Page 6 of Heat Hesitation

Red growls. He is an alpha, after all, and thinks of me as his charge. "I wish you'd take money from me. I promised your dad—"

"Don't, Red." I sigh. "It's not your responsibility."

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I get up off the couch, my break almost over. It takes me a second to adjust my booty shorts and bustier so everything's comfortable again. The black push-up corset bra gives me the illusion of having C-cups, while they're really more of a B. A small B. On a good day. Less than a handful, but I work with what I've got, cinching the ties and clasps, attempting and failing at building cleavage. The giant ass barely contained in my booty shorts, though, that's all mine.

Red stands in front of me shaking his head and smirking as I adjust. When I finish, he gently grips my shoulders, "Responsibility's got nothing to do with it, Phe. Your dad and Alma would have wanted me to look out for you, but that's not why I do it. I love you, you're my family. I hate that you won't let me help you."

Red and Alma were high school sweethearts. His pack—Dante Pack—had started to form by then, and my dad, knowing the streets were dangerous, relied on Red and his boys to look out for Alma and me when he and my mom weren't around.

Alma and I were sixteen, identical twins. I was angry at her the night they all died, and no matter how much time has passed, that regret still burns like it was yesterday.

I'd refused to go to her dance performance. Her troupe consisted of South Loop and Downtown omegas, but the way the OFA promoted the event made it seem like they were supposed to feel grateful at being accepted into the facility—all those poor, low-class omegas.

But Alma wanted to live the dreamy life of an omega. She didn't care that she was paraded on stage like a circus freak from South Loop. She loved being the center of attention. Alma and I were so different, and we argued constantly. But I loved her more than anything.

I never told Red about our phone call that night and what happened after the intermission. Even if he and Alma weren't destined mates, I couldn't hurt him more than he already was.

I shrug off his grip and look up, pieces of his straight black hair falling in his face, nearly obscuring his bright blue eyes. He's obscenely beautiful. It's too bad I'd rather shove a hot pepper up my cooch than date him, and I'm certain he feels the same. Not all his pack members have strictly-sisterly feelings for me, but it doesn't matter. He's family; they all are.

"I just… I want to be able to do this on my own. I want to prove an omega doesn't need a pack or an alpha to make it."

Red scoffs, "Of course an omega doesn't need a pack or an alpha. This isn't about you being an omega, Ophelia. It's about you being poor as fuck, not trying to get better-paying jobs because you refuse to disclose your designation to your employer, and you can't get a better job with more consistent hours because you're too busy playing pharmaceutical vigilante, which leaves you making peanuts and living in a shithole."

Silence descends before my giggles start. Eventually, Red laughs too, shaking his head, heading back behind his desk, and sitting.

"Wow." I laugh, wiping a tear from my eye.

"You'd make more if you let me pay you more."

"That just tells me you need to pay all your employees more." He knows I'm joking, he does pay well. It just never seems to be enough. That's life, though. Money's tight no matter how hard you grind. "Anyway, I make great tips. I'd make more dancing…"

"No."

"Worth a shot," I laugh, making my way to the door. "Look, I have a roof over my head and food on the table. I don't need anything else. Needs and wants are two different things. Nothing's urgent," I promise him.

I don't mind being poor. It's better than being a prop for a group of wealthy alphas like the Constantines, who'd likely have me barefoot and pregnant, waiting on them hand and foot, nothing more than a hole to fill—even if the price of my freedom came with a limitless credit card—even if they actually wanted me.

I've only just stopped thinking about them every minute of the day; I can't go down that rabbit hole again, so I shake off the ache in my chest, the memory of what could have been.

I head out of the office, down the darkened hall, dimly lit with a red and purple glow, highlighting the risque vibe of the club before emerging onto the main floor. I duck behind the bar to grab my drink tray, accidentally smacking my forehead on the wood as I go. Zach, the bartender, laughs at me while I rub the spot on my head.

I chuckle and ignore the teasing. I'm always falling over or bumping into something.

The music booms rhythmically across the entire club, scantily clad employees, both omegas and betas, men and women, working the room.

It's ironic, really. Most people might think a strip club in South Loop would be seedy or dangerous, but it's one of the places I feel safest. Large alpha and alpha-leaning betas dressed in all black, the bouncers are hidden throughout the room, one of the only positions that work here that don't wear scent-blockers.

Customers lose themselves here, immersed in Queenie's culture, reveling in the beauty of the exotic dancers—but Red and his pack don't want anyone to forget who's in charge, not for one second, and the scent of the aggro-alpha bouncers keeps everyone in check.

Queenie's is a gem in South Loop. Known by locals as a safe place for an omega to seek refuge or take control of their bodies, gain autonomy, or even hide out, an omega looking for help knows they can come here and ask for it, and it's got nothing to do with dancing on stage.

No one north of the sixth bridge, which separates us from downtown across the river, would ever think of finding an omega here because the very idea goes against all the propaganda the OFA pushes. They control everything else in Arrow Cove, but they don't control us.

Red's right. I could try to get a better-paying job, but I want to keep my designation private from my employer, which is required by law to disclose if they ask. Unfortunately, employers can discriminate against a designation, and almost no one will hire an omega. They don't want the drama we bring, as if it's our fault we have to take a few extra unplanned days off for our heat. As if it's our fault unruly alpha's can't contain themselves around us.

We're faulted for the very things we're praised for.

It's their prerogative if alphas want to play up the stereotype of hyper-aggressive meatheads with uncontrollable sex drives, ready to rut at the drop of a hat, but they can't blame omegas like me who refuse to comply with that narrative.

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