Page 1 of Gold Rush
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
JUNE
Today is not my day.
I can barely tolerate the airport normally, but as I stare at the red text on the departures board, my stomach churns and my palms sweat.
My flight from New York to London has been delayedagain. I wanted to fly out of DC — it was the closer option to my Virginia apartment but Janet, my literary agent, asked if I could come to New York City, just for a last minute meeting before my European tour.
“I know you hate it in the city, Juniper, but we really need you to sign the rights agreement.”
So I agreed — it was the only polite option, even though this building is an overstimulating hell for my anxiety. Bright lights, loud noises, mixes of perfumes, and chemical enhancers — all creating a volatile mix in the air that makes me want to walk away from my gate and sayfuck it.
I can’t though. Tickets have been sold, readers are excited, and I’d have to be lying dead in a ditch to disappoint that many people.
Chewing on my lip, I glance up at the board again, watching the numbers flash. I don’t know why they keep pushing it back,but the sheer number of hours I’ve spent both in this wretched city and this chaotic airport is starting to make my skin crawl. I operate better at home, in my tiny apartment I’ve lived in since college, with my creature comforts of shitty take-out and a litany of romance novels lining the second-hand shelves.
There’s three separate waiting areas at this gate, and from my seat at the very back, I can see them all.
The primary one — full of chairs and people and bags scattered — looks like every other airport gate I’ve had the misfortune to be temporarily stuck at. There’s enough space not to feel like you’re sitting on top of the next person, but not enough to trulyspread. I have my carry-on between my legs, my arm hooked around it as my eyes land on the priority sections.
One is entirely for alphas — mostly in business, because who else has the time to accrue enough airline miles to be a priority boarder? The section isn’tasbusy as the beta section, but it does look comfortable. The seats are a little more plush and there’s a beta attendant flitting around serving drinks.
The same cannot be said for the rest of us, we get questionable water fountains or overpriced bottles from the convenience stores.
To the right, though, is a partition. I’ve never been at a major airline’s gate that had one before. The screens are semi-transparent, separating the seats from everything else and giving the illusion of calm and privacy from the bustle. It’s only for packs, or bonded omegas and their alphas.
I’dkillto be around the corner right now, not listening to the beta woman next to me bitch into her phone about the flight delay.
She stands, and with her comes a cloud of perfume enhancement spray. Her natural scent is almost sticky, clinging to my nostrils and punched up with the chemicals, turning the floral notes into something near-noxious. It’s like beingshowered in faux rose water. I turn my head, my eyes watering as I let out a little breath, flexing my fingers and readjusting in my seat.
Betas don’t have as strong of scents as alphas or omegas. The natural pheromones are subtler, but there are products that claim to make a beta’s scent asalluringas other designations.
It never works. Everyone ends up smelling like cheap body spray, which isgreatfor anyone with sensory issues — like me.
I sat away from the gate for that very reason, even though I’d prefer to be closer. It’s not like getting on board any faster would make a difference, my ticket is still economy — and I highly doubt any of the alphas are going to glance twice at a beta woman sleeping on a balled up sweater as a pillow in the back of the plane.
The chatter of people talking mixes with the smell of half-burnt bagels from the kiosk down the wide hall and the passengers around me. There’s a bitter scent lingering, and I briefly wonder if the combination of smelling it and burnt toast means my anxiety has finally decided to kill me via stroke.
Leaning into my own arm, I sniff my sweater. I’ve been anxiety-sweating since I left the agency offices this morning. The last thing I want is to be yet another person adding to the noxious mix. If my flight is delayed anymore, I’ll be going straight from the damn airport to the bookstore.
And I’dreallylike to sleep.
“Could you grab me a fizzy drink?” A woman drops into the vacant seat next to me, bringing with her a cloud of blueberries. I blink, glancing to the side as she smiles up at a tall, lean man with a crop of red hair.
“Are you nauseous?” His eyes flare wide, concern evident as he reaches for her.
The woman next to me leans back, making a face. “Actually, I’d like you to leave mealonefor five seconds, but sure, if it helps — I’m nauseous, go get me a fizzy water.”
The man stares at her for a beat, a mixture of amused devotion lifting the edges of his lips before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her dark-skinned forehead. “Brat.” He hums the word softly and affectionately. When he pulls away, he glances down at her. “I’m going to find Quint — he might be able to get us into the pack seating.”
The moment he’s gone, the woman glances at me, her brown eyes bright.
“Well, you’re probably going to hate me for saying this, but I’m glad this flight was delayed, it took usforeverto get through security. I’m not surprised the pack area is full-up.” Her British accent is light as she smiles at me, her lips pulling up at the corners, smooth brown skin flawless.
“Oh.” I glance at her, not expecting the immediate conversation. “Yeah, it filled up quickly.”
