Page 141 of Roulette Rodeo
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is answer enough, but she elaborates anyway.
"No. Never had one of my own." She fidgets with the phone, not meeting my eyes. "I borrowed them sometimes, for work. When we'd get transported to different venues for special performances, they'd give us these old flip phones that only worked for calling the handlers. But something like this?" She holds up the iPhone like it's alien technology. "Touch screen and everything? I've only seen other people use them."
The shock must show on my face, because Red backpedals with a speed and intensity that would impress an Olympic sprinter. She starts talking even faster, her words tripping over themselves as she tries to make me understand it's not because she's an idiot, or a technophobe, or some kind of luddite. It's just…
"Okay, so, when I say 'never,' I mean technically—like, I had access, sometimes, but it was always someone else's and there were rules, like, you only touch it if it's absolutely necessary and definitely don't open any of the apps unless you're about to die." She gives a nervous little laugh that trails into a sheepish smile. "Which, you know, was a surprisingly frequent possibility, depending on where we were posted."
She's rubbing her thumb over the smooth edge of the phone, almost like she's afraid it'll break if she holds it too tightly.
"I watched people use them all the time, though," she blurts, as if that somehow erases the embarrassment. "I know about texting and selfies and video calls. I just—I never got to, you know, practice." Her hands flutter in the air, miming a phone. "Only the guys on the top floor got to keep their own, and by then I was basically just property." She says it with a shrug, but I don't miss the brittleness in her tone. "Not a lot of point in having one when there was nobody I could safely call."
I let her ramble, not because I need the clarification but because I think she does. Every word is a little shield, a bit of armor she puts up because the idea of not belonging—of not being up to speed—is still scarier than the memory of being owned by a syndicate that treated her like an asset.
She finally stops, eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction.
I want to say something reassuring. I want to tell her it doesn't matter, that everyone is a novice at something, that the whole point of a phone is to connect and be connected.
Instead, I do the weirdly paternal thing and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, like she's a nervous child on the first day of school.
It makes her relax, just a fraction.
"Would you mind sharing your childhood?" I ask gently, not wanting to push but desperately wanting to understand.
She settles back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her waist, the phone cradled between us.
"It was good when I was young," she says, voice distant with memory. "Like, genuinely wasn't too bad. We weren't rich, but we had enough. Mom would take me to the park, teach me to bake even though we usually burned everything. Dad would come home from work and toss me in the air, call me his little princess."
Her voice catches slightly, and I stay quiet, letting her find the words.
"It started with what we thought was just a cold. Seasonal thing, you know? Mom was always catching whatever was going around. But then it got worse. She couldn't shake it. Started coughing up blood." Red's fingers trace patterns on the phone screen, not really seeing it. "Once it got bad enough that she had to stay in the hospital, that's when things went downhill."
She laughs, but it's bitter, hollow.
"They say when men get sick, their omega will ensure they're there for the alpha. But when it's the other way around?" She shakes her head. "The alphas are usually the first to leave."
The silence stretches between us, and I can feel her getting lost in the memory. I don't rush her, just hold her steady, my thumb rubbing small circles on her hip through her jeans.
"That's when Dad started bringing other women home," she continues quietly. "At first, he tried to hide it. Said they were just friends helping out while Mom was sick. But kids aren't stupid. I knew what those sounds meant, what the strange perfumes on his clothes were about."
My arms tighten involuntarily, anger flooding through me at the thought of young Red having to witness that betrayal.
"That's why I'm a bit frightened of getting checked," she admits, so quietly I almost miss it. "At the clinic, I mean. It's the first time having a pack. Having men who actually want good for me." She turns slightly in my lap to look at me. "I've never experienced this level of love or admiration. I don't know what it's really like, so I don't want to screw it up."
"Red," I say firmly, turning her more fully so she's facing me. "That would never happen. We would never abandon you. Period."
She nods slowly, but I can see she's still processing, still not quite believing.
"My dad is an example of an alpha I'd never want," she says quietly. Then her eyes sharpen with realization. "Luca kind of reminds me of him, actually."
That catches my attention.
"How so?"
"That pretty projection of a male that flaunts and attracts omegas who only want him for his money." She tilts her head, thinking. "The surface-level charm that never goes deeper. The way they both seem to think the world owes them something just for existing."
"Do you think Luca is redeemable?" I ask, genuinely curious about her perspective.
She considers this seriously, her analytical mind working through the question.
