The Hidden Omega

by Wilder, J. L.

  I grab my salad and nibble at it. I need to make sure I get enough to eat, I know. Being too hungry is something else that can trigger my beast side. It’s almost like anything primal in me causes me to literally lose my humanity. I need to be careful to stay calm, keep myself together, take care of my physical and emotional needs. The moment I slip and let my family see the other side of me, the life I’ve had will be over. I know that.

  It’s not a great life. It’s hard, and I feel unloved and unwanted most of the time. But there’s a roof over my head and I always know where my next meal is coming from. I’m twenty-three years old. They could kick me out, legally, but they haven’t. All it’s going to take is one wrong move on my part and I’ll be forced to start looking for a new home.

  Faye throws open the door to my room without knocking. Her face is a thundercloud. “I hate you,” she announces.

  As if I asked. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say coolly. I’m not going to let her provoke me into losing my temper. Losing my temper would be a disaster.

  She crosses the room and climbs up to sit on my desk with her feet on my chair. She’s done this for years, ever since we were children. I used to like it. I used to think Faye barging into my room might mean she was ready to be my friend. When she acted like she’d been invited in, I always went along with it. But I’m too old to fall into that trap now. I don’t want her here. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, centering myself.

  Now she eyes me from the desk. “My friends all feel sorry for you,” she says. “Did you know that?”

  “Your college friends?” I know her high school friends didn’t feel sorry for me.

  “Yeah. I told them about you. That your real parents didn’t want you, so we took you in, but you’re emotionally damaged and you’ll sleep with anybody to try and get them to like you.”

  A shiver of anger runs through me. That isn’t true at all. I’ve been with a lot of people, it’s true, but I was never trying to win love. I never had any illusions about that.

  “They feel sorry for you,” Faye says, “but I don’t. It’s your fault, what happened. If you weren’t such a slut, you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. I bet you don’t even know who the father was, do you?”

  “It’s none of your business.” My calm is slipping. I close my eyes, trying to pull myself back from the brink.

  “It is my business,” Faye insists. “I can’t spend time with my boyfriend because of what you did. Mom and Dad will probably never be chill about boys again. And that’s all your fault. You’re ruining my life.”

  I’m ruining her life.

  I can’t believe I wanted this girl to be my sister. I can’t believe I ever thought she would want to be.

  I push past her out into the hall. I can hear her calling my name, demanding to know where I’m going, but I don’t care. I’m not going to tell her. I vault down the stairs, taking them six and seven at a time, and push through the front door before Georgianne has a chance to call out and stop me. Then I’m running for the tree line, immersing myself in the forest, leaving my so-called family behind. Embracing my wild side.

  And it breaks free, emerging from somewhere deep within my heart and my gut and exploding outward, overtaking the side of me that’s human and weak and able to be hurt by the things my family say and do. In these moments, the fact that they’re nothing like me is amazing, a gift. I have this escape and they have nothing. They’re stuck in the house, pale and pasty and fragile, and I have another world I can escape to.

  My front legs pull back. My back legs propel me forward. I am so much faster, running like this. I could outrun Faye without breaking a sweat, even if she is a track star. I feel thick cords of muscle pulling around my limbs, working at my command. It feels good. Simple. Sweet.

  And everything I want, everything I worry about, it’s all boiled down to its simplest state. I want food. I want sex. I want family. I’m not worried about Georgianne or Rick, about what they would think if they saw me. I’m not worried about Faye hating me and telling all her friends I’m a nymphomaniac.

  I stop by a stream and drink some water. Part of me knows that I would never drink water straight from a stream if I were my other self, my human self. But I’m not her. She’s not here. The parts of me that would analyze this situation and think dirty and bacteria are absent. All I’m thinking is thirst and water. Life is easy like this.

  I am an animal.

  All my thoughts are instinct. Everything I do comes from a place of base want. I’m not making plans. I’m not thinking about anyone other than myself. It’s so freeing. More than once I’ve considered making it permanent, taking animal form and running away from my family. Never going back. I could live in the woods, hunt for my meals, drink from the stream. I could be safe and independent and happy.

  But I don’t know how to make the change a permanent one. All too soon, it wears off and I’m left shivering and naked, ankle deep in water.

  I always feel regret when it wears off. I feel joy and freedom in animal form, but afterward there’s guilt and shame. I’ve taken one more step away from my humanity. I’ve given in to anger and selfishness. I’m becoming more and more of the beast and less and less Lane every time I allow this to happen.

  With a resigned sigh, I head back toward the house.

  Chapter Three

  BRUNO

  In Montreal’s Red-Light District, illegal enterprises are a dime a dozen. No matter what your vice is — drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling — you’ll have no trouble finding someone here who provides it. I’ve got no interest in any of that, but it’s the world I live in, and I’ve had to find ways to adapt. To fit in.

  My walk home from work was probably intimidating the first time I made it. I honestly don’t remember anymore. That was a long time ago and I pass this way twice a day now. I pass prostitutes in clothes that are far too skimpy for the weather, shivering and looking slightly ill. I am brushed up against by men who whisper the names of the drugs they’re carrying in my ear, hoping to make a sale. I push on, determined. I just want to get home to my pack and have a nice hot meal.

