Page 17 of Knotted their Beauty

Which is how I wound up here.

I lost almost everything, my sanity included, and I had to do something or else I’d do something else I regretted. So, I bought a van, packed up my shit, and left Chicago.

I’ve been doing the nomad thing for a few years now, ever since my life imploded, trying to find somewhere to crash on a more regular basis, and it’s led me to a lot of really fucked up places to stay. I’ve mostly frequented shelters, homeless haunts as one person called them, but I’ve sprinkled in a few hostels and motels along the way.

Then I came home.

After living in the midwest for so long, I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about being somewhere hotter than the surface of the sun again. I didn’t think I was going to like it at all, actually, and I definitely didn’t think I was going to want to stick around, but I did. It was just so different from where I spent the last decade, such a drastic change from what I had grown accustomed to that it actually felt like a reset. Like I could get the fresh start I so desperately needed.

I parked my van at the beach and started looking for apartments, grateful I didn’t need to do more than that for a long while, and that’s when I found the listing looking for an alpha as a roommate.

I think I lasted two days with those skeezy bastards before I decided I was either going to murder them, or end up living out of my van again.

I chose the latter, for the greater good, and all that shit.

Baiting an omega under the guise of safety when the real plan was essentially a sex slave was a hard pass for me, but it didn’t quite warrant a killing spree.

That’s when I moved out.

I didn’t go far, though. I couldn’t. Not when I knew what they were planning. I staked out the building and tried like hell to deter new tenants every chance I got, right up until the landlord called the cops on me. After that, I started renting a room at the closest motel.

This motel.

The one run by a piece of shit who charges way too much for a shitty mattress, stuffy room, and a shower that runs hot less than half of the time. Not to mention, most of the other guests are sex workers, drug addicts, or the people who facilitate both. I don’t care what anyone does as long as it doesn’t affect me, but I’m a firm believer in treating everything with a pulse with a level of respect until they prove they don’t deserve it. Their lifestyles don’t mean they should be subjected to subpar living conditions at a rate that doesn’t make sense for them.

Especially when this douchebag samples everything they have to offer without their permission, then makes them pay even more when they protest, and eventually threatens them with homelessness or the authorities just to get his way.

He doesn’t like that his bullshit doesn’t work on me.

This fucker thinks I’m in the same position as they are financially, thinks I need him and his shithole the same way everyone else does, and he’s been trying to put pressure on me the entire time I’ve been here.

If he only had a clue.

I refuse to pay him for my room when I see him kick out someone who didn’t deserve it and that’s why I’m standing here counting out about three weeks worth of room fees. I’m getting caught up so I can get the fuck out of here. It’s time, and I have shit to do that’s going to take me elsewhere.

“I’m not staying,” I grunt as I count out another month’s worth. “But you can apply this to room seventeen.”

The manager’s eyebrows raise as he double checks what I gave him. “Why are you paying for that slut?”

I grit my teeth as I watch him, reminding myself I don’t need to go back to prison.

He’s referring to the single mother who’s been staying here ever since she left her abusive mates. The one trying desperately to raise her two kids on her own.

Helena.

This is all she can afford with what she managed to take from her pack, and the tiny paychecks she pulls at the truck stop down the street. They let her bring her kids with her but they don’t pay enough for her to make a decent living. So, I’m covering another couple weeks of rent, and I slid an envelope under her door with about a month’s worth, for groceries or whatever, or just in case this fucker decides to pocket the cash without applying it to her room.

Which reminds me.

“You’re going to make sure that goes to her rent, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” He doesn’t look up, he barely acknowledges me as he counts the stack in his hand again.

“Hey,” I snap as I take a step toward him. “Look at me.”

The dumbass waves me off and before he can say whatever dismissive bullshit he’s thinking, I have him by the shirt collar and slammed against the door to his office, the bills in his hands exploding like confetti around us.

“Do you know why I had to leave the Yetis?”