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Enzo: Bro, don't be a dick. This is Phe, and I told Enzo to check it. If the whole point is to beef up security, it should be pointed more toward the exit, not the stage.
Red: You can't even see the stage in the shot. It's not like these cameras are for watching the dancers. Get out of our security system, you don't work here anymore. Remember? I fired you?
Enzo/Phe: I see you made the change of 7 degrees, and agreed with me and Enzo, because we were right and you were wrong. Loser. Oh, and go fuck yourself.
I laugh out loud, then finish up making changes before closing out of the computer and texting her back through Enzo's phone.
Red: Any word from Nurse Ratched?
Enzo/Phe: Not yet. I'm beginning to think she's gaslighting me.
I type a response, then delete it, then try again, and then delete that.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket and stretching my arms overhead, I try to shake off my frustration with OFA, Madam Fletcher, the seemingly impossible task of changing things in our community for the better. I've always believed in local, not global, so I turn my attention to the shit I can make a difference with.
Starting with my club, making sure it runs well so we always have a support system in place for those who need it.
Close to closing time, when the bar is the busiest, I head out front to help Zach. The place is packed, dancers and scantily clad servers running around the floor, rowdy groups cheering on, riling each other up.
Picking up drink tickets and sifting through the orders, I pour beers on tap, make a few whiskey cocktails. Zach, too busy to acknowledge or say hey, slides past me, taking a drink out of my hand, replacing it with another ticket. We work like that for half an hour when the lights on the stage strobe, then still at the center, dimming around the club, highlighting the main pole.
Sometimes Roxy puts on a more artistic, epic performance to end the evening, something less energetic and dancy, more sultry, so that’s what I expect when I casually glance up.
But it's not Roxy on stage.
It's her. Imogen. I don't know how I know, I saw her for less than a minute out front of the club, but it's like she's etched into my brain, and I recognize her instantly. Her honey blonde hair, which was tied up when she arrived, cascades over her shoulders, long and loose down her back.
She's wearing black feathered wings, and as she takes careful steps toward the pole, each graceful step in those sky-high heels accentuating her strong legs, she clasps the pole with one hand and extends a leg up the length of the brass in a perfect split.
My cock is fucking steel in my jeans. I never watch the dancers, not really. And when you're around naked people all day, you get desensitized to it. But that's not this. I could never get used to this. She's so distracting it hurts. My brain is still rearranging from earlier, and here I am, my alpha still trying to find a way to make room for her in my life. Why can't I date an omega again?
I can't see her bright blue eyes from here, but the feathered black mask that hides the top half of her face only adds to the enigma that is this random girl who suddenly showed up on stage at my club. Who is she? Where did she come from?
Is she here because she's in trouble? Is she seeking safety? Or did she come to Queenie's because she wanted to dance?
Legs in a long split, giving me filthy fucking ideas, her knee bends, foot wrapping around the pole, and she spins slowly, not quite in time with the music, but it doesn't matter because she's not Franky, or Roxy, who dance and strip like seasoned professionals. This is different. This is transcendent. It's pure art.
With one ankle wrapped around the pole, I watch her muscular thigh contract, lifting herself so she's suspended in the air by only the bar and her incredible strength. She spins, legs doing all the work, occasionally her arms taking their place, allowing her to extend her body beyond the pole, creating shapes and movements that look more like ballet. It's elegant.
When she tilts upside down, her long hair swaying toward the ground, her beautiful body bending backward, I adjust in my pants, extremely fucking grateful she's wearing a bra and underwear. I don't know what I would do if she were completely naked.
Burn the retinas of every person in this club watching her, possibly.
I'd like to think I'm better than that, that I'm not a possessive alpha. Jess and his pack mates are chill when Roxy's on stage. How, though? How?
She's not mine, so maybe that's the difference. She's a beautiful omega, and I am biologically inclined to want her. That's all this is. Fucking biology.
Forcing my gaze away, I turn, running immediately into Zach, who's smirking like a fucking punk.
"What."
He laughs, throwing his head back. Grinning, he hands someone at the bar a beer, then turns to me. "You Dante boys are in trouble."
I don't know what the fuck he's talking about, so I grunt and get back to work. Though Imogen was the last big performance of the evening, there are still a few lap dances going on, so I stay out front, keeping an eye on things. I tell myself it's not to make sure Imogen doesn't climb on anyone's lap, but unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I don't see her again.
After helping the night crew clean up—we pay a professional cleaning service, a beta woman who used to be one of my neighbors growing up, she and her kids all come in early hours and scrub the shit out of the place, and I pay her fucking heftily—I help Zach cash out, then carry the deposits to the office to put in the safe.
I get up, tired, ready to head home, but when my hand reaches out for my jacket, where I always keep it, it comes up empty.
