Page 31 of Heat Hesitation

Enzo's dark gaze never leaves me, and when I'm only steps away, Theo finally looks up. His laughter fades, and by the time his window rolls down, his expression has morphed into distrust.

He's stopped scowling at me, so that's something.

"Can we help you?" He smirks.

"Very funny. I need a ride." I peek around Theo to ask Enzo, "Do you mind driving me? I'm late for work."

His brows come together, responding with a single nod.

"Thank you," I tell him, climbing into the back. The easy energy from Theo has fallen away, leaving thick, unspent tension between us in the silence of the drive. Their scents mingle, and it takes every effort to pretend I don't notice. It's a short trip, thankfully, and when Enzo pulls into the alleyway behind Queenie's a few minutes later, I nearly gasp in the fresh, if not-so-clean air once I climb out.

Theo's window rolls down again. "You think that's bad? Trying sitting in a closed car with that wretched scent-block you're wearing. It really is awful, sweetheart."

I give him a full-teeth smile that I'm sure looks deranged, two middle fingers, then dart to the back entrance, Theo's laughter echoing behind me.

I hurry past half-naked dancers in various states of undress, stuffing my bag in my locker and getting dressed in record time. Cass gives me an amused albeit disapproving frown as I duck behind the bar and grab my tray.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm late," I tell Zach, one of the bartenders, when I accidentally knock into him, spilling the liquor bottle in his hands.

He shrugs, "No big. It's slow, anyway." He hooks a thumb behind him toward the tables scattered around the long catwalk stage and replaces the liquor I spilled.

I lift my eyebrows in surprise, because it feels packed. I pointedly look around, but Zach explains, "Two alpha parties. One celebrating their formation, the other got their courting acceptance from OFA."

"Ah," I offer a tight smile and start flipping through the ticket of drink orders while Zach fills my tray. Packs can be slow to form, typically made up of alphas and the occasional beta. Depending on sexual orientation and preferences, the alphas can be a mix of men and women, though female alphas are extremely rare, even more than male omegas. Zach is a case in point, the only male omega who works here. He's a bartender most of the time, but on the rare occasions he takes the stage, everyone in the room swoons. He's dances like I imagine he fucks. It's beautiful. And hot as hell.

I'm told it's an exciting day when a pack officially forms. Some alphas build bonds as they grow up, like Dante Pack. Others add members who click as they get older, and though it's not uncommon to add another member later in life, the feeling of formation, when everything clicks, is said to be a profound experience.

Definitely something to celebrate.

I decide to deal with them first, holding my tray with both hands because I may be a server, but I'm clumsy as fuck, and make my way toward one of the VIP booths beside the left side of the stage.

"Gentleman," I greet, setting the tray on the table. Most servers would balance with one hand and artfully pass out each drink with flourish and flair. I pick up each drink and call out, "Who had the whiskey coke?"

They smile and flirt while I pass out drinks, their smiles big and infectious. I recognize one of the guys as someone I went to high school with, a couple of years younger than me, and we make small talk while he pretends not to stare at my bare neck and cleavage.

My scent-blocker might turn off the senses, but this guy remembers me and knows I'm an omega—an unbonded one at that—so I pass out all the drinks, tell him to enjoy the show, and head back to the bar.

Francesca is on stage, Franky, as we call her, and her style of dancing reflects her personality perfectly. Vibrant, wild, silly, sweet. She bounces around like a gymnast, running toward the pole, gripping it with one hand and swinging her body around, legs wrapping in a grip and letting her upper body drip down like a wilting flower. Franky's blind as a bat and, because of a congenital disability, has almost no sense of smell despite being an omega. She's also one of my favorite people here.

There's no formal dress code at Queenie's, and aside from the back rooms, where I rarely deliver drinks, there's a strict panties-on policy, but that's as far as the rule goes.

Since I don't dance, I always wear my shorts, though I suppose they're short enough to classify as a bathing suit bottom. Franky matches me in height but is more pixie-like in the frame; while I'm an apple-bottom babe with a small waist and equally small tits, I like to cover up more. Franky, though, she likes to prance around in strings. G-strings, V-strings, Y-strings, strappy string triangle bras, if she's even wearing one.

Her giant smile leaves nothing to the imagination, no mystery or brooding. She's a joy to work with, and the atmosphere in Queenie's is fun as hell whenever she's on stage.

The other dancers, like Roxy or Chandra and occasionally Zach, though he dances very rarely, are more dark and serious, like it's an art form. But Franky dances like she's at a party, and all her friends are there.

I collect the drinks for the second large party and make my way to the VIP booths on the opposite side of the stage.

Franky captures their collective attention while I carefully pass out each drink. When my tray is almost empty, she prances over and leans down, giving the guys a close-up of her see-through triangle bra top.

"Phe-Phe, can you please get me a water?" She blinks dramatically, making me laugh.

"Yeah, Franky, of course. I'll put it there," I point to a small stool at the far corner of the stage. The guys call out and complain when Franky dances away, and, unfortunately, that brings their attention to me.

"Alright, anything else for now?" I ask.

"How about a lap dance?" One of the guys asks. He's big and meaty in the arms and shoulders, making his head seem small for his frame.

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