Page 4 of Secured By the Buyer
“Watch your tone, boy.” He slams his half-empty bottle onto the coffee table and stands to loom over me, the stench of booze oozing from his pores. “You wanna fight?”
Frustrated, I bow my head and focus on the beer-can-littered floor. “No, sir.”
“Fucking weak-ass Omega. Not worth putting a roof over your head,” he sneers, swaying on his feet. “Always thought you’d end up with a decent Alpha, but you couldn’t even do me the decency of getting knocked up in high school. Pathetic.”
His words sting, the barbs digging deep into my already bruised soul. But I refuse to let him break me.
“Maybe if you spent less time drinking and more time being a father, things would be different,” I retort before I can rein myself back.
In a flash, he slaps me hard across the face, the sound loud enough to be heard over the blare of the television. “Don’t you talk back to me! You’re just like your mother.”
Pain radiates through my skull, and I cup my cheek.
“Now, get to work, you bitch!” Spittle lands on my hot face.
I retreat to my room and lock the door again, for all the good it will do me. The flimsy defense won’t keep him out if he wants in. I should have kept my mouth shut. His temper is always worse at night.
I press my back against the door and release a shaky breath, holding back the tears threatening to spill. I can’t afford to cry right now. Not when I need to change and leave for my second job.
The stinging pain on my cheek draws me over to the mirror hanging from my closet.
It reflects my lean body back at me, my pale skin covered in freckles from head to toe. A heart-shaped raspberry birthmark peeks from above the towel on my lower stomach, next to my left hip bone. My longred hair hangs over my shoulders to the middle of my back. It’s my one vanity, and a stubborn one.
I inch closer, avoiding the crystal-blue eyes inherited from my father to inspect my cheek. The clear outline of a handprint stands out, but I don’t think it will bruise.
My tongue prods my teeth, and relief fills me when none of them wiggle. I don’t have healthcare, let alone dental care.
With one last check in the mirror, I brush out my hair and braid it into a crown to keep it out of my face. Then I dress, pull on my coat, and grab my backpack, slinging it back over my shoulder.
When I pass through the living room, my dad sits on the couch once more, and I take the long way around to walk behind him.
“Didn’t I tell you to shave your head?” He fixates on the TV. “I can’t stand the fucking sight of you.”
With nothing to say, I don’t respond as I flee the house, my stomach growling with hunger. I refuse to give in to the tears that threaten to fall. Crying never changes anything.
Hard work is the only way I’ll escape from this prison.
2
The scent of stale tobacco and alcohol hits me as I step through the casino’s service entrance, my sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum.
My nose crinkles in disgust. Like I don’t have to put up with this stench enough at home.
I head straight to the employee room, fluorescent lights flickering overhead with a steady hum that’s sure to give me a headache before the end of the night.
I yank open my locker and exchange my street clothes for the gray uniform I despise. The rough fabric chafes my skin, and with no stretch to it, it makes it tough to crawl around while I clean.
“Rooms three through seven need a turnover,Milo,” my supervisor barks from across the room, not bothering to look up from his clipboard.
I nod, swallowing the protest bubbling up in my throat. There’s no use arguing with him. He always assigns me the hourly rentals because I can’t afford to lose this job.
With a sigh, I slip on the rubber gloves and mask that have become like a second skin to me, my hands already itching from the latex. By now, my routine is so well-practiced I don’t think about it anymore.
I grab my cart and check to ensure the person before me restocked it, then set off toward the first room on my list.
One of my coworkers leaning against the lockers gives a sympathetic smile. “Good luck, man.”
I nod in acknowledgment, glad for the mask that hides my scowl. Luck doesn’t mean shit around here. He’s just happy it’s not him dealing with the misery of the hourly rooms. Drugs, vomit, contraceptives of all kinds…you name it, I’ve cleaned it and then some.