Page 8 of Knotted their Beauty

Looking for a full time, live-in nanny for my six year old. She needs to be taken to school while I’m out of town, and you’ll need to entertain her in ways that do not involve a device shoved in her face all day. Light housekeeping is expected, and a background check is necessary. All other duties will be discussed at the interview.

Serious inquiries only.

The career center gave me his number when I asked about the job, stating Mr. March has exhausted all of the options with the company he usually hires through. Due to this, the agency reached out to them to see if they had anyone available to help. In all honesty, calling this place a ‘career center’ is giving it a higher esteem than it deserves. They offer opportunities to those who need them, and most often, they’re short term.

Unless the person is a nurse or some type of medical assistant, the career center is inundated with entry level positions for those lucky enough to present themselves in a manner Human Resources likes. I don’t understand the process, because many of the people who were employed at my last job were lazy as hell.

That’s correct. My previous employer, Mr. Massey fired me this morning, stating irreconcilable differences.

What the fuck does that mean? I did all of my work plus that of others, and the prick was still on my ass. I’m so damn tired of alpha shitbags who think they can push me around. I have a feeling they’ll replace me with a blonde bimbo who will be willing to suck his cock on her lunch break.

Fortunately, I never had to deal with that. As often as he’d glare at me with his beady eyes, he never forced himself on me. I have had many close calls during my time here in Los Angeles, but only one incident where my luck ran out. A group of homeless alphas ganged up on me for being an omega the first time I was thrown out of a shelter. I was new to surviving on the streets, and didn’t understand how things worked. They followed me out of the shelter and…

No. If I think about it, I’ll never make it upstairs to Mr. March’s apartment from the memories and anxiety clawing at me. I had my ass kicked that day and I barely managed to get away from them. They didn’t rape me, but the bruises lasted for a long time afterward. All I can do is hope that he’s not a sleazebag or an alpha. It was impossible to tell on the phone if he was either. My bar is set pretty fucking low honestly. I just want a job and a place to sleep.

I’ll figure out the kid stuff on the fly. How hard could it be?

My body feels as if it weighs a million pounds as I hit the call button outside Sylvester March Jr.’s apartment building. My entire life is packed as usual in my backpack, a clear sign that I’m not a responsible adult. Society tells us if I was, I wouldn’t be homeless, right? I left the hostel two days ago to stay in a shelter, and a case manager there told me this morning that I can’t stay there anymore this month because people are complaining I smell. I know I don’t because I shower regularly. This is simply because I’m a male omega.

If I could afford to stay another night in the hostel, I would, but my good deed this week means I’m broke. I have maybe ten dollars to my name and no savings after doing all of my laundry yesterday. I thought my job was secure, but I made a grave miscalculation.

I also have a feeling the shelter wouldn’t allow me to stay for long if I don’t get this job. The administration often worries that the other residents will take advantage of me and they’ll have to deal with a police officer’s involvement. However, I could tell them no one cares if a male omega is raped. I’ve seen it happen with other people, it’s not a leap that I could easily be taken advantage of.

I know because it almost happened to me before, and it was the shelter’s fault for throwing me out into the unknown. The possibilities scare the shit out of me every day, and I hate being homeless again. Things were finally going so well, and in a blink of an eye, I’m out on my ass again. The system is incredibly broken.

God. Why isn’t Mr. March answering the call? I make sure the security camera can see me, and I hit the button yet again. All I can hope for is that the position hasn’t been filled yet.

Shifting on my feet, I continue to wait, my brain continuing to spiral with all of the reasons why this could be a horrible idea. For one, he could be a serial killer. Granted, I don’t know of any who have children, but it’s possible.

Worse, he could be another awful employer. I thought Mr. Massey was the worse there could be, but while I was in the career office, I heard some fucking horror stories. The truth is that I found this listing yesterday, and I told myself I had time to think. The water that theory held escaped rapidly right after I got fired.

I’m desperate and out of options, which means I’m willing to do some shitty things for cash and a warm bed as long as they don’t involve selling my body.

“Speak.”

Umm, am I supposed to start barking like a dog?

“Hello, Mr. March? My name is Arlo Trumaine. I’m here for the⁠—”

Bbbeeeep!

The door unlocks before I even get a chance to finish, and I lurch forward to grab it.

“Apartment six-twenty. Hurry up, I’m running late.”

As I practically run through the lobby, I remind myself not to mouth off. He made this damn appointment. If he didn’t have the time to see me, then he shouldn’t have made it for this time! Also I am not a fucking dog. Why is he treating me like one?

Shit on a biscuit, why am I forever stuck with terrible humans as employers? No, maybe he’s having a bad day. I’m going to show some grace because I can’t afford anything else.

The elevator ride is deplorably slow, and I begin to curse myself for not taking the damn stairs. I’m sure Mr. March is going to be extra annoyed with how long it’s taking me to arrive at his apartment.

The second the doors open, I’m hustling through them and jogging to my destination. My heart is pounding as I arrive, and as crazy as it sounds, I feel as if this man could crush me or change my life. Heaving in deep breaths to calm my nervous system, I knock gently on the door.

I don’t want to seem scary, because I’m typically mild-mannered. I think that’s why people think they can take advantage of me.

A man with piercing eyes in his early forties throws opens the door, a phone held to his chest as he purses his lips. He smells annoyed, but I can’t decide whether or not it bothers me yet or not.

“You’re the nanny interview? God, they keep getting younger and younger,” he says before he mumbles, “Hopefully, you’re not going to strip naked and present your ass to me one day.” Then he clears his throat and grumbles, “Trust me, that’s not a required skill I want my nanny to have. Come in.”