Page 43 of Pack of Crooks

“When your name is called, you’ll follow Gary to the interview room. Take everything with you when you leave this room. You’ll either be taken to a desk, or removed from the property.”

Why does she keep talking like we’ll chain ourselves to the wall in protest?

She exits the conference room, and the ten of us that remain look at one another. There are a lot of narrowed eyes, judgmental once overs, and a few curled lips. A female omega in a hot pink dress that’s showing far too much cleavage sneers at me.

“Nice dress. Did you borrow it from your grandma?”

“Nice tits, did your daddy buy them for you?” I fire back. The omega in the purple dress snickers beside me.

The bitchy one gasps. “Shut up, skank.”

“Fuck off, Erica,” my omega ally says.

Erica leans toward us, her chair creaking. “Sucked any cocks lately, Vivian?” she hisses.

Vivian, the omega who I’ve decided I really like, smiles. “A few. Why, do you want advice?”

Erica is preparing to snarl something back when a guy in a gray pinstripe suit appears and calls her name. She makes a snooty face at the both of us, rises, and saunters over to the guy who must be Gary. Her pink dress barely covers her ass. She looks great, but given what Vivian and Bubblepop said, I don’t think she’ll be getting the position.

As soon as she’s gone, Vivian shakes her head.

“So you two are friends, then?”

She laughs and looks at me. “Oh we’re besties for sure.”

Someone at the end of the table clears their throat, and Vivian and I both press our lips together, remembering at the same time that we’re not necessarily in friendly company. A few minutes after Erica is called, there’s a loud screech followed by a string of shouted curses.

“Get your hands off of me!” We hear her before we see her. My eyes go wide. Two men carry her out, one holding her shoulders and the other her feet. She flails, face bright red, and screams again.

The female alpha from before appears in the hallway, glaring at Erica before squinting at the rest of us in the conference room.Don’t any of you get any ideasthe look seems to say.

The room is so quiet after Erica’s screams fade it makes my skin itch. I fight the urge to fill the silence, bounce my ankle under the table, and watch Gary reappear. He calls the next person, and we all try to act uninterested, but one by one we watch the hallway Erica was carted down, waiting to see the omega’s fate. A few minutes later, with a grim look, the guy heads down it, hands stuck in his pockets, gaze focused straight ahead. At least he left with his dignity intact.

One by one people are called back. Vivian goes and is the only one who doesn’t make the walk of shame past the conference room. Soon enough, I’m the last person in the room. I’m not sureif that’s a bad omen or if I should be relieved. Either way, when Gary appears, the suspense has my heart leaping into my throat.

Steadying my breath, I get up and follow him through the suite. There are no cubicles, only two more conference rooms like the one I was just in, an elegant snack and coffee station, and large offices that line the perimeter of the level.

Gary stops outside of the corner suite that faces the East river and opens the door. “Good luck.”

I’m not sure he’s sincere, or if he feels obligated to say it. Either way, my focus is on what I can see inside the office. I breathe in and enter. A smile—perfectly practiced to be welcoming but not cheesy—plastered on my face and my head held high. The alpha from the elevator is sitting to the left of a man with graying hair. He’s wearing a Tom Ford suit and studying a piece of paper in front of him.

“Take a seat, Hazel,” the woman tells me.

I sit, rest my hands in my lap, and wait to be spoken to.

The guy sighs, as if he’s sick of this day, and raises his head. My breath catches as familiar light green eyes bore into me. A face I’ve looked at too many times to count gives me an impassive once over. He’s older than he was in the photo Mom kept tucked away in a shoe box, but there’s no mistaking this man.

Tristan Kain is my father.

My jaw almost unhinges, but I catch myself at the last second and bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on the pain rather than the shock reverberating through me. Tristan—it’s too weird to call him Dad—studies me for a moment, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

Does he recognize me?

“Well, what’s your name?”

Guess not. Clearing my throat, I try to steady my voice. “Hazel Richardson.” The first name is real, the last is fake. Not that he’d know my real last name. As far as I know, Mom found her way into his arms, had a weekend of fun, and then he left, never looking back. Nine months later. . . you get the picture.

I think that was the start of her spiral, but Lottie’s dad is really what sent her over the edge.