Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
ASH
The heater in Papa’s ancient Chevy wheezes as we pull into the parking lot.
It’s half-full of motorcycles and dusty pickup trucks that have seen better decades.
Country music seeps through the blackened windows.
Every instinct I have says to stay in the car, to lock the doors, to sink into the seat until I disappear.
“Just picking up a paycheck, Lynn,” Papa says, with that little hitch that makes me think he’s lying. “Won’t take more than an hour.”
“I can wait here.” I try to keep my voice neutral, reasonable.
“You’re coming in,” he says, and it’s not a request. His hand shoots out faster than I can flinch, grabbing my wrist. “I said you’re coming in.”
“Okay,” I say softly and wiggle my wrist free.
“Fix your face. And your hair.” He flips down the visor with the cloudy little mirror. “You’re an omega, you shouldn’t look this messy all the time with your hair in your face.”
On instinct, I tuck my hair behind my ears and brush my bangs back. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix my face, so I just run my fingertip under my eye like I’m wiping away mascara. He nods once, apparently satisfied with whatever transformation he thinks has occurred.
The door opens with a reluctant groan, and it, well, stinks.
Stale cigarette smoke, old beer, and musky dusty alpha sweat.
Papa is a beta, so he doesn’t notice. I want to pinch my nose shut.
And cover my ears. The music, country music of course, sounds like the speakers are hiding in a metal trash can. It’s all twangy and static-y.
I blink as my eyes adjust to the dimness. The space is larger than it appeared from outside, with a long bar stretching along one wall, tables scattered throughout, and a small stage in the corner where a pole stands like an exclamation point.
“Stay put,” Papa mutters. He points to a bar stool, already moving toward the back room. “Don’t cause trouble.”
I make myself move to the bar, sliding onto a stool at the far end where I can keep my back to the wall and still see Papa out of the corner of my eye. The barstool wobbles slightly, one leg shorter than the others. The wood beneath my hands feels tacky with spilled drinks and god knows what else.
I don’t even want to think about what else.
I keep my eyes down, focused on a water ring on the bar’s scarred surface.
I’ve learned that eye contact is invitation enough.
Fuck that, my scent is invitation enough.
I’ve learned to make myself small in places like this.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see alphas looking my way and nodding toward me over their beers.
The sticky barstool wobbles beneath me every time I shift my weight. Papa is at the end of the bar. He’s smiling wide, laughing loud. Which means he’s conning someone.
The music clicks off. The bartender curses and struts over to the jukebox and gives it a swift kick. Before the next record starts up I hear Papa. “I’ll get your money. My girl’s working on something big.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. I am the “something big” he’s referring to. Me. My body. My heat.
A mug of beer sloshes down in front of me, chased by a gruff voice and alpha scent that burns my nose.
“Haven’t seen you here before.”
The voice comes from a wiry alpha with tattoos crawling up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar and reappearing on his forearms. His eyes are a pale, washed-out blue, almost colorless in the dim light. There’s nothing friendly in his smile.
“Compliments of the house.” When I don’t reach for it, his smile tightens. “It’s free.”
Nothing is ever free. Not in places like this. Not for girls like me.
“I don’t drink beer,” I say, which is partly true, so I can’t get smacked for lying.
“We’ve got other options.” He leans forward, forearms on the bar, closing the distance between us. His scent like woodsmoke chokes me. “Vodka? Rum? Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine.” I shoot a glance toward Papa, hoping he’ll wrap this up fast.
“You ever dance?”
“What?” The question catches me off-guard.
“Dance.” He gestures toward the empty pole on the small stage. “You’ve got the look. Skinny, but some guys go for that. Innocent face. They’d eat you up.” His gaze travels down my body, taking inventory. “Might be easier money than what your daddy is cooking up.”
“I don’t dance.” My skin crawls, and it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“Everyone can dance with the right motivation.” His smile reveals too-white teeth.
