Page 62 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
“Bullshit you are,” Crystal countered. I watched as she bit her lip, mouth screwing up and eyes narrowing. “Crap, this is such a stupid idea...”
Her words confused me. What was a stupid idea?
She turned to look down both alley directions, then back over her shoulder at the elevated rear entrance to the club. She moved closer to me, pitching her voice conspiratorially. “Listen, come back here tomorrow at four-thirty. I’ll get you something from a buddy. We’ve got open auditions at five and no one will know you’re an Omega.”
I waited for the shoe to drop. But she didn’t add anything. She didn’t tell me my end of the bargain.
“What do you want in exchange?” I finally asked, and even to my ears it sounded distrustful and crass.
She barked out a laugh. “Boy, who burned your bacon? I don’t want anything,” she paused, then grinned. “Well, if you get the gig and happen to have one of the big spenders somenight who wants a second girl, you know where to look.” She winked at me.
Then Crystal startled, mumbled something about the time, and took a long, choking drag on her cigarette before dropping the butt to the ground and smashing it out with one heel. “See you tomorrow, Lucky!”
The nickname stuck.
Now, I was the lovely Lucky Star of Club Midnight, and I had been for nearly half a year.
For a while, I’d felt ashamed. I wondered if Grandpa was watching over me. I used to imagine how upset he’d be, that I’d traded the reputable ballet world for a stripper stage. This was that desperate measure I’d scribbled on my phone’s note app at Serenity House. The one I’d vowed I wouldn’t take. I’d spent so long being depressed, eventually I just had to shut down the worry, the fear, the shame, and do what I did best: dance. On Club Midnight’s stage, I was revered again. Alphas loved me, praised me, wanted me. A few coworkers envied me, and I was still egoistical enough to enjoy that. Excelling had never been enough. I’d wanted to be the best at Imperial, and I still wanted to be the best. It didn’t matter whether I was dancing Giselle or gyrating in a G-string.
I headed to the bathroom for my post-run shower. Club Midnight had an immaculate reputation—no water spots on the bar glasses, not a speck of filth on the floors, sparkling bathrooms and, most importantly, dancers with flawless bodiesand clean bills of health. I’d shower a second time, just before my shift.
The water scalded my skin as I fought away the sweat from my morning run. I was methodical Top to bottom, then a second time in reverse. Hair washed twice. Deep conditioned. Then one more exfoliating pass over my body at the end, knocking away any stubborn bits that hadn’t succumbed to my madwoman scouring the first two times.
I’d always been thorough in the shower, washing inch by inch, never missing a spot.
My grandmother drilled cleanliness into me at an early age. That our appearances mattered. Our outsides communicated our sense of self-love to the world. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that now. I once clung to her words doggedly during my ballet career. I wanted to always seem perfectly kept. Unflappable. Not a hair out of place.
It was different now. My obsession with being clean had more to do with my job’s hygiene standards than it was a reflection on my self-esteem. Club Midnight pulled in high dollar Alphas because they ensured the employees were also high dollar.
At the very end, I swiped the expensive body wash that smelled like vanilla and sandalwood—a scent that would blend seamlessly with my blocker—across myself, then turned off the shower and used the matching lotion on my still-slippery skin. They were vanity items I allowed myself, because they were useful. They amplified the mask I wore every day, though it didn’t go over my face.
My blocking bracelet was floating in its glass jar on the sink. Somehow it managed to not fully sink, or fully surface. It always hovered suspended midway in the jar as the black-market solution soaked into each small and porous, unfinished birchwood bead. I suspected Crystal’s dealer was running quitethe racket, charging several hundred dollars for a two-week supply of solution, but I had no room or power to haggle. I wasn’t willing to risk losing the one job I’d been able to get.
When I was dressed in casual clothes, hair dried, and daytime makeup applied, I lifted the bracelet from the jar and gave it a little shake. When I slipped it over my wrist and the ‘charged’ beads contacted my clean skin, the scent blocker activated. I didn’t know exactly how it worked; it wasn’t high-tech, but somehow the moment it touched my body, my natural Omega scent—which had wildly strengthened since leaving ballet and gaining a little weight—faded to an almost imperceptible odor. I was basically a Beta, or I could pretend to be one. The first time I’d put the inconspicuous piece of jewelry on, I had realized I didn’t hate the idea of leaving Omega status behind. Being a Beta was easier, less complicated. Society had different constraints for Betas, different expectations, but they were ones I could live with.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment.
I was always struck by how different I felt after putting on the blocker.
A little invisible. A little freer. A little less Nelly Shaw, celebrated ballerina, and a little more Lucky Star of Club Midnight.
Once, I was well known in Tacoma. Well loved.
Here in Seattle, I could be a no one, and nobody’s special anything.
I tore myself away from my reflection and padded into the kitchen to eat something substantial before running today’s errands.
The refrigerator was mostly empty—a jug of orange juice, some Greek yogurt, and the sad remains of what had once been a vibrant green pepper. That last was almost funny to me. In my old life, that pepper would never have gone to waste. How manymornings had I eaten the sliced pepper rings with an egg cracked in the middle? So often that, even though I bought peppers with the intention of making the old breakfast staple, I found myself avoiding it until the veggie was past it’s best buy date. I snagged it, chucking it into the trash bin, then I grabbed the yogurt and mixed in a handful of granola from the pantry. Not exactly gourmet, but it would keep me going.
I ate while doom scrolling through my phone. I laughed at a few dumb videos, quickly checked if my makeup order was still arriving on time, and read over messages from the other girls at the club. Crystal had sent a group text about a Big Tech merger party that just hit the books for next weekend. The CEOs were bringing all the board members to celebrate. They’d reserved the entire club. Serving the large group would take all of us, and it would mean big money even if we pooled and split. Our boss was asking anyone scheduled off to come into work anyways. Asking was probably a stretch. Even when something sounded like a request you could refuse, it likely wasn’t. I made a mental note to prepare something special for my routine. I wasn’t particularly fond of big groups. It was harder to fend off the Alphas who wanted more than a private dance.
Me: I’ll come in
My agreement to come work, though I was scheduled off, populated under other similar messages. The only person who couldn’t cancel her weekend plans was Star. Her kid’s birthday.
I finished my breakfast and rinsed the bowl, setting it in the dish rack to dry. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside. The old building had amazing insulation. I’d toured a few newer places, but you could hear everything through the paper-thin walls of all of them. So, I’d chosen the Clairemont. Yet often my new home felt too peaceful. God help me, sometimes I missed the constant bustle of The Imperial.
Lively conversations about choreography, Madame Belova clapping her hands to keep us in time as we practiced a new sequence, the soft thuds of pointe shoes against practice floors. But that life was gone now, stolen by a grand jeté and a loose ribbon. The audible pop, a sound I still can close my eyes and hear crystal clear, haunted me. At least I didn’t think about stupid Geoff anymore... well, I didn’t think about him very often.
