Booking Roy Cesar

KRISSY

“He’s a professional, Kris, call him,” my friend Amy said, handing me a business card. She plopped herself down on the far end of my couch, her small frame barely jostling the cushions. “You’re losing control during your heats, and you can’t have a repeat of last month.”

Fuzzy images flashed into my mind: my wandering the streets in the middle of the night, a devilishly horny alpha dragging me by my hair into an alley, and Amy and her boyfriend saving me before he’d done something worse.

The stories of “something worse” ran rampant in the omega community, and I didn’t want to end up being the main character of one.

But this?

“I don’t know, Amy.” I flipped the card in my hand. Roy C. Alpha escort. “A prostitute? Is that how desperate I’ve become?” Even as I said it, I knew it was true. I had become that desperate.

For the past few months, my biological clock had intensified its demands to the point that masturbation had ceased to fulfill them. My animalistic urge to mate had begun hijacking my body during ovulation, causing me to seek satisfaction.

Satisfaction that could only come from an alpha—specifically, an alpha’s knot.

“Girl, please,” my other friend Gemma said from the end of the couch near me, taking a sip of wine. “You don’t need to hire a whore. Just go to any bar a few days before your heat, and the alphas will be tripping over themselves to be with you. Especially if they’re rutting.”

“Oh, shut up, Gemma,” Amy snapped. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about. They’d rip her apart.” When Gemma made a face, Amy added, “Literally, even. So how about you keep your beta jealousies to yourself and let us omegas talk about omega business.”

“Beta jealousies?” Gemma scoffed. “You think I’m jealous of you?”

Amy turned toward Gemma. “I think you’ve been jealous ever since Krissy found out she was an omega, since she transferred high schools, and since she got a new best friend.” Amy set down her glass and sat up straight.

Mirroring Amy’s posture, Gemma said, “I am Krissy’s best friend. I’ve known her since she was five years old. Just because I’m a beta doesn’t mean I don’t know what she’s gone through.”

“All right, stop it,” I said. “You’re both my best friends, and I need both of your advice.” I reached out and put a hand on Gemma’s knee, tugging on it to get her to face me.

Gemma had known me before and after my transition, a term I used because that’s how it’d felt: my life before and after I’d found out I was an omega. Amy had met me after.

“But Amy’s right, Gemma,” I continued. “You’ll never know what it’s like to go through a heat. To have an alpha—or a group of alphas—look at you like a piece of meat. To have your own scent become a weapon against you once a month.”

Gemma grabbed my hand and squeezed it, giving me a sad smile. “Then tell me.” She glanced at Amy too. “What’s it like to be an omega?”

Amy blew out a puff of air and sat back on the couch. “Terrifying,” she said, staring at the coffee table, through it. “Since we make up such a small percentage of the population, people treat us like freaks—either to be feared or worshipped, neither of which end up well for us.

“And not only are we looked down on for our naturally smaller stature, we’re also taken advantage of because of our temperament.” Amy took a large gulp of wine.

When Gemma made a face like she’d been caught out for doing just that, I added, “Most alphas and betas think that because of our calm and gentle nature, we’ll submit to them. They don’t ask; they demand. And they don’t say please or thank you when they’re done.”

“And when we’re in heat?” Amy waved her hand in the air. “You can forget all niceties. Our scent makes alphas go feral. They think just because our biology wants to mate that we do too. And that we’d take any alpha we can get—then thank them for it! Can you believe that?”

I squeezed Gemma’s hand and smiled before saying, “And, not that you do this, Gemma, but betas typically hate us because, when given the choice, alphas want nothing to do with them. Alphas can’t help but react to our heats, and betas cannot compete with that.”

“So basically,” Amy said, pouring more wine into all our glasses, “everyone treats us like shit. Except other omegas.” She locked eyes with me and raised her glass in a cheers.

The heaviness of the conversation settled around us, causing us to sip our wine in silence. Gemma had known all of that, of course—she lived in this society too—but I hoped her asking would create a bridge between her and Amy. I needed them to be friends.

“You’re right. That sounds terrifying,” Gemma said, looking at Amy then me. “And I get your concern. Your heat’s coming, and you need an alpha to help you through it.” She sighed. “But a whore? Is that necessary? I thought you wanted to find love, a real connection.”

That was the reason I’d told everyone why I hadn’t had a partner for the past two years, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. My issues ran deep within me; they were about me, no one else.

“How about we stop with the sex-shaming titles, shall we?” Amy said, setting down her empty glass. “He’s an escort, and he provides a much-needed service.”

Staring at the card still in my hand, I let my mind work through my options.

I didn’t have the time or desire to find “a real connection” before my heat next week, and bringing a random stranger home was too risky.

Doing nothing, however, could result in my heat taking over my body again, so I’d have to chain myself to a radiator or something. But who knows how I’d react in such a desperate state. I didn’t trust myself not to risk bodily harm to fulfill my primal need to mate.

Maybe this Roy C. was the best choice. He’d be discreet and professional, and then he’d go home the next morning. He also might be kind, even if for an alpha.

That’d be a nice change, I thought, fighting back the memories of snarling teeth, strong grips, and animalistic grunting that immediately leaped into my mind.

Decision made, I looked between my friends and nodded. Amy smiled and leaned back on the couch. Gemma frowned and slouched her posture, shaking her head as she downed her wine.

“Gemma, can you please give me your support instead of your judgment?” I asked. “My heat’s next Saturday, I’m scared of doing nothing, and I need an alpha I can trust.”

“He’s a predator, Krissy,” Gemma said, leaning toward me. “He could get any alpha or omega he wants, but he’s choosing to prey on omegas in their weakened states and then making them pay for it. Why doesn’t that feel icky to you?”

I shrugged. “Because it can’t. The fact is I need him, so I need it not to feel icky.” I finished my wine. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to date him and fall in love.” I refilled our glasses. “I just need to be safe for this next heat, then I’ll have time to find a long-term solution.”

Sighing, Gemma nodded. “Okay, Krissy. I trust you, and I support you. But before you call him”—she glanced between Amy and me, a playful smile growing on her lips—“let’s see if there’re any photos of him online.” She wiggled her brows.

We all laughed, the tension in the room clearing as we pulled out our phones and scoured the internet. Although we didn’t find any photos, there were plenty of glowing reviews.

With the help of liquid confidence and my best friends’ support, I called the number on the card and made my appointment for Saturday through Roy’s assistant.

Heart racing after the call, I raised my glass to toast with my friends, but my throat wouldn’t let the wine pass easily. One thought kept it tight.

Oh, God. What have I done?