Before I can respond, the barstool next to me scrapes, and a big fat man drops down beside me. The bartender pushes my drink toward me again and then scrambles to put a shot glass in front of the guy, splashing in some amber liquid.
“Not interested in dancing?” he asks before downing the shot in one go. “That’s a shame. But we’ve got other opportunities for pretty young things like you.” His voice drops lower. “Side work. Private rooms. Very discreet, very lucrative.”
I hesitate, but before I can answer, Papa bumps my other side and pulls up a stool.
“There you are, Lynn.” His hand lands heavy on my shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. And all my hope dies.
“Randy! This yours?” He gestures at me like I’m just a thing.
“Mack, this is my daughter, Lynn.”
“She’s a pretty one.” The fat man’s gaze slides over me again. “She tells me she doesn’t like to dance.”
This is where a father is supposed to step in. Curse him out, punch him in the face. Rush me out of here to someplace safe. But Papa just shrugs, his fingers still digging into my shoulder.
“Lynn’s real flexible,” he says, the double meaning obvious in his smirk. “Open to opportunities. I got her next heat booked. After that, she can be all yours.”
Nausea rises in my throat. I’m going to be sick.
“Bathroom,” I manage to croak, sliding off the stool.
“I need to… excuse me.” I stand up so quickly, the bar stool topples over.
I blindly sprint for the back of the bar, knowing there has to be a bathroom somewhere.
I sidestep two guys in the hall and it barely registers that they are jerking each other off.
The bathroom door bangs shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the bar like someone hit mute.
I stumble to the furthest stall, fingers fumbling with the rusty lock until it slides into place with a reluctant click.
I pull my hair back and spit into the toilet.
My lungs feel too small for the air I need.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
I press my forehead against the cool metal partition.
The stench of industrial cleaner barely masks the underlying reek of someone else’s vomit.
He had always framed it like it was a favor to me. Poor little omega that no alpha wants. What else is she supposed to do but rely on her Papa to find someone for her heat?
But he’s been making money off it. He’s been selling me for heat.
I wrap my arms around my middle, holding myself together as my body threatens to shake apart. This isn’t happening. Except it is.
He’s selling me.
My breathing slows as I swallow back the bile. I can’t go back out there. Can’t keep pretending things will get better if I’m just patient enough, obedient enough, invisible enough.
I need help.
My hands still shake as I pull my phone from my pocket. I can’t call Beckett. I don’t want him to know. I couldn’t stand it if he knew. How could I ever look at him? All he’d see is an omega whore.
I tip my bag out onto the floor and sort through the receipts and gum wrappers, my mostly empty wallet. Tia’s card finally emerges.
She said I could call her anytime. Anytime. If I ever needed anything.
It takes me three tries to tap in her number.
“Ash!” Tia practically squeals. “We’re having girls’ night. Margs and nachos. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
Tia’s voice is bright and warm even through the tinny speaker. The sound of it brings a rush of emotion so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.
“Ash? You there?”
“I—” My voice breaks. I swallow hard and try again. “I need help. I’m at Hangman’s Tavern with my father. I can’t—” The words stick in my throat, but I force them out anyway. “I need help.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m certain I’ve made a mistake. That she’ll tell me I’m overreacting, that she can’t get involved in family drama.
“Stay put,” she says instead. “I’m coming with Estelle. We’ll be there in fifteen.”
“But…”
“No buts. Find somewhere safe to wait. Text me if you need to, but we’re coming. Period.” The sounds of movement come through the line, keys jangling, a door closing.
“Does Tony still work at the Hangman?” I hear Estelle shout from far away.
“Fifteen minutes, Ash.”
“Ten,” Estelle counters.
The call ends, and I stare at the phone in my hand like it’s a foreign object. It was that easy? Just ask for help and someone comes?
Fifteen minutes. I need to find somewhere to wait that isn’t here, where Papa or Mack or that bartender might come looking for me.
I splash cold water on my face. I can do this.