  I wish I could ride my motorcycle to work — getting home at night would be a lot easier without being stopped by everyone looking to sell something — but there’s just no place to park it at the bar. The employee parking lot is miniscule, and most people who drive end up having to park on the street and pay for parking. I don’t need the extra expense. We’re barely keeping our heads above water financially as it is.

  The building where I grew up is the building where I still live, a three-story structure made of crumbling red brick nestled between two newer homes in an unpleasant part of town. It’s all we can afford, and it isn’t much, but it’s home. I shoulder through the door and close it against the powerful Montreal winds before shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the hook. “I’m home.”

  “Kitchen,” a voice calls back.

  I take off my shoes and make my way down the hall to the kitchen. Sure enough, the rest of the family is already gathered there around the table, and to judge by the smell, dinner is just about to be served. Emily stands at the stove stirring something in a massive black pot. “You’re late,” she says over her shoulder. “Didn’t you get off work half an hour ago?”

  “There was a barfly who wouldn’t leave.” I take my seat at the table. “I eventually had to cut him off before he would go, and even then, he went grumbling.”

  “All right,” Emily says, stepping back from the stove. “Come and get it.”

  We grab our plates and queue up, scooping spaghetti and meat sauce as Emily monitors to make sure nobody takes more than their share. At fifty-five years old, she’s not just the only woman we have, she’s also the mother of the house, and she keeps the rest of us in line. Nobody likes being told what to do, exactly, but nobody would dare to disrespect Harlan’s mate. The penalties for something like that would be ugly.

  Harlan stays at the table and waits for Emily to serve hi
m. She brings him the lion’s share of the meal, ensuring that he has more meatballs in his pasta sauce than anybody else. He cuts one open, twists up some spaghetti on his fork, and takes a bite. “Good,” he declares approvingly.

  A sigh of relief goes around the table. Nobody likes to see Emily get yelled at when the dinner disappoints Harlan.

  Now that he’s been satisfied, she takes her own seat. “How was everyone’s day at work?” she asks. “Bruno, you already mentioned that you had a difficult customer. What about you, Mike?”

  Mike snorts. “I don’t have a job.”

  “Bagging groceries is a job, Mike.”

  “It is not. Not really. You should be letting me go out and find something in the business world. I could make more money for us, and we wouldn’t have to worry about the mortgage payments or keeping the lights on. We’d always know where our next meal was coming from. I’ve been looking into jobs online —”

  Harlan’s head darts up at that. Bruno seems to sense he’s said too much because he falls silent immediately.

  “Who said you could do that?” Harlan asks quietly.

  “I was just —”

  “Did you submit any applications?” Harlan asks. “Did you fill anything out that linked your name and our address?”

  “No, but —”

  “Your internet privileges are revoked,” Harlan says calmly. “You may not use any device to access the internet without express permission from me. Say I understand.”

  “I understand.” Mike sounds like he’s choking on the words, and I don’t blame him a bit. I know how it feels to get an order from Harlan, and I know what it’s like when every particle of your body yearns to disobey.

  “As it happens,” Harlan continues, “our money concerns are about to be alleviated. The Hell’s Bears are going to diversify.”

  Diversify. It sounds odd to hear the leader of a motorcycle gang speaking the language of business, but Harlan has always been an odd leader. I truly struggle sometimes to understand the motivation behind his decisions. Sometimes they make sense, like when he had me take the job at the bar. I’m good at that job, I enjoy it, and I’m able to bring home plenty of money for the family in tips. But Mike is right that he’d be much better suited to some kind of office job, and it would pay more too. I don’t know why Harlan resists. It’s true that honest office work is in very short supply here in the Red-Light District, but there’s no reason Mike couldn’t ride over to the other side of town for work.

  “What are we doing?” Clay asks. For every bit that Mike is argumentative, Clay is docile. He’s easy to talk into anything. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t have a brain in his head. Whatever Harlan is about to suggest, Clay will no doubt agree to it right away.

  Harlan gets to his feet. “Everyone, come with me.”

  I’m not finished eating, not close, but those words are an order and I have to obey. I get to my feet and join the procession of people following Harlan out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Mike and I make eye contact as we go. He raises his eyebrows and I shrug. I have no idea what this is going to be.

  Harlan stops us outside the door to Emily’s room. “All right,” he says. “Just looking, now. No touching. If anyone makes a move, they’ll regret it.” He looks at each of us in turn as if making sure we understand the threat. We don’t. Of course, we don’t. How could we? One thing, though, is clear: look but don’t touch. I jam my hands into my pockets as Harlan opens the door.

  In the middle of the room is a girl.

  She can’t be more than nineteen years old, with unwashed blond hair and dirt under her fingernails. Her short black dress looks like it might have been expensive once upon a time, but now it is dirty and fraying. She stares back at all of us with eyes that look like she’s been through a war.

  “She’s not...” I hesitate. “She’s not one of us, is she?” I sniff the air. The scent is wrong. She doesn’t belong here.

