Omega Society Auction [Book 2]

by Eileen Glass

  The words do make him frown a bit as he goes over them fully, but a glance at the sleeping form in the sheets assures him. His mother’s condition might be why they met, but he’s glad they did. He can’t imagine having anyone else back on Earth.

  The first two paragraphs are vitriol. The third changes tone, however, and Rourke reads carefully.

  You don’t even know what you ruined, man. I didn’t just get this house for my kids. I was going to help you through it when she passes. Now you’re in fucking SPACE, your mom’s dying alone, and you’re the breeding livestock for our fucking alien overlords. Good going man. GREAT JOB.

  Rourke thought his reasoning behind all of this would be obvious.

  No man. She’s getting the money for better treatment. I know what I’m doing. He taps the edge of the phone, wondering if he should address the rest of it.

  He adds, I’m happy here, and hits send.

  He thinks a while, but decides to leave it at that. Cory might just have to relegated to memories of his life before. Rourke won’t keep him in his contacts for the verbal abuse much longer. He’s surprisingly okay with that.

  Thumbing through the last of his messages so he can crawl back to his warm bed, Rourke checks his email for anything Stephanie might have sent him. Her birthday is in the subject line with a smiley face. Underneath is a bill from the utility company. The subject says, Payment Declined - LAST NOTICE.

  The End

  Next Episode >>

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  Author Bio

  Eileen Glass lives amongst the sounds of sirens, car stereos, and the yowling of stray cats. She commands two minions of destruction, slobbery beasts that eat power cords and wall plaster. While she enjoys cafes and urban life, she's known to be a bit of a hermit, shutting herself away on weekends to write and being bad at noticing her phone. She likes m/m romance with sweet, protective heroes and paranormal creatures.

  Website: eileenglass.com

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  Also by Eileen Glass

  Chapter 1

  Something’s wrong, but I can’t see what. I can’t see anything. They put this blindfold on me and tied it tight. My hands are cuffed and chained to the front of my prison. A few times I tried to rub the blindfold against my arm and get it worked up enough to peek, but they shock me when I do that. It comes from this collar around my neck, and it hurts enough to make me howl.

  Howling is something I do now. I try not to think about it. There’s things about me that don’t make sense anymore. Like how I can pick everyone out by their scents and how my ears can move and fold back, and there’s that thing behind me…

  There’s an extra appendage I don’t think about. Because panic isn’t productive.

  Panicking is what they’re doing now though. First there was a sharp knock at the door and the buzz of the doorbell.

  “Finally,” the crone said and went to let them in. But whoever’s out there isn’t who she was expecting.

  “We have an order to inspect the premises,” a deep voice says, and the old crone squawks.

  “Inspect?! Let me see that.”

  There’s arguing back and forth. But she’s not alone, this crone. Her smelly workers come for me and the others. Our prisons are stacked—cages actually, for we can’t even stand up in them. I twist and turn at night, my back aching. I’ve been in here for days. They said not to cry, someone was coming to get me today. Whatever that means.

  Now I hold the bars as gravity goes wobbly, the cage lifted and set on another surface. They’re moving us onto carts again. We’ll probably go on the truck, where it’s dark and cold and smells like manure.

  One of the girls whines. She’s told to shut up, and I guess maybe she’s wearing a shock collar too, because that’s all it takes.

  I lick my lips nervously. They don’t like this inspection. The crone doesn’t like the man with the growly voice forcing his way into the shop. It is a shop, I know, because I’ve recognized the sounds of the cash register and listened to the customers.

  “Quiet! Get down!” one of the smelly men tells the other. They hunker right outside my bars.

  I can smell their pits and their bad breath. My nose wrinkles and my ears flatten back. I have the urge to bare my teeth too, like a dog, but that’s another of those sensations I don’t care much to think about.

  What they’ve done to me is permanent. I heard them say so.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about it. What’s important is that they don’t want growly guy to find us, and they’re starting to wheel the cart away with us on it.

  I should call out. But it’ll hurt so much.

  “We run a respectable establishment,” the crone says, presumably to the deep-voiced guy. “Nothing but licensed, ethical breeders and we provide free housing to shelter pets when there’s overflow. We’re a community pet shop, and I don’t know what—don’t do that! Don’t tap on the glass, the fish don’t like that!”

  Pet shop. I’m in a pet shop, though I kind of already knew that. There’s the smell of pet food and the squeaks of mice running on wheels. There’s dogs and cats, but they’ve always been distant, through a wall until today. They keep us in the back, where it’s cold.

  I touch my tongue to the front of my teeth and wonder at what I feel there. Points. Why am I in a pet shop? What did they do? Is it really permanent?

  And can this guy help me?

  I’m scared to find out. The shock collar hurts. Should I just wait? Surely the guy can find us on his own. These two goons keep hissing at each other to shut up, making more noise by doing so.

  “Is that all you sell here?” the growly guy asks.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice just got a pitch higher.