I peel back the bathroom door. The guys in the hall have moved on from jerking off.
Blond is on his knees now, cowboy hat toppled on the floor.
His head bobs like crazy. I’ll have to step over them to go back out into the bar.
I back down the hallway and around another corner a big steel door with an exit sign.
It says “Emergency Exit. Alarm will sound.”
I take my chances, hold my breath, and push the door open. There’s no alarm. Maybe it’s a silent one?
The night air hits me like a shock, but the air tastes clean. The music from inside is muffled now. I press my back against the brick wall beside the door. How long before Papa comes looking for me?
Minutes drag by like hours. Every sound makes me flinch. I check my phone obsessively. What if they don’t come? What if Papa finds me first? I edge away from the back door and around the side of the building. I don’t want to stand out in front, but it’s scary and dark back here.
Headlights sweep across the parking lot as a giant SUV pulls in. Relief floods through me, so intense that my knees nearly buckle. They came. They actually came.
As the SUV rolls to a stop, I hear, rather than see the bar door open. The crappy ass music spills out.
“Lynn!” Papa’s voice cracks like a whip in the narrow space. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His face is half-lit by the neon sign, half-darkened by rage. He takes a few steps toward me. I back up. The SUV’s tires screech. That makes Papa rear back.
The passenger door snaps open and a tiny blond omega that I’ve never seen before pops out. She has her hair in a high pony and is wearing pink fuzzy PJ bottoms, bunny slippers and a baby doll T-shirt that says “Smells Like Trouble” across her giant rack.
Papa is momentarily stunned.
“Ashy!” She squeals. I am now stunned too.
Estelle crawls out of the SUV next and pulls herself to her full height.
“Babe, let’s go.” She wiggles her fingers for me.
I take one step but stop when Papa hisses my name.
“Get in the car, Ash,” Estelle says in a tone that would make an alpha’s knees shake. I take one step. So does Papa. I freeze.
“Do I need to call my Uncle Enzo? I hear you’re on the outs with him.”
That makes Papa pause, but only for a second. He takes another step.
“Oh, maybe you need to be introduced to my little friend here. Meet Smith and Wesson.” Estelle’s voice is so calm and casual it would be easy to ignore the giant handgun she pulls out from her waistband.
I look between Papa’s wide eyes and Estelle’s bitch-ass attitude and decide I can risk it. I don’t look at him again as I duck into the car, followed by the giggling omega and Estelle. She’s not even in the car all the way when it starts moving.
As we pull away, I twist to look through the back window. Papa stands alone in the parking lot, his figure shrinking with distance, but no less menacing.
I laugh once and cover my mouth. There’s nothing funny about this. Then all of a sudden there’s a knee in my face as the little omega is halfway crawling into the seat behind me.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Bella. Get your ass out of my face.” Estelle grunts and pushes Bella aside, scrambling into the front seat. She pops open the glove box and stores the gun away.
“This is our cousin, Bella. She has no sense of personal space.” Tia says, adjusting the rear-view mirror.
Bella drags a giant tote bag out from the back seat with her. It hits me in the head, and I’m forced to help her maneuver it into our seat.
She tears the zipper open and gasps. “Eugene!” The level of panic in her voice makes my own heart thud.
“Eugene is in my house. Where you left him.” Tia’s voice has an edge of affectionate irritation to it.
“Oh, right. Here. Omegas need cuddles,” she says, pulling out miles of fuzzy leopard print material. She fluffs it up, and roughly wraps it around me like I’m a burrito.
I’m immediately drowned in her scent. It’s like Pixie sticks and lemon sherbert. I nuzzle into the fabric and my whole body sags.
“See? Cuddles!” Bella wraps an arm over my shoulders and throws her legs into my lap, like she knows that’s exactly what I need.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes like it’s the first time I’ve ever breathed in my whole life.
Tia cranks the music. It’s that K-pop band that Estelle is obsessed with. And finally, I can let the adrenaline shake its way out of my body.