Chapter 5
Cass
"I think you've got a little something," Zach says, flicking his finger under my lip, bringing me back to reality. Annoyed I got caught staring and possibly drooling, something I never do, I shake my head and quickly slap Zach's hand away.
He laughs, "She is very pretty."
I resist the urge to look back up. She's more than pretty, and I can't even see her face.
I can't put my finger on it. I'm usually pretty good at tuning out the dancers, and I see naked bodies all day long at work. But I'm never struck stupid at the sight of someone. There's just something pulling about her. She's graceful but a little stiff. Like she’s uncomfortable. But it’s not off-putting. It’s more… vulnerable.
"Oh yeah? How can you tell?" I grumble, pouring myself a drink. It goes without saying the girl's a stunner, regardless of what’s behind the mask. The way her hair cascades down her shoulders in shades of blonde, wheat, and sun-kissed gold. Her red lips rest in this placid, serene smile, hinting at a bittersweet sadness I want to take away, even though it looks so pretty. She's thin, frail, almost; more waif-like than the other omegas who work here. All of this to say, it's making my alpha lose his fucking shit over her.
The new girl, Imogen, has been here a week. She hasn't gone fully topless, dancing in lacy scraps of fabric that only highlight the dark innocence implied by the angel wings, but every time I catch a glimpse of her from across the room, I nearly trip over my feet.
My pack and I long ago decided not to fuck with omegas. We grew up watching Ophelia struggle with her designation. When we were teenagers, Alma, Ophelia's twin sister and Red's high school girlfriend, was abused by an alpha pack. Time after time, we watched omegas come and go through our club, from various backgrounds and stages in life, all of them with some fucked up story of an alpha taking things too far, hurting them, barking at them because they could, forcing them into submission or manipulating them.
We never wanted that—not because we couldn't control ourselves, but hating that we had that kind of power simply because of our designation.
Hustling in South Loop, we most definitely exert our alpha power. If someone steps out of line, we're quick to address the situation. If someone has a problem, all it takes is for us to show up, share a few choice words, problem solved. Our reputation is that fierce around here, a decade in the making, and we offer protection to anyone who asks for it.
But we swore we'd never date or fuck with anyone of any designation, but especially omegas, if they worked for us. It was a line we never wanted to cross, being in a position of authority.
Besides, even if Red and I decided to take a chance and court an omega, something we'd never considered before, only dating or hooking up with betas, Iggy would never hear of it. He's the only one of us who grew up in a pack, and memories of his childhood, of how his alpha fathers used to treat his omega mother, still haunt him.
Roxy deliberately avoids introducing Red, Iggy, and me to the newbies. I thought it was bullshit, told her we didn't have a savior complex or whatever, but then something happened once with one of the omega dancers, and Roxy's fears were proven correct.
Besides, we put our faith in Roxy. She’s the manager, and we always defer omega business to her, respecting her opinion. So I haven't met Imogen yet—I've just stared at her from across the room all week, pretending I'm watching the stage, as though she's just another dancer. Quality control, I lie to myself.
"How can I tell she's pretty?" Zach scoffs, pouring a whiskey over coke and sliding it down the bar to a regular, Dale, who sits upright, though barely, shoulders slumped so low he could be sleeping. Not because he's wasted, but because he's always so tired and stressed, it's all he can manage. Dale could be surrounded by strippers grinding up on him or at a children's birthday party, it wouldn't change the way he gazes emptily at the glass in front of him.
Zach cocks his head, crosses his arms, and looks up at the stage. Reluctantly, I follow his gaze, taking in every inch of Imogen while he assesses her. It's fine, I tell myself, perfectly professional. She's a dancer, no different from any of the others.
With a gentle look, he appraises her, mirroring his own omega nature. "She's slender and soft. Delicate. She used to do ballet, I heard. I've been here all week while she practices with Roxy." It's still early in the night, Roxy's giving the new girl stage time before it gets busy, and someone with more experience takes her place.
I don't care about her lack of experience, I could watch her like this all day. She moves slowly, slower than the music, but she doesn't stumble. Just looks like she's trying to gain her bearings and get used to the music. Each time she wraps around the pole, it looks calculated, less natural, but I see her getting good at it. Really good.
He continues, "She moves like a dancer, all graceful and shit. But the way she grips the pole, drops her hips—her lip kinda snarls, like she's angry about something, but it still floods out of her like honey. Slow, smooth, calculated. Hot as fuck."
