at a time. It has a wellness side, full medical facilities, self-catering or chefs on hand, organic produce and livestock, spring water, string quartet and it’s secured. They also have a range of professionals, all vetted, that are on hand to help with financials, legals, or whatever professional advice the omegas need will be there available, and all pro-bono. I guess we’ve got a whole week of filming there and we can do interviews with the staff,” Ben says, flipping through his leather notebook, confirming the details.
“That will be interesting to see, particularly if they’ve done it without too much omega input. What else?” I keep steering this meeting towards a conclusion. After this, I’m ready to go to ground, tired but wired after the massive info dump I’ve sat through. A big part of my brain is fried.
“I’ve sent a memo out to everyone. We’ve been invited to meet with members of the new alliance the alphas formed. In part, it is conciliatory but also consultative. They are offering themselves up as willing participants and guides, but also, they have legislated new alpha only regulations which they believe will help. They’re focused on implementing acceptable measures for their own behaviour. No government funding or backing outside of the alphas themselves. The measures they have put in place have been endorsed by the law makers. It seems they’ve ensured that the power stays with the omegas,” Carmen reads off her laptop. A series of alerts confirms we’ve all received the same email, grabbing our devices and taking the time to read in full what Carmen surmised. The whole thing feels like a forced knee-jerk reaction.
“We’ve also got interviews set up with the packs who had already received their omegas, plus we have a couple of packs for you to meet with. They’re still angry. Get this, they’re expecting to be recompensed and still want their omega to be delivered. How fucked is that?” Tracey adds, her eyes darting around, half glittering in excitement, half apprehension. The reality is, that sort of diverse emotion from those packs is what will make this a blockbuster.
“Jesus,” I murmur, swiping my hand over the back of my neck, the heat in here is picking up.
“But the ultimate drawcard, Bailey, we’ve got the best bounty hunters already locked in. They’ll be in charge of the alphas. It’s ironic really, considering they had also been one of the packs that missed out that December. But hear me out. We can spin it even more because, effectively, they’re looking for their omega with our cameras rolling. We go live with them while they track down all the hiding omegas, and then it’s got this one in a million chance of actually becoming the ultimate reality dating show. Imagine it, we, along with every person watching, are hoping to see them find their omega. Can you imagine the numbers? Everyone is going to tune in every night to watch them hoping they find one and become a pack. They signed an exclusive too, meaning we get to film it all. Everything. Even parts of them claiming their omega. This is a fucking scoop and a half. You know it. This will make you, Bailey, and everyone else sitting around this fucking table,” Carmen smacks her hand as she finishes her tirade, I mean, speech. The look on her face is pure, unquestionable pride and triumph.
She’s one hundred percent right though. This will make every person on the team if it doesn’t fucking break me.
Bailey
Awild, frigid wind whips around me ominously, slapping the sharp edge of my coat against my legs. I’m lamenting the bad decisions I’ve been making while dancing a little maniacally along the edge of reason, but desperate times call for incredible risk.
I literally hate my life, every part of me cringes and sobs. My thoughts and reasons are jumbled and chaotic, pretty much resembling a Pollock masterpiece, yet somehow, I’m slinking through day after day, looking and acting like Jessica Rabbit.
Knocking briskly, the door opens even before I’ve had the chance to smooth down my hair. The speed at which he answers does nothing to help allay the rattle of my chest as my nerves perfume, leaving the night sour. No words are spoken, until the door closes behind me. We’ve torpedoed past niceties, we’ll have to chat soon, but tonight I need what I came here for, and then I’ll be lucky if I don’t break a leg in my haste to escape.
“You look good.” His deep voice always has a way of wrapping around me, making me feel safe in a sense. I blame his genetics. He argues against my claim, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m here for what he can give me, not who he could be to me.
I stride purposely through the room, my heels loud matching the thud of my pulse. He waits patiently in the shadows until I stop fidgeting, and put my back to him, placing my hands on the wall and spreading my legs wide. It has to be this way, despite what he thinks.
The shadows move around me, and my lungs contract, bringing white stars shooting across the wall that I focus on.
I smell his muted woodsy, masculine scent before I feel his touch searing through my coat. And in that simple touch, without a doubt, everything screams power and safety. A wave of conflict smashes against my defences. This is what gets me: the way a touch, a smell, a sense, can anchor my storming emotions. But it is never enough to stop the pressure, it only calms for a while longer. I squeeze my eyes shut, dropping my forehead to the wall trying to lock down the surge of apprehension, and regret.
It would be easy to stop the waves of self-flagellation, the physical pain, the sense of loss, but it would feel as fake as what he’s about to do. All I have to do is accept, and admit.
“Ready?” he whispers in my ear, the shiver that races up my spine is involuntary. He argues it’s not; he says it’s a sign that we’re a match, but I know. Instinctively, I know. No matter how much he wishes it was different, I’ll never be his.
I startle when his hand skates up my thighs, my knees tremble as I push out from the wall and present. His finger drags up the top of my thigh as he keeps doing what I pay him to do. And when his cool, wet finger pushes inside me, I groan softly as the first tear trails down my cheek.
Every time—every fucking time—my body betrays me.
