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Maybe I should have put on a cleaner shirt.
"Yep. Imogen?" I try to sound friendly, but my voice sounds like gravel, so it comes off more annoyed, and the slight tilt of her lips lower. My fingers dig into the glass in my hand, resisting the urge to fix her smile, to bring it back.
She seems anxious, chest rising and falling. She takes a step toward me but then freezes and steps back. Clearing her throat, she says in a sweet lyrical tone, "I just wanted to meet you and say hello. Have a nice night!" She's so fucking polite, but then she abruptly turns and disappears down the back hallway, like I scared her away. I watch her go, my alpha staring after her, concerned about the general air of sadness clouding her. With every step, her hips sway, her towering high heels accentuating the power and elegance of her long legs and firm ass.
"Man, you and Cass are goners," Zach laughs, nudging me out of the way again. I down the tequila and pour another.
Resisting the urge to glance down the hallway where the angel disappeared, I help Zach behind the bar for a while. It gets busier, and I periodically steal glances toward the stage, simultaneously willing Imogen to return with her wings, resume her role as the Angel of Death, and further my advancement into hell, all while hoping to never see her again.
I head back to the office an hour later, ignoring my alpha's irritation that I didn't get to see her dance. By two am, I climb on my bike, getting ready for another long ride because I'm in no way tired enough to actually sleep when I realize my motorcycle gloves are missing. I could have sworn I left them in the office, but they're gone.
I swear I live in Groundhog's Day; dismissing the missing gloves, I grip the clutch, rev the engine, and take off into the night, another night wasted.
Chapter 8
Imogen
I'm not sure how much longer I can endure. This behavior is so far beyond what is considered appropriate, I'm completely lost as to where I went wrong. Has working at a strip club lowered my sense of impropriety? Was it not being able to do anything after meeting my scent-matches?
Mother: Imogen, I know you won’t shirk your responsibilities, but I still need you to confirm you will be at dinner tonight. This is extremely important.
My gloved finger taps the table next to my buzzing phone like a nervous tic. Bringing the opposite hand to my face, I take a deep inhale, marveling at the erotic mulled wine and cinnamon scent of Iggy Dante. It’s perverse. I feel terrible that I've stolen his gloves.
I tried to convince myself I’m not nesting, but the moment I saw him up close and breathed in his essence, my mind went into primitive omega mode. I forced myself to walk away but immediately marched into his office just so I could be alone with the sensation of scenting him, meeting him. And when I saw his motorcycle gloves, just sitting there, carelessly tossed on the table beside his jacket… I wasn’t even nervous about taking them. I figured getting caught could even solve a problem or two.
Before leaving, I sat on the leather couch in the office, staring at them, thinking about the size of each finger and all the wicked things he could do with them. Eventually, I dragged myself away and pretended the leather fingerless gloves on my hands were a part of my costume, despite how large they were.
In a rush to save myself from further embarrassment, I hurried to the break room, changed out of my costume, grabbed my bag, and began the brisk walk toward C-Block. Each step home rubbed my thighs together, the sensation between my legs an empty, unanswered ache, begging for Iggy to touch me. For once, since this whole thing started, I was grateful I didn’t have a scent because I went home and used every toy I had, and all that remained was Iggy's scent on my gloved fingers while I touched myself.
If they could just scent me, they could take control, and the decision of what to do would be out of my hands. They’d have me, or they wouldn’t, and I could stop stressing and obsessing over the decision, the fear of rejection. The worry that they'd see me as another Emily.
Mother: Answer me, Imogen. This is important.
Right. The other obstacle in my life. My engagement. I’d agreed to marry Stevens Pack, but there’s no way I could entertain being intimate with anyone but my scent-matches, now that I’ve found them. Even if that means I’m alone and sexually unsatisfied for the rest of my life, because Dante could still reject me. Either way, I can't marry Stevens, but I have no idea how to break the news.
Imogen: I’ll be there.
Not a second passes, I barely set the phone down before she’s responding.
Mother: Be early. We need to make you presentable.
I stare at the screen in frustration. If there was one single thing I walked away from the OFA with, it’s knowing how to be presentable, and she knows that.
I drop the phone on the table, bring both hands to my face, and breathe in Iggy's scent one last time before reluctantly taking the gloves off. They’re losing their potency, but the impact, the deep burgundy, spicy scent warms my body, calming my mind.
With great care, I set them on the bedside table, then rifle through my bags, pulling out a high-neck, sophisticated white pencil dress. The dress fits a little more snugly than usual, but I have been eating more to make up for the calories needed for dancing. Hopefully my mother won't notice. Slipping my simple diamond earrings and thin white gold necklace on, I tuck my feet into a pair of tan suede heels and head out of the apartment.
Finding my BMW on the first street corner past C-Block, I begin the long drive toward High Hills. Bypassing downtown, I pull onto the highway. The further I get from South Loop, the more nervous I feel. The less safe.
That doesn’t make any sense. Surely I should find comfort in the protection of round-the-clock security, clean streets, and gated communities.
Maybe it’s because I'm driving further from my mates. It’s also the first time I’ve left South Loop in weeks. My new routine of going into Queenie’s to practice, feeling alive and free on stage, hitting up the local bodegas for pastries I'd never have allowed myself before all this exercise, even walking around old man Waylon, who lounges on the street corner, hat upside down looking for change, always up for casual chit chat, all of it has been growing on me, and I'd nearly forgotten… that wasn't my life. This was all supposed to be temporary.
But it's the realest thing I've ever had in my entire life, and I don't want to let it go. I don't care how that sounds, that pole-dancing half-naked is the hill I die on. I love it. I love Queenie's, and that has nothing to do with my scent-matches.
It's a place I've started to think of as home.
I haven’t had the courage to go completely topless on stage yet, but no one’s said a thing or made me feel ashamed for not being ready. If anything, I’ve received nothing but praise from my new coworkers that the mask and wings only add an air of mystery to my set.
