Chapter 3
Ophelia - one month ago
Red runs his hands through his dark black hair, asking for patience. I ignore the gesture and plop down on the oversized leather couch in the back office at Queenie's, rotating my leg inward as I stretch out so Red can't see the small tear in my fishnet tights on my inner thigh. We might be in South Loop, but Queenie's strip club is no slouch, and Red's pack has standards. Holes in tights don't really fly here unless they're intentional.
"Ophelia, the answer has been and always will be a resounding no. No, you cannot dance. You've got the coordination of a newborn calf."
"Bro. Harsh."
"You finally stopped spilling drinks on customers. Anyone else would have been fired. I finally get the concept of nepotism because I love you, and I'll help you figure your shit out. But the answer is no, you can't dance. You're lucky you're still serving drinks."
In truth, his patience helped me land my second job in catering because they would never have hired me if I hadn't gained experience serving drinks here at Queenie's or without a good word from my neighbor Melanie. What can I say? I'm clumsy. It's a skill.
But now that I've got two jobs, I'm finally making some decent cash. My dream of getting out of C-Block is within reach, and if I danced at Queenie's instead of serving drinks, I'd be making bank. I could have a nice new apartment in no time.
"You're a hypocrite," I point my finger accusingly, though we've devolved into fake arguing because he's right; I can't dance for shit. "You're all about omegas rights until I'm the one in question. I could work the back rooms, you know? Minimal dancing required."
He laughs, "You're right, I'm a hypocrite. But my sister will not now nor ever take her clothes off in my club. And not a chance are you working the back rooms." I'm not actually his sister, but he's been my family ever since I lost my own. He gets up and knocks my stretched-out legs off the coffee table, making me nearly fall off the couch.
Truthfully, as much as I love and support what the girls here do, I couldn't bring myself to work in the backrooms, even to piss off Red—dancing on stage, though? That I could do. If only I had coordination and didn't look so wobble-kneed when trying to dance.
Red knows how hard it is for an omega to make money on their own, so while he asks all the dancers who work the back not to sleep with clients, as long as they have a bouncer nearby to keep them safe, he knows things happen. Private dances are pretty sexy and with the added pheromones—scent-blockers or no—it's hard for anyone to resist taking things a little too far, betas included. We're pretty sex-positive here at Queenie's.
"Side hustle not paying enough?" Red changes the subject, breaking my chain of thought.
"You know money's got nothing to do with that," I wave him off, with the reminder of my third gig, which doesn't count. I barely charge the omegas I deal to, mainly collecting enough cash to pay for the pills and the cost of getting around town to make all the deliveries. And if I ever meet an omega who can't pay, they don't. Simple as that.
"You know if you need money, you can always borrow—"
"Absolutely not," I cut him off. He's tried to support me financially for years, but I don't want his charity. He's right; I'm lucky I even have this job. "Mel and I were talking about maybe going in on a place together to get out of C-Block." Melanie and I live in a set of apartment buildings on C-Street, nicknamed C-Block because once you dip low enough on the totem pole to have to rent there, there's little chance of breaking free.
Red growls. He is an alpha, after all, and thinks of me as his charge. "I wish you'd take money from me. I promised your dad—"
"Don't, Red." I sigh. "It's not your responsibility."
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I get up off the couch, my break almost over. It takes me a second to adjust my booty shorts and bustier so everything's comfortable again. The black push-up corset bra gives me the illusion of having C-cups, while they're really more of a B. A small B. On a good day. Less than a handful, but I work with what I've got, cinching the ties and clasps, attempting and failing at building cleavage. The giant ass barely contained in my booty shorts, though, that's all mine.
Red stands in front of me shaking his head and smirking as I adjust. When I finish, he gently grips my shoulders, "Responsibility's got nothing to do with it, Phe. Your dad and Alma would have wanted me to look out for you, but that's not why I do it. I love you, you're my family. I hate that you won't let me help you."
Red and Alma were high school sweethearts. His pack—Dante Pack—had started to form by then, and my dad, knowing the streets were dangerous, relied on Red and his boys to look out for Alma and me when he and my mom weren't around.