  “No illegal stuff? I’m not gonna find corgis and tortoises in the back, am I?”

  “What? No! Nothing like that.”

  I wonder why corgis and tortoises would be such a big deal. Is it a joke? I don’t get it.

  “How about humans? You sell humans, altered or otherwise?”

  Now my stomach sinks, my ears droop, and my hope is replaced with dread. Why does he say it like that? Humans. Like he’s not one.

  Memories are welling up but I can’t bear them. There’s a big gap in my timeline that I don’t think about. First I’m kicking back in my apartment, playing video games and applying for work on my crappy laptop. Then there’s a garbled mess that hurts worse than the shock collar when I try to remember it. My whole body flinches and twists in reaction to it.

  There’s the crone’s face. Her eyes are bulging, every small wrinkle around her eyelids visible in detail as she’s chanting, her teeth gnashing. It’s only a second, a snapshot in my mind that’s alive with terror. Like it’s still happening somewhere to a part of me.

  But I’m here, I remind myself. In a cage. Where it’s metal and cold, but it’s still safer than there.

  “Why’s that a hard question?” growly guy asks. “You got ‘em or don’t you?”

  “No! That’s preposterous!”

  “Well, I’m a buyer.”

  “Of humans?”

  “Yeah. And I got a hook up who says this is the place. Says you’re the woman to talk to.”

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” Her voice goes up another notch. “We’re just a small local pet shop. And we love our animals. I’ve got papers for everything here. Breeders—and satisfied customers! They’ll tell you.”

  We go over a bump. The temperature changes and this room smells different. I can’t describe the scent exactly, but I know what it
is even if I’m not used to it. Things die in here. That’s the scent.

  And without choosing to, without acknowledging that I’m about to get shocked and possibly electrocuted to death, I let out a keen.

  It’s a sound I’d never make, especially when I should be calling for help, shouting like a man. A hu-man. Because that’s what I am, I’m pretty sure. That’s what I remember being. Until the smear of terror and chanting and the crone’s crazy eyes.

  The shock is sudden and rips through me. There’s no pain to compare it to. There’s no escaping it. I’ve broken my arm and sprained my ankle before, and I never did more than clench my teeth and deal with it.

  But this hurts. It’s nothing like that. And it doesn’t stop.

  Scraping might be the best way to put it. Scraping and rattling through my bones and my teeth. But I can’t move, I’m completely paralyzed.

  The first few times this happened one of the goons would squat in front of my prison and say, “It doesn’t stop until you stop screaming.”

  It was a while before I understood. Even then, it takes a while to stop screaming.

  A presence inside me is listening to things other than myself, taking note of what’s happening.

  “Shit! Run!”

  The cages bump and sway as the goons push us over the dip and outside where the air is fresh and the wheels rattle on pavement.

  “Get it activated, fucking get it activated!” one shouts while the other yells back, “I’m trying!”

  I hear a hum I recognize, but I’m way too exhausted to think of what it is. I stop screaming. I’m panting, face pressed against the bars, my body bent toward the front of the cage so my cramped legs can stretch toward the back. Something soft brushes the back of my thighs. It’s the appendage I don’t think about.

  I think it’s a tail.

  I start to cry.

  From inside the shop, there’s things falling, things breaking, and the old crone screaming like she’s going to die.

  Heh. Maybe she has a shock collar too, I think, and I’m darkly pleased by the fantasy of seeing her fall. I’d like it if she was in pain, though I don’t think that’s the case.

  I hear a door smash open. The growly guy has found us. That’s what she’s waling about.

  “Police! On the ground!”

  My ears swivel to catch the sounds of many boots running at us from both sides. A gunshot going off makes my whole body jerk like I’m the one hit.

  The goons yell, “We give up! We surrender!”

  I hear the thud of their knees hitting the ground as the crone, somewhere distant, is pleading, “Please, you don’t understand, I have contracts! They’re not abducted, they’re saved!”

  It’s all jumbled and confusing, and I can’t move my limbs. I’m halfway certain I’ve been shot. Maybe I’m dying, but I don’t feel blood. Something tells me I’d know what that feels like—blood pouring out of me. I’ve been in that state before. I mewl weakly and move my fingers to grasp the bars. I move my toes too. Anything I can do to prove that I’m alive.

  “Holy shit.”

  Growly guy is close now. I call to him in my mind. I’m not sure if he’s here to rescue me or what, but I need help. I know that. The front of my cage door opens and my hands go with it.

  There’s more yelling. Other people are here too, and the growly guy shouts, “Scout the area for anyone who’s fled! Get these assholes to separate cars.”

  The goons are cussing at each other. I hear a pained grunt from one as he’s hauled off his feet.

  A flick close to my face makes me quiver. A hand grabs my collar. I hold very still as steel slides across my neck, easing underneath. I breathe slowly and carefully as he makes slight sawing motions, then pulls hard and the collar snaps apart.

  He works on the binding on my wrists next. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

  Someone else asks, “What is he?”

