Page 72 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
“You girls had it rough today,” she frowned, lifting my arms one by one and checking them over, then turning my head gently side-to-side to peer at my neck, before carefully removing all the bandages. “You’re already bruising,” she observed, dabbing on different ointments across each tiny wound.
“Apparently there’s some Beta thing going around, so they took a lot of samples today.” The skin where she touched wasstill wildly tender, but she was being gentle, whispering her fingers across the damage with practiced finesse.
“The glandular disease,” she murmured, reinforcing my words. “They’ve been testing clubs all over Seattle. A dancer at Velvet Room collapsed last week.”
“Really?” I sounded shocked, because I was. I thought the whole glandular overproduction thing sounded ridiculous and was probably being blown out of proportion.
“Yes.” Myrtle was focused down on my left wrist, but she glanced up at me with a quick nod. “Our bodies just can’t process and use scent the way Omegas and Alphas can. Our glands are basically…” she scrunched up her face, thinking, “vestigial. Like tailbones.”
“But tailbones mean we grew out of needing tails,” I reasoned with her. “Aren’t scent glands still useful? Finding your soulmates and all that nonsense.”
The older woman snorted. “Would you want who you love determined by the way you smell?”
“I mean…” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I’d cared about Geoff, but my body hadn’t responded to him in a world-shattering way. He’d been convenient. We’d worked together because we understood the demands of our career. I didn’t think I could honestly answer her question, because I hadn’t experienced what people talk about—the undeniable, unavoidable and irrevocable bond that happens when an Omega meets her true scent match like my grandparents had.
“Anyways,” Myrtle continued as she began applying skin veil makeup to conceal any remaining issues. “It’s just status in my opinion. You have working, productive glands and your body can process the output, or you don’t. You either more valued in our society, or you’re not. All our classifications are bogged down with bullshit.”
"I guess," I mumbled, watching as Myrtle expertly made the last remnant of the last puncture mark fade away. It was just a surface fix, but that’s all that mattered for my job. Look pretty on the outside, dance well, rake in the cash.
When Myrtle finished, she gazed at me and her eyes softened. I don’t know what she saw in my expression. I could only imagine it reflected how poorly my heart was feeling.
"Oh, don't mind me, honey. I'm just an old Beta with too many opinions." She patted my hand. "You're all set. Good as new."
Good as new.
I could be a lot of things now, but I was never going to be that. Good as new would mean rewinding time, which wasn’t possible.
I thanked her and slid off the barstool, my mind still spinning with the implications of those labeled vials. I needed to find Crystal and talk to her. I’d voice my fears, and I’d hope she waved them off as no big deal. She knew more about being a Beta and required testing. She’d know if I should be worried.
I found her in the changing room applying eyeliner. I moved behind her, leaning down and folding my arms against the back of her chair. I watched as Crystal fluidly applied a pitch-black wing to her right lid. She always did it perfectly, with a quick flick of wrist.
When she’d finished, her eyes locked with mine.
"What's with the face?" Crystal asked without turning from the mirror. "If you're going to tell me you suddenly can’t come this weekend, then I refuse to listen. I need my sexiest sidekick.”
“Sidekick?” I bumped her shoulder. “Haven’t I earned my own place yet?”
“Maybe after a year,” she teased. “But seriously, what’s wrong? You look like someone stole all your tips.”
I moved around the chair, dropping to kneel on the rough carpet. “Should I be concerned about the testing?”
“What do you mean?” she asked absentmindedly, rifling through her makeup and pulling out mascara.
“Well, you’re not worried because… But I’m…”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind, so I lifted my arm and gave my hand a little shake which shifted the beaded bracelet around. Her eyes widened for a heartbeat, then settled back to normal.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She shrugged.
“And if it’s not?” I pushed.
“Then I have zero idea where you got that bracelet and I had absolutely no clue you were,” she leaned in, pitching her voice low, “not a Beta.”
“So, hope for the best, and if the worst happen, plausible deniability.”
“I think you’re amazing, Lucky.” The hand holding the mascara lifted close to my face, she used one knuckle to affectionately trace down my cheek. “But I can’t lose this job.”
“If shit hits the fan for me, I promise I won’t bring you down too.” It was the least I could do for her. I wouldn’t even be dancing again without her help.