  “No,” Harlan confirms. “We’ll discuss it in the living room. Let’s go.”

  Mike is staring at the poor girl. She’s glaring at us, but the sentiment is robbed of some of its impact by the fact that she’s shaking like a leaf. I can’t tell if she’s cold or just terrified. Probably both. I want to give her my sweater, but she has no reason to trust me, and besides, Harlan has already ordered me away.

  We regroup in the living room. Emily looks troubled. Some of the others wear expressions of anger or confusion. I just want to know what’s going on. “Who was that?” I ask Harlan.

  “A new investment,” he says. “I bought her this morning.”

  “You bought her?” I stare. “What does that mean?”

  “She was working downtown, turning tricks for one of the pimps in the heart of the Red Zone. I had to sell one of the bikes to get the cash together, but it’s a long-term investment. Before long we’ll make a profit, and then we’ll be able to get the bike back, so don’t worry about that.”

  That wasn’t what I was worried about. “Why did you buy her?” I have a twisted up feeling in my gut about it. “You haven’t just turned Good Samaritan. You said this was going to help us out financially. You said it was an investment. How?”

  “Easy,” Harlan says, his voice perfectly calm, as if what he’s saying is a normal thing. “We put her to work.”

  A clamor of voices protests.

  “Quiet,” Harlan says, and of course everyone falls silent right away. Disobeying Harlan is not an option. “I’ll hear objections one at a time. Clay?”

  Clay fidgets uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

  “You have something to say. Say what’s on your mind.”

  Now he has no choice but to speak. “Is it really a good investment? How much money can one girl make? Those pimps downtown live well, but they keep whole stables of girls.”

  Harlan nods. “A good point. And that’s a potential long-term goal for us, but this first girl will get us started. And we’ll be able to raise her market value. We’ve got Emily here to help dress her up and beautify her, get her looking all sweet for the street every night. The girl you saw up there was rundown and falling apart. We’ll get her back into peak condition and send her out fresh as a peach.”

  This is disgusting. I lean back against the wall and avert my eyes, hoping not to be called on.

  “Bruno,” Harlan says, and my heart sinks. “Your thoughts?”

  “I... would rather not say,” I reply. Harlan has been known to respect people’s privacy in the past. Maybe I’ll get a break.

  No such luck. “We have to do things as a pack,” he says. “We all need to support each other. Tell me what you think.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I think this is barbaric. You’re talking about involving us in the sex trade. In all the years the Hell’s Bears have been based in the Red Zone, we’ve never dipped into anything illegal to help us survive. We’re better than that.”

  “Why?” Mike speaks up from across the room. He’s a barrel-chested man of thirty with too much facial hair and way too much ego, and he’s glaring at me like I’m a bug about to be stepped on. “Why do we have to be above the currency of the realm? This is what people do here to get by. That poor girl has probably been living on the streets. We’ll give her a home, a family, nutrition, everything she could want. And she’s already a prostitute, anyway. It’s not like we’re bringing someone into a life they’re not already a part of.”

  “How are you going to feel knowing that every bite of food you put in your mouth was bought for you by this girl’s body?” I ask.

  “We’ll still keep our jobs,” Mike says mulishly, as if that’s the point.

  I turn to Harlan. “And you’re thinking of expanding the operation? Bringing more girls into it? This makes us no better than the man you bought her from.” I can’t believe this. I’ve been a Hell’s Bear all my life. I was born into this pack. We’re wild, sure —we like to ride our bikes too fast on the highway and pass on the shoulder, we drink too much beer and practicall
y have more tattoos than skin. But this is another level. If this isn’t beneath us, is anything?

  “Can I go out?” I ask, barely keeping the bite out of my voice.

  Harlan nods. He must know there’s nothing helpful he’s going to get from me right now.

  I turn, stride from the room and burst through the front door, already running for the nearest grove of trees, already reaching inward for the animal that lives deep within me. By the time I hit the tree line, my conflicted feelings have eased, and my only concern is the cool earth as it gives way under my paws.

  Chapter Four

  BRUNO

  I run for hours, until the ache and exhaustion in my muscles is more powerful than the horror I felt at discovering a captive prostitute in my home. Only when I feel like I might literally drop if I tried to go another step do I turn for home. As a consequence, I’m stumbling and struggling by the time I reach the house, and I know I’m going to go right upstairs and collapse into my bed.

  Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I don’t know if I could stand to look at Harlan right now. My disgust would be too apparent, would show too plainly on my face. And it won’t do for him to see exactly how much trouble I’m having with the new direction he’s leading us in. It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it, after all.

  I stop in the kitchen on my way up to the bedroom, hoping to grab a snack since I never got to finish my dinner. Emily, good old reliable Emily, will have sealed up the spaghetti in plastic containers for us to take to work tomorrow. I could have mine now and then eat some of the bar food at work tomorrow. It will be easy enough to throw an extra chicken nugget in with every order until I’ve had my fill. I’ve done it before.

  To my surprise, the kitchen’s already occupied when I arrive. Harlan and Mike are sitting at the table. They look up when I come in, and I just have time to take in a line of white bricks on the table before Mike sweeps the tablecloth across to cover them.