Page 16 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
-Bakeries, daycares, bookstores.Notes: Omegas always accepted in these types of jobs, even actively encouraged. I like books. I suck at baking. Research how registering a home-based daycare works. Yard is fenced. House is big enough. Salary: Varied.
Last time I’d poured over the list, I hadn’t slashed out bookstores or hospitality. Wrinkling my nose, I quickly struck both out. God, what was I going to do? The system was set up to discourage Omegas staying single. It limited our opportunities and resources. Even higher education pursuits were often seen as just vehicles to find mates. That’s why the Arts were so amazing. Anyone with talent, no matter their first or second genders, no matter their mate status, could pursue their passion.
A prolific painter, painted. An amazing actress, acted. A songbird, sang.
And a dancer, danced.
I tapped the phone screen beneath the bullet list. The cursor blinked at me, hostile and unsympathetic as I tried to think of fresh possibilities. When my fingers did begin to type, I didn’t even realize what I’d thought of until the idea was glaring at me. Zero shame, just a bold lightbulb moment.
Stripping?
At first, I scoffed as pride rushed to the surface. My finger hovered over the delete button, but I couldn’t lower it and erase the first future I’d imagined which involved dancing. The word seemed to be written in bold letters, as if daring me to acknowledge it. My stomach hurt, clenching uncomfortably. My mind reeled, shouting at me. This wasn't supposed to be an option. This wasn't who I was supposed to become.
Yet, a nearly imperceptible voice in my head began to whisper.
Every second, it grew louder.
Stripping wasn’t like sex work, but the government lumped the two together. Strictly speaking, Omegas weren’t allowed to work in clubs as the entertainment.
I made the idea an official bullet—opting to exchange the word stripping for something more palatable—and added a fresh note.
-Exotic dancing.Note: Research ways to hide my identity. Check out clubs hiring. NOT in Tacoma.
If I put my mind to it, I could adapt and own any stage. I knew how to captivate an audience. I’d make a decent wage at a club, better than any entry level job I’d qualify for thanks to my lack of other experience.As for dignity and pride?I wasn’t in any position to care about those things. I couldn’t spend forever hoping I’d snag some lackluster job with shit pay, and the idea of starting from scratch—nursing school or teaching—felt like I was considering climbing Mount Everest.
I heard footsteps in the hallway, slow and measured.Grandpa.
Quickly, I shoved my phone away as guilt flooded through me. Here I was contemplating a choice that would pivot me far away from elegant, controlled ballet, while Grandpa was upstairs caring for the woman he'd loved for over fifty years. My grandparents were the most faithful, loyal, kind people onthe planet. They’d always told me I was meant for amazing things. They’d made sacrifice after sacrifice to see me walk a respectable path. I’m sure in their wildest nightmares they’d never envisioned me wearing pasties, gyrating to pop music.
The door opened inward with a soft creak and Grandpa shuffled inside. He seemed smaller as he moved to his favorite armchair—the worn leather recliner we’d moved from home—and sank into it with a heavy sigh.
"She was having such a great day," he said, his voice strained. "I should be grateful it lasted longer than usual, but I find myself impossibly sad." He leaned forward, spine curving, to cradle his face against his palms. When he dropped his hands, I could see moisture in his eyes, but he offered me a slight smile.
“It’s okay to be sad, Grandpa.” It was a stupid, empty thing to say. It was something he already knew. I was so bad at comforting people, even when every fiber of my being wanted to say and do the right thing to make him feel better. The air around us filled with all the things we couldn't say and all the realities we couldn't change. It felt thick, pushing against my body with palpable force.
I was grateful when Grandpa broke the tension.
"Nelly, you look tired. Are you eating enough?" The way he said my name. The gentle way he asked the question. So much concern; it shot to the center of my heart.
“I look tired?” I gaped at him. He was the one who looked too thin. Exhausted. World-weary. I could never add to his worries. “I eat plenty. Promise.”
Nervously, I circled my right wrist with my left hand and glanced down. The tip of my thumb was nearly to the first joint of my pointer finger. I’d learned to check my weight that way over the years. I'd been so focused on maintaining my dancer's physique and hopelessly job hunting that I'd probably lost more weight than I should have.
When I lifted my gaze, Grandpa’s keen eyes studied me.
"I'm really fine," I lied quickly. "Just busy with the house, training. Always training. I could probably put on a pound or two." I forced a laugh.
His gaze didn’t relent, cutting me to the bone. I saw something flicker across his face—an understanding that made my chest tighten.He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he knew something was wrong. Of course he did. He always paid attention to the little things. He always saw the cracks in the facade.
"Nell," he said quietly, "you know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever's happening, we'll figure it out together."
The kindness in voice was too much. Here was this man, watching his soulmate slip away from him day by day, and he was worried about me. My mouth opened. It would be so easy to vomit everything out and give flight to the desperate thoughts circling my mind like vultures.
Instead, I changed the subject. “Are they bringing your dinner here too?”
He slowly bobbed his head. “Yes. I don’t like eating in the dining room without Annie.”
“I get that.” I clamped my lips together, puffed out my cheeks nervously, exhaled heavily.