  Terrible words. I knew it. They did something and changed me. But I can’t speak.

  Thick fingers come and lift up the black cloth covering my eyes. I blink fast, the colors too vivid, but thankfully the light is elsewhere. It’s dark here. The silhouette of a man kneels over me and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust.

  He isn’t pleased. He’s blond with messy curls and rough stubble. He wears a white shirt and a gun holster. I’m spilled over his lap, making meager movements to get out of the cage even while I’m still mostly paralyzed. He reaches in and pulls my legs out for me.

  “Get the others,” he says to someone over his shoulder.

  I lay here, looking up at him, just so, so grateful. And wondering.

  There’s an appendage of silky fluff that belongs to me and my hands have pointed tips where my fingernails should be. The cage I came out of is a metal crate with food and water bowls attached at the front. For a dog.

  * * *

  I should back up. To what I do remember, which is me staring at an underwear mannequin with more attraction and longing than I care to admit. I’m waiting for a manager to see me about an interview.

  I’m excited and nervous.

  Excited because they’re going to interview me right away, which is what I need. And nervous because they always ask the questions the same way. So I always answer the same way. But for whatever reason, I get the standard line about them calling me for a second interview.

  This is to be polite and let me leave happy with false hope. But I don’t wait for their call because I already know I didn’t get the job. I don’t know why. I’m as happy and friendly as I can possibly be. I’m fucking ecstatic with charm and eagerness to be ‘on the Team.’ I’m the goddamn epitome of their company values, whatever they are, yet I still can’t get a job.

  And I need one. Badly. My preferred starting date is three months ago when my rent was late the first time.

  This mannequin has no junk, and I sigh with disappointment. Loneliness is a separate issue. Right now, I’ve just got to keep myself off the street.

  Coming at me through the racks of shirts and whatnot is a tall guy with frosted hair and smart, square-rimmed glasses. I immediately stand a little straighter. He’s softer than the mannequin, but still on the lean side, wearing well-fit slacks and the red company vest.

  When he speaks, my stomach flutters. He’s gay. Or metrosexual, I guess, but that’s the more rare option. He has that certain tone that isn’t an over-the-top lisp, but I know by listening. I look at him with pleading puppy eyes.

  I want you.

  Or rather, I want him to want me. I’m not creepy, it’s just that I’d like to be wanted for once, you know? I mean it. Literally, just once. I’m gay too, but I must be bad at it because I don’t know how to meet people like us. I’m too shy. I’m the exact opposite of everything that I’ll pretend to be in this interview.

  He asks the first question, which everyone asks, but it isn’t the important stuff. It isn't: Do you have a drug problem? Will you show up on time? Are you desperate enough to stay? Can you handle being overworked and mistreated?

  I’d say YES to all of those and, Can I get an advance on my first check?

  But no. After shaking my hand, he says, “So, Collin, tell me what you’re looking for in this position.”

  Behind my smile, I’m thinking, Food. Shelter. My own bathroom.

  But I give him my usual spiel about how I love working around people and helping customers. Company values and whatnot. Corporations don’t want people, they want robots, and I’m a willing one.

  I’m smiling but he’s not, and as I answer through another question as smoothly as I’ve rehearsed (because talking naturally makes me freeze and mess up) I’m remembering what I’ve read about interviewers mimicking your body language if they like you enough.

  I like him. I’d like to work with him, though I’d never let on to my secret hopes, not in a million years. Maybe he’d come onto me and then I’d have something.

  But he doesn’t smile. The way he adjusts his
glasses reminds me of a teacher who’d frown every time I got an answer wrong. The rest of the class gets it, so why don’t you?

  My anxiety is overcoming my survival needs and I start to trip on my words. I’m answering a question about conflict in the workplace. I’m saying that if a coworker and I had a disagreement, I would try to resolve it with the person first before involving management.

  But my cheeks, my chest, and even the top of my head are heating up. I’m like the soda can that was shook too much, but instead of getting to let go in a burst, the lid stays shut and I’m just stuck like this, the pressure expanding.

  I have to answer, but I’m out of breath. I have to find places to pause and breathe, but I don’t know how. I’m mucking this all up.

  If I was busy and a customer asked me for help finding an item…

  “I would give the customer directions.” Pause. “And I would ask if they’d like someone to meet…” Pause, inhale like I’m drowning. “…them there. And I’d call for someone to meet them…”

  I sound like I’m slow, but I’m not, I’m just nervous and out of breath.

  “…if I could. If there was no one else, I’d…”

  Jesus help me.

  “…walk them to the item real quick. And resume my task.”

  Seriously, does anybody ever answer this wrong? Like, I’d tell them I’m fucking busy so look up and read the signs.

  I go through a few more like this, trying to be eager and charming but talking too fast for the amount of oxygen I require to keep speaking. I talk all the time without noticing my breathing. But now it’s like I haven’t figured it out, and I see the manager frowning slightly to one side. He shifts his weight and his gaze goes to someplace above my head.