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I’m grateful the man didn’t actually get his hands on me. That’s the best part of working as a barista—there’s always three feet of bar between me and whoever I have to deal with.
And today? I need it.
“This is supposed to be iced.”
A splash of hot coffee splatters from a to-go cup as one of the investors’ suited alphas slams it onto our service bar. I rear back, only narrowly avoiding a lash of steaming liquid to the face.
The aggression in his voice sends a tremor down my spine. I shrink down a bit and pick up the offending cup, spinning it to read the label on the side. Our system prints the stickers out automatically when it rings up an order. Whoever prepares the drink just reads whatever the ticket says and fulfills it.
Large lavender latte, it reads in clear block letters.
The word iced is nowhere in sight, which explains the mistake. I didn’t ring this up, which means my manager probably keyed it in wrong.
No big deal, right?
Wrong.
A strike of alpha dominance has me close to hyperventilating. I can’t even look up from the sticky floor; I have to lock my muscles in place, so I don’t hide behind the counter.
“I know you’re probably not aware of this, but some of us have shit we need to do,” the man sneers. “We don’t have all day to deal with your fucking incompetence!”
My shoulders hunch up toward my ears. I cringe away from his voice, the hostility sending me back a step. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted it iced. The sticker is wrong. See here?”
With a shaking hand, I start to lift the cup toward him, turning it to display the label. Behind me, a coffee grinder starts up, blotting out the overwhelming whir of chatter and blend of strange almost-scents in the neutralized room.
The jerk across from me rips the to-go cup from my hand and thumps it back onto the counter.
What in the?—
Shock snaps my head up, nearly sending my Ospreys cap to the sticky floor. The lid pops off the top of the latte on impact, revealing a battered version of the foam smiley face I had secretly hidden inside the drink and sloshing half its contents all over me.
So much for silently wishing my customer a happy day.
“I don’t give a fuck what your excuse for being pathetic is.” The coffee grinder subsides just in time for me to hear him bark, “Remake it.”
My legs tremble, absorbing the impact of the command. I choke back a fearful whine, my scent shifting. Luckily, no one can smell me under my de-scenter and the rich aroma of the coffee currently in the grinder.
Because he barked instead of asking, I don’t have any choice but to scurry away and remake the alpha’s drink. When I return less than a minute later, he snaps the cold cup out of my hand without so much as a thank-you.
Not for the first time, I wish I were more like Meg. She would have called him a prick, poured the new latte all over his monogrammed sleeves, and quit on the spot. But I’ve never been any good at standing up for myself. And—even worse—I actually feel scared here.
That never used to happen. I loved this job. Now it’s just… ruined.
I lift the hem of the stolen hoodie to my face and use it to swipe at my wet eyes, mumbling to my manager about taking a break. He waves me on, rolling his eyes when he sees that I’m crying again.
I’ve always thought of myself as a quintessential omega in every traditional sense of the word. Meg fights parts of our designation, but I’ve never minded being softer and more emotional.
Lately, though, I feel as pitiful as everyone seems to think I am.
I’m on my second plate of toffee-nut cookies before I stop sobbing.
It’s been a long day. In the midst of an even longer week.
I was already strung out on anxiety and feeling generally overwhelmed before one of the new investors at Proper Coffee barked at me, telling me I was taking too long to fulfill mobile orders and causing the whole counter to get backed up.
“Faster, or I’ll find someone who can actually do your job.”
Meg would have told him that, technically, none of this is my job. I was hired for a position that doesn’t exist anymore, making the homemade baked goods we used to sell.
