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"Oh, Imogen, you can't still be leaving? I mean, I don't know where you've been staying, but if you're caught in a compromising…" she clears her throat, unable to voice the audacity I might possess at taking a lover.
I look down at my bags. I should just set them down and spend the week looking at floral arrangements with her, but my insides are screaming.
No, if I'm doing this, all the more reason to go back to Queenie's and C-Block. I need at least a few days, or weeks even, that belong to me. I need something to fulfill me, even if it's as small and silly as dancing on stage before I settle into a loveless marriage.
The mask will keep my identity a secret, so Stevens Pack will never find out that I’m taking my clothes off in front of strangers. And my parents… well, I'm hurt, to be honest. They got themselves into trouble, and they're essentially selling me to dig themselves out.
But my mother's fear was clear, and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to them and I could have prevented it. Still, that doesn't mean I can't be angry or feel betrayed.
Steeling my spine, I grip both bag handles. Wheeling them out the door, I call over my shoulder, "I'm leaving for now. You can call me if you need me. I can't stay here though, not until…"
I shake my head. I can't form the words until my wedding because they sound so wrong. It all feels so wrong.
As I make my way to the door, her arguments fill the air, but she realizes I'm serious. It may be a strange way and time to grow a backbone, but I don't relent, waving at Gerald while ignoring my mother's pleas to stay home before climbing into my car and heading back to South Loop.
Chapter 5
Cass
"I think you've got a little something," Zach says, flicking his finger under my lip, bringing me back to reality. Annoyed I got caught staring and possibly drooling, something I never do, I shake my head and quickly slap Zach's hand away.
He laughs, "She is very pretty."
I resist the urge to look back up. She's more than pretty, and I can't even see her face.
I can't put my finger on it. I'm usually pretty good at tuning out the dancers, and I see naked bodies all day long at work. But I'm never struck stupid at the sight of someone. There's just something pulling about her. She's graceful but a little stiff. Like she’s uncomfortable. But it’s not off-putting. It’s more… vulnerable.
"Oh yeah? How can you tell?" I grumble, pouring myself a drink. It goes without saying the girl's a stunner, regardless of what’s behind the mask. The way her hair cascades down her shoulders in shades of blonde, wheat, and sun-kissed gold. Her red lips rest in this placid, serene smile, hinting at a bittersweet sadness I want to take away, even though it looks so pretty. She's thin, frail, almost; more waif-like than the other omegas who work here. All of this to say, it's making my alpha lose his fucking shit over her.
The new girl, Imogen, has been here a week. She hasn't gone fully topless, dancing in lacy scraps of fabric that only highlight the dark innocence implied by the angel wings, but every time I catch a glimpse of her from across the room, I nearly trip over my feet.
My pack and I long ago decided not to fuck with omegas. We grew up watching Ophelia struggle with her designation. When we were teenagers, Alma, Ophelia's twin sister and Red's high school girlfriend, was abused by an alpha pack. Time after time, we watched omegas come and go through our club, from various backgrounds and stages in life, all of them with some fucked up story of an alpha taking things too far, hurting them, barking at them because they could, forcing them into submission or manipulating them.
We never wanted that—not because we couldn't control ourselves, but hating that we had that kind of power simply because of our designation.
Hustling in South Loop, we most definitely exert our alpha power. If someone steps out of line, we're quick to address the situation. If someone has a problem, all it takes is for us to show up, share a few choice words, problem solved. Our reputation is that fierce around here, a decade in the making, and we offer protection to anyone who asks for it.
But we swore we'd never date or fuck with anyone of any designation, but especially omegas, if they worked for us. It was a line we never wanted to cross, being in a position of authority.
Besides, even if Red and I decided to take a chance and court an omega, something we'd never considered before, only dating or hooking up with betas, Iggy would never hear of it. He's the only one of us who grew up in a pack, and memories of his childhood, of how his alpha fathers used to treat his omega mother, still haunt him.
Roxy deliberately avoids introducing Red, Iggy, and me to the newbies. I thought it was bullshit, told her we didn't have a savior complex or whatever, but then something happened once with one of the omega dancers, and Roxy's fears were proven correct.
Besides, we put our faith in Roxy. She’s the manager, and we always defer omega business to her, respecting her opinion. So I haven't met Imogen yet—I've just stared at her from across the room all week, pretending I'm watching the stage, as though she's just another dancer. Quality control, I lie to myself.
"How can I tell she's pretty?" Zach scoffs, pouring a whiskey over coke and sliding it down the bar to a regular, Dale, who sits upright, though barely, shoulders slumped so low he could be sleeping. Not because he's wasted, but because he's always so tired and stressed, it's all he can manage. Dale could be surrounded by strippers grinding up on him or at a children's birthday party, it wouldn't change the way he gazes emptily at the glass in front of him.
Zach cocks his head, crosses his arms, and looks up at the stage. Reluctantly, I follow his gaze, taking in every inch of Imogen while he assesses her. It's fine, I tell myself, perfectly professional. She's a dancer, no different from any of the others.
With a gentle look, he appraises her, mirroring his own omega nature. "She's slender and soft. Delicate. She used to do ballet, I heard. I've been here all week while she practices with Roxy." It's still early in the night, Roxy's giving the new girl stage time before it gets busy, and someone with more experience takes her place.
I don't care about her lack of experience, I could watch her like this all day. She moves slowly, slower than the music, but she doesn't stumble. Just looks like she's trying to gain her bearings and get used to the music. Each time she wraps around the pole, it looks calculated, less natural, but I see her getting good at it. Really good.
He continues, "She moves like a dancer, all graceful and shit. But the way she grips the pole, drops her hips—her lip kinda snarls, like she's angry about something, but it still floods out of her like honey. Slow, smooth, calculated. Hot as fuck."
I become aware of my dick as it presses into the front of my jeans. Cleaning my throat, I turn and find Zach casually shrugging before getting back to work. Despite his analysis, he's never been with anyone else here at the club, as far as I know, besides Franky. Not a lot of people are aware of their dynamic, they keep it under wraps. Not that they need to, but people are curious about two omegas in a relationship; it's an extremely unusual pairing, and I respect that they like to keep their shit private.
Regardless, his words float in my mind as I steal one final glance at the stage, then reluctantly make my way to the office.