I become aware of my dick as it presses into the front of my jeans. Cleaning my throat, I turn and find Zach casually shrugging before getting back to work. Despite his analysis, he's never been with anyone else here at the club, as far as I know, besides Franky. Not a lot of people are aware of their dynamic, they keep it under wraps. Not that they need to, but people are curious about two omegas in a relationship; it's an extremely unusual pairing, and I respect that they like to keep their shit private.
Regardless, his words float in my mind as I steal one final glance at the stage, then reluctantly make my way to the office.
I go through a bunch of paperwork because, for some reason, when we started this club, my brothers and I took on certain roles, and somehow admin became mine. I fucking hate it, but somehow I'm the only one with any patience for it, so it falls to me. Schedules, vendors, payroll. The fucking bane of my existence, but unavoidable all the same.
Roxy's a big help, and when she knocks on my door an hour later, I'm relieved I can pass some of this shit off on her.
"Hey Bossman," Roxy drawls, taking the seat opposite me at the desk.
"Hey. Can you do me a favor? The kegs delivered last week haven't been paid for yet, and can you pay these, too?" I hand her a few pages of unpaid bills so she can log into the computer out front and pay through our online portal.
"Sure. Anything else?" She asks, absently flipping through the pages.
The question sits on my tongue, but like every other day this week, I struggle with the words. My pack's commitment to keeping out of omega business loops in my mind. I don't know anything about her, but Imogen's an omega, and if she's working here, if Roxy hired her, it means she needed help in some way, even just financially.
No matter how much she interests me, she's not my business. But I've warred too long in my head, so Roxy's prodding catches me off guard.
"Something else, Cass?"
Yes. No. Tell me everything about the new girl. What's her last name, where is she from, is she okay, is she eating well, does she like it here, does she need anything, why does she smile so sadly…
"Is uh… the new girl getting on okay?" There. Innocent enough question. Not unusual for me to ask about my employees. Well within my right, and totally normal.
"She's good," Roxy's voice lifts. "I really like her. She's friends with Phe, actually, I'm surprised you haven't met?"
That's news to me, but before I can ask more, she continues, "She's learning the ropes pretty quick, I saw you watching her. She'll be a pro in no time. What do you think?"
"She, uh, she looks good up there. I'm not worried about her skills. Just wanted to make sure she knows not to…" To, what? Take her bra off so my alpha really doesn't lose his shit? I can't be this guy. I can't own a strip club and not be able to handle a woman stripping. Get your shit together, Cass.
My face betrays my internal dialogue because Roxy responds, "Oh, you mean, like, make sure she doesn't…" Then she bounces her eyebrows suggestively. Okay, it's not unheard of for us in Dante Pack or even the bouncers to get hit on by the omegas. They’re sexual creatures, we all are, and this environment breeds sexuality. But again, it's well known we don't fuck with omegas, so with the newbies, sometimes it falls to Roxy to talk to them about workplace romances and shit like that.
When I don't respond right away, she leans forward. "Wait a minute, has she… I mean, do you get the feeling she's into you? I can say something about employee relations or whatever."
"No, it's not—" but it's the perfect excuse to help me steer clear of this woman who's caught my attention. "She hasn't done anything, no reason to think she'll be another Emily. But yeah, maybe let her know to keep to the dancers. I think you were right, probably best to just be honest with new employees up front, so the boundaries are clear. You and I both know the last thing my pack needs is an infatuated omega, especially if she's an employee," I add jokingly.
There.
Except my timing is shit.
With a delayed knock, the door left ajar pushes further open, and then she appears in the doorway. Her smile is small, red lips lifting slightly, visible beneath the feathered angel mask. Turning sideways, she carefully maneuvers her wings through the office doorway since they're too wide to fit straight on. Even her side shuffle isn't awkward. Have I ever seen a more graceful woman?
"Hi, I'm so sorry to bother you. Roxy, you said—" She stops mid-sentence. Though I can just barely make out the blue of her eyes through the small slits in the face mask, I swear they widen. Wearing nothing but lacy underwear and a push-up bra, her knees visibly weaken. I leap up, but Roxy beats me to her.
She crowds Imogen, "Honey, are you okay?"
The girl's gaze shifts from Roxy to me, trapped in the same inexplicable pull that I've felt toward her for days. Her nostrils flare like she's tasting my scent. It's nothing special. I've been told I smell like laundry, jokingly, by friends at the club. The betas I've had relationships with didn't have keen enough senses to notice, but I like to think of it more like fresh laundry. Clean, comforting.
She breathes it in like it's both those things and more. It either offends her, or she's savoring it. I step forward but hesitate, pulling back at the last second. The last thing I need to do is touch the girl without consent.
Roxy's eyes dart between the two of us, but I retreat, redirecting my focus to the desk. By the time I take a seat, both women are gone.