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It makes me self-conscious of my interests, something I never thought I’d feel around one of my men.
It bothers me, like a thorn under the skin. I have to talk to him about it, clear it up. I love him, but if he thinks less of me because I also love books, well that…
That will break my goddamn heart.
Then again there’s Archer’s theory… Could he be right?
Kyrian puts his hand on my cheek, startling me out of my thoughts. “Well,” he says gruffly, “I should get back to the door. It’s Friday, I have to control the incoming crowd.”
“You do that,” I whisper, his hand hard and warm on my face, belying all my worries and doubts. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later.” He winks, and my heart hums, just as my cock hardens.
A touch of tenderness, and a promise of ruthless fucking to come.
See how he won over my heart?
12
BRINLEE
After leaving the hospital, I always feel drained, mentally and physically. I feel as if someone has kicked me about, punched my stomach, bruised my ribs. My bones hurt. My skin itches. My eyes burn.
Today it’s particularly bad. Last night, work was grim, which means I didn’t sleep much, and kept waking up in a cold sweat. Fussy customers, making insistent requests, and a guy who demanded I sit in his lap, although that will never happen.
Worst still, my boss was looking the other way, obviously not giving a shit if the guy molested me.
Being a pole dancer is the best and the worst job.
I love dancing. And it pays well. The tips can be terrific, and they are life savers. But then you will always have customers who expect more, who think a pole dancer is a synonym for a prostitute. And no dissing people who have to sell their bodies for money, but I hope I’ll never have to go that far.
Even if the medical bills are mostly covered by the State Medic-Care, the copays are a killer.
Health is the greatest luxury, it seems. We pay for it more than we’d pay for a race car or a villa by the sea. It’s our lives at stake, and yet it’s a business targeting those who have money already.
What a strange world.
So I’m beat, and the thought of having to go back to work this evening is killing me. Everything is killing me—this hospital I’m shuffling out of, my steps leading me to the exit without any need of input from my brain anymore, the noise of the city slamming into me as I step outside, the weight of all the worry and stress crushing me.
At this point, getting abducted by aliens might do me good. It will be a vacation. I hope they have coffee slushies and good books to read. We can raid a library together.
The air is laced with the fumes of passing cars, but also incongruously, flowers. It’s spring, so that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but I never noticed the trees blooming on the sidewalk until now.
I pause. Take in the avenue. As a rule, I rush away from the hospital until I’m far enough not to smell its nauseating stench of antiseptic and bleach and death, until I can take a deep breath and not gag, but today the scent of those flowers is a reprieve.
I have been rushing through life all this time, never stopping for a breather, never even realizing what a nice neighborhood this one is.
Beside the hospital is the Omega Sunshine Shelter. I’ve noticed the sign before, but never stood long enough to take in the façade. It’s painted yellow and white, I suppose imitating the sunshine in the name.
Another incongruity of our time. How omegas who are not only the least common designation, but also necessary by law to form an official pack, are often so mistreated. Treated as yet another luxury commodity one can buy and use, then throw away.
Granted, the law is antiquated and should be amended. It’s a remnant of older times when alphas could only reproduce with omegas, and omegas were the only ones capable of producing children. Nowadays, male omegas rarely get pregnant anyway, and betas and other designations, produce just as many children.
They say omegas and alphas evolved in a time of great genetic changes in the world. Nuclear fallout? Climate change? Some other catastrophe? They evolved to survive the fallout, evolved specifically to fit together and repopulate the earth. Then the circumstances changed again and the rest of us—betas, deltas, epsilons, and so on—became the norm. Apparently, we are closer to the original genetic make-up of our species.
If I’m really a delta, as I was told at school when we were tested and that bold D was put in my digital ID. If there wasn’t any mistake, as I have often heard of cases that?—
“Excuse me,” a bass voice says, jolting me. “Miss…”
