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"Imogen…"
When I don't answer, silence settles between us, beneath the music, and our gazes wander up to watch Franky. Her smile radiates, like she has some kind of superpower, transfixing her audience like a siren while she bends, spins and stretches. It makes me miss dancing. Even if it was only ballet, I miss moving my body to music, closing my eyes, and performing, even just for myself. When I was on stage, I was in control.
"So, where did you leave things?" Ophelia eventually asks.
"After she threatened to cut me off if I didn't accept, I told her to go right ahead. Then I stormed out and called you. And now, here I am…" Stormed out is a bit of an exaggeration. I quietly left the house and drove here under the speed limit in my BMW, suppressing my hurt with every step.
"Here you are." She squeezes my hand from across the table, then her eyes light up. "Oh! I have an idea." Digging through her bag, she pulls out various items: tissues, silver packets of pills, a water bottle, four different flavors of gum. More items fill the table, and she nearly knocks over her drink, but I catch it before she can make a mess. Finally, she lights up. "Got it!"
"What's this?"
"Freedom," she winks. "I used to live at C-Block. It's an apartment building a few minutes walk from here. My old apartment is still empty. It's furnished. We kept it empty, so we had a spare room for anyone—an omega, in particular—who might need a place to hide out or stay for a while. It's recently renovated, though probably not what you're used to…"
I take the key. Innocuous metal, dull, unassuming. Lightweight. But my salvation. Possibly.
"I don't know…"
"You don't have to move in. And I'm not suggesting you tell your family to just fuck off and be done with them. But maybe having a place to stay for a few days could help give you some perspective. Give you space to think about what you want to do?"
The key warms in my palm. From my body heat, the reaction to the metal, it calls to me, like it's pulsing out a signal. Take it, Imogen. Make a choice for yourself, for once.
"Can I ask you something?" She prods.
"Of course."
"Are you maybe looking for reasons to say no to the proposal? On the one hand, you seem resigned to saying yes. But on the other… Imogen, I know we haven't been friends for long, tell me if I'm way outta line, but you also seem like you need help getting out of this. You're not for sale, no matter what ass-backwards dowry your family—and I can't believe I'm saying this, but the mayor—says. If you need help starting over, alone, you only have to ask."
I feel her outrage mirrored inside me. It takes a moment to slip on my OFA cloak, as Ophelia calls it, letting my placid smile clear the way for all the words caught in my throat. "It's not out of line, Ophelia. I appreciate your concern. I did call you upset, after all. But… I want to get married. Maybe not to them, but I can't seem to meet anyone I truly want. My parents are probably right, I'm too picky. So, yes. I think I'm going to accept." Shame pokes its head through my anger, but I ignore it, trying hard to keep my smile from getting too tight. On a whim, I add, "But, I'd like the key. Just… for some time to myself. If that's okay."
"Yeah, Immy. Of course. It's all yours," Ophelia says softly.
I look back up at Franky on stage. She looks so happy up there, dancing. I've never met a person of any designation who looks so carefree, like she's flying in the wind, above it all. I'm jealous of Franky.
The difference between us couldn't be greater. Unbridled by expectations, the women here are choosing how they want to live, not following the pattern laid out for them.
Impulsive has never been me. I'm calm. Cautious. Submissive. And so I do not know what foreign entity has taken control of my body when I ask, "Do you think I could dance?"
I look back at Ophelia, whose eyebrows shoot high in surprise. "Dance? What, like here? On stage?"
Embarrassed, I immediately backtrack, resuming control of whatever possessed my stupid, errant mouth. "Nevermind. That was ridiculous—"
"No, no, that's not what I was thinking. It's not ridiculous. It's just…" Her eyes go wide, and she nods toward the stage. There's another dancer taking Franky's place. The woman immediately drops into a split, her barely there lime green thong covering almost nothing. She rocks her pelvis up and down, practically having sex with the stage floor, before spinning on her bum with her legs extended, coming to a stand and repeating the move, only this time, upright, with the pole. It's graceful, but pornographic.
Ophelia's apprehension is warranted. It was a ridiculous suggestion. I amend, "I used to perform ballet. I can dance, but nothing like this. It was a stupid thing to say. Nevermind."
"Don't say that, it wasn't. I think it's a great idea. If you're curious, you should try it. I mean, is stripping so different from ballet?"
I give her a skeptical look, but she doesn't laugh. "I'm serious. The outfits are obviously a little more risque, but you can wear whatever you want up there. And sure, the moves are more…"
We both look up at the stage. The dancer holds the pole between her hands, her bum pushed out toward the audience while she sways her hips in time with the music, in a figure eight motion on repeat. At first, it seems lazy, languid. But the way her butt shakes and rocks… it's actually mesmerizing.
She continues, "But it's still just dancing. Moving to the music. Ballet's beautiful. Erotic dancing can be really beautiful too. And I don't know about ballet, but I can say for certain—pole dancing? Takes a crazy amount of strength. It's a great workout."
"I wouldn't even know where to start," I laugh self-deprecatingly.
"There's no better place than Queenie's to try it out. Don't overthink it. If you're serious, and you want to give it a shot, I'll get Roxy to talk to you. You might have to do a practice set for her, she's the one who does all the hiring."
"I thought your friends owned Queenie's? The male alphas, Dante Pack, correct?" I'm curious about the origin of this club and the infamous Dante Pack behind it all. I've heard Kenneth, the mayor and my to-be-betrothed, mention Red Dante in particular in heated debates at dinner parties, usually with a kind of grudging disdain, although they're supposedly on the same team regarding omegas rights.
