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"Imogen, it’s so nice to meet you. Ophelia told me so much about you, I feel like we’re already friends. You met my mate, Jess," she gestures at the alpha, who answered the door. "Honey, can you give us a few minutes?"
"I’ll wait in the office," he nods, then he kisses Roxy on the temple and disappears down a long hallway, leaving me alone with the friendly omega.
"Thank you so much for meeting me, Roxy. Honestly…" I clear my throat and take a step back, "Well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t tell if this is a very bad idea, or just bad idea adjacent," I laugh.
Roxy’s warm smile doesn’t judge. She looks to be in her early thirties but manages a mothering vibe, and I immediately want to spill all my insecurities and hope she hugs them away.
Reaching behind the bar, she pours two glasses of water, sliding one toward me. My shaking hands grasp it and I restrain myself from glugging the whole thing and instead take a few small sips.
I may not feel confident, but I don’t want to leave with nothing to show for my bravery after walking through the front door. If I’m really marrying the Stevens Pack, I need to do something for myself. What can I say that I’ve done that was just for me? This is wild, crazy and stupid, sure, but still, it’s for me.
"Have you danced on stage before?" Roxy asks, leaning against the bar top, attempting to put me at ease.
"Yes—" I start, but then pause. "I did ballet for ten years. I performed when I was younger. I loved it, and I miss it. But no, I’ve never done this kind of dance. Not in front of other people, anyway."
There were those few times after I turned twenty-one when I went to the bars with friends, sneaking out of the OFA facility after hours. Doused in cheap, over-the-counter scent-blockers, we danced all night, like free betas. It was amazing. I haven’t done anything so reckless since I graduated, but I do know I can dance.
"Okay. Ophelia told me you could dance, but she didn’t say ballet…"
She’s losing confidence in me, and suddenly, all I want is to prove to this woman, this strong omega, that I can be brave, too. "Yes, that’s true, but I think I can do this. I’d love to just… try." I don’t even mind that I sound like I’m begging.
"Well, do you want to dance alone on stage for a bit? See how it feels?"
I look around the empty club. Tables scattered, with a long cat-walk leading out into the main floor between them, booths and more tables following the plank. It’s quiet. Clean. Unassuming and less scary in the daytime. I try to picture it full of people, channeling Franky’s confident enthusiasm.
"Could I?"
"Of course. That’s what you’re here for, right? I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to get a feel for the stage." Roxy squeezes my shoulder encouragingly. She turns, heading to the other side of the bar. There’s a small booth on the far end that I missed last night. A moment later, loud music erupts from the speakers. It’s sultry and sexy and full of bass and beats that make you want to dip your hips low. Roxy instructs me to take my time before vanishing down the hallway after her mate.
And then I’m alone.
Tentatively, I walk to the stage. I almost kick off my heels, but then I remember this isn’t ballet, I need to be able to dance in several inches. Leaving them on, after climbing up, I walk towards the center of the stage. I reach out, the cold of the brass pole surprising me. It’s clean. No fingerprints. The reminder that this is a safe space for omegas, where we can feel in control, and that I voluntarily chose to be here, boosts my confidence.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the music, letting my hips move with the beats. I’ve never danced with a pole, but I cling to the metal bravely, with my eyes closed. My nerves still vibrate beneath my skin, but it's a sister to the excitement I feel, less angsty.
Swinging around like a maypole, getting a feel for the texture, I awkwardly incorporate dance moves, surprised my body has the muscle memory of the ballet I practiced for hours when I was young. Modifying a pirouette, my ankle locks around the back of the pole, and, gripping the metal with the back of my arm, I dip low, letting gravity swing me around.
It’s slow, probably slower than the other dancers, so I try to pick up the pace to dance to the music. It’s different from ballet, so different. But I can feel it. I can feel the music, and I feel strong. I dance faster, and I let the memory come back to me, filtered through the erotic movements and sounds. It’s messy and a little awkward, but the more I move around, the more confident I become.
I barely notice when the song bleeds into the next, then the next. Before I know it, my hands burn with the hint of a callus, and I’ve never had one before, not on my hands. But I’m sweating, and I’m smiling, and when I finally open my eyes, I’d nearly forgotten all about my troubles, and it’s a jarring slap of reality.
I’m dancing on stage at Queenie’s strip club in South Loop, because I’m engaged to be married to a pack I barely know, and everything rushes back.
I let go of the pole, nearly stumbling back a few steps. The music still pounds while my enthusiasm dims. Finding the steps on the far corner of the stage, I descend, finding Roxy leaning against the wall at the hallway entrance, smiling.
It’s big and happy, full of genuine elation, and makes me smile right back, letting my reality face-slap take a back seat. Her warmth is infectious as she embraces me in another hug. I do love hugs.
"I didn’t wanna bother you, but I caught the last song. Imogen, you were amazing up there! I can’t believe you’ve never danced with a pole. I think with some training, you could be phenomenal. How did it feel?"
I look down at my hands, red and sore from gripping the pole, biceps a little shaky from the exercise. "It felt incredible," I admit, my eyes watering with joy that I actually did something that made me feel good, ignoring the thought of my mother finding out about this, and how angry she would be.
Roxy and I take a seat at the bar, and, oblivious to my inner turmoil, she dives right into a schedule. A few mornings this week she’ll help me practice my moves, incorporating more of the pole, and to design my set.
The more we talk, the more it becomes a reality.
"Okay, what’s wrong?" She asks.
"Nothing, just…"
