Chapter 16 Nelly
NELLY
Four days ago…
[Almost present day]
Seattle, Washington
I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I’d adapted. I’d overcome. I had a new life now, though of a very different flavor.
I jogged up to the front of the Clairemont, mounting the slate-colored front steps with practiced precision.
I’d been running up the painted stairs for almost nine months now.
Every morning, I’d leave the apartment building at six AM.
Every day, I’d find myself returning by six-thirty.
Clockwork. I was clinging to my new Seattle schedule as if my actual life depended on it.
Out of the shower by seven. The same breakfast almost every morning.
I’d run errands afterwards. Anything that needed doing during normal business hours, and then home again.
A second shower. Checking over my work supplies and then leaving home when most of my neighbors were settling in for the evening.
.. because my job began when average Joes and Sues locked their front doors and set their alarms.
Pushing through the heavy, solid entrance of the Clairemont, I stepped into the too-warm lobby with its low ceilings and bank of black residential mailboxes mounted to the right.
Too early for mail, so I began ascending at a brisk pace, trying to keep my heart rate up until the last possible moment.
One floor up. Two floors up. I pushed into the third level, and beelined for my apartment, number 311.
This place didn’t have a balcony, which was on the top of my want list, but the view of the woods out back along with the gone-wild garden area was a passable view at least.
Filling a glass with room temperature water from the tap, I made quick work of stirring a recovery powder into it and downing every drop.
I scowled at the flavor. Watermelon mint had sounded amazing, but it tasted foul.
I could have tossed it in the trash. Realistically now, I could afford to do so.
But I’d never been a waster, not after being raised by ‘waste not, want not’ grandparents.
Though, things had been different when I’d first moved here.
I’d paid a year up front for the apartment, which was a huge chunk of change.
Then I’d spent nearly three months hopelessly job hunting and fearing every dip of my bank account.
Rationally, I knew I had plenty of time.
Emotionally, I also knew time went too quickly.
My savings couldn’t last forever, not even after buoying it up with the house sale added to my Imperial severance.
Yes... time went to quickly.
In a blink, life can shift from happy to bullshit.
Not sure what I’d have done if I hadn’t seen the advertisement for Club Midnight.
Not sure what I’d done if Crystal hadn’t seen me waiting in the side alley that night, knowing I couldn’t get the job because I was an Omega. She’d had zero reason to source a scent blocker and help me hide my nature. I still wasn’t sure what made her take me under her wing.
“I’m guessing you must be pretty desperate if you’re out here looking like a stray kitten?
” Crystal was wearing sky high purple heels.
A fringed, sparkly jacket, fish net stockings, and a corset get up that left little to the imagination.
She’d just popped out for a smoke between sets, her figure standing at the top of the stairs catching the light of the alley lamps.
All the sequins made her look like a disco ball.
Money was still sticking out of a thong that perfectly coordinated with her outfit, I’d almost thought it was a one-piece suit. I spied a hundred-dollar bill. A hundred! She caught me looking, gaze flicking down.
“You know, first rule is you always secure your money.” She locked the slender cigarette between her lips and used both hands to gather the bills, fold them neatly, and stuff them into the corset top. She had to have at least five hundred bucks, maybe more.
“So, are you mute?” Her gaze slammed into mine a second time. She didn’t sound mean, or confrontational, just curious.
“I’m not desperate.” I claimed, though it was obviously a lie. “I just saw the advertisement online and I...”
“You knew Omegas absolutely are prohibited from exotic dancing?” She quirked an eyebrow, studying me carefully.
“I mean...” I fumbled my words awkwardly.
Of course I knew that, but I’d exhausted so many options.
I was tired of job hunting. Tired of interviews, followed by inevitable rejection.
Dance schools and companies didn’t want me, because of my past injury.
A lot of jobs were reluctant to hire unmated Omegas.
Some doors wouldn’t even open to let me try for a position.
Months. I’d been fighting for months to find something.
Any damn job. I was so tired. I couldn’t do it anymore.
“Look, Sweetie. You’re lucky it’s me you ran into and not one of the other girls. They’d not let you down so kindly...” her voice trailed off. Her expression softened, and I wondered if she’d seen the moisture building in my eyes.
“Hey, you’re really not doing so hot, are you?” She popped down the steps and closed the distance to me. Before I could back away, she’d swiped beneath my eyes, catching the first tears before they could track down my face.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled.
“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 some night 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 bodies and 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 quite the 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.