Alma and I were sixteen, identical twins. I was angry at her the night they all died, and no matter how much time has passed, that regret still burns like it was yesterday.
I'd refused to go to her dance performance. Her troupe consisted of South Loop and Downtown omegas, but the way the OFA promoted the event made it seem like they were supposed to feel grateful at being accepted into the facility—all those poor, low-class omegas.
But Alma wanted to live the dreamy life of an omega. She didn't care that she was paraded on stage like a circus freak from South Loop. She loved being the center of attention. Alma and I were so different, and we argued constantly. But I loved her more than anything.
I never told Red about our phone call that night and what happened after the intermission. Even if he and Alma weren't destined mates, I couldn't hurt him more than he already was.
I shrug off his grip and look up, pieces of his straight black hair falling in his face, nearly obscuring his bright blue eyes. He's obscenely beautiful. It's too bad I'd rather shove a hot pepper up my cooch than date him, and I'm certain he feels the same. Not all his pack members have strictly-sisterly feelings for me, but it doesn't matter. He's family; they all are.
"I just… I want to be able to do this on my own. I want to prove an omega doesn't need a pack or an alpha to make it."
Red scoffs, "Of course an omega doesn't need a pack or an alpha. This isn't about you being an omega, Ophelia. It's about you being poor as fuck, not trying to get better-paying jobs because you refuse to disclose your designation to your employer, and you can't get a better job with more consistent hours because you're too busy playing pharmaceutical vigilante, which leaves you making peanuts and living in a shithole."
Silence descends before my giggles start. Eventually, Red laughs too, shaking his head, heading back behind his desk, and sitting.
"Wow." I laugh, wiping a tear from my eye.
"You'd make more if you let me pay you more."
"That just tells me you need to pay all your employees more." He knows I'm joking, he does pay well. It just never seems to be enough. That's life, though. Money's tight no matter how hard you grind. "Anyway, I make great tips. I'd make more dancing…"
"No."
"Worth a shot," I laugh, making my way to the door. "Look, I have a roof over my head and food on the table. I don't need anything else. Needs and wants are two different things. Nothing's urgent," I promise him.
I don't mind being poor. It's better than being a prop for a group of wealthy alphas like the Constantines, who'd likely have me barefoot and pregnant, waiting on them hand and foot, nothing more than a hole to fill—even if the price of my freedom came with a limitless credit card—even if they actually wanted me.
I've only just stopped thinking about them every minute of the day; I can't go down that rabbit hole again, so I shake off the ache in my chest, the memory of what could have been.
I head out of the office, down the darkened hall, dimly lit with a red and purple glow, highlighting the risque vibe of the club before emerging onto the main floor. I duck behind the bar to grab my drink tray, accidentally smacking my forehead on the wood as I go. Zach, the bartender, laughs at me while I rub the spot on my head.
I chuckle and ignore the teasing. I'm always falling over or bumping into something.
The music booms rhythmically across the entire club, scantily clad employees, both omegas and betas, men and women, working the room.
It's ironic, really. Most people might think a strip club in South Loop would be seedy or dangerous, but it's one of the places I feel safest. Large alpha and alpha-leaning betas dressed in all black, the bouncers are hidden throughout the room, one of the only positions that work here that don't wear scent-blockers.
Customers lose themselves here, immersed in Queenie's culture, reveling in the beauty of the exotic dancers—but Red and his pack don't want anyone to forget who's in charge, not for one second, and the scent of the aggro-alpha bouncers keeps everyone in check.
Queenie's is a gem in South Loop. Known by locals as a safe place for an omega to seek refuge or take control of their bodies, gain autonomy, or even hide out, an omega looking for help knows they can come here and ask for it, and it's got nothing to do with dancing on stage.
No one north of the sixth bridge, which separates us from downtown across the river, would ever think of finding an omega here because the very idea goes against all the propaganda the OFA pushes. They control everything else in Arrow Cove, but they don't control us.
Red's right. I could try to get a better-paying job, but I want to keep my designation private from my employer, which is required by law to disclose if they ask. Unfortunately, employers can discriminate against a designation, and almost no one will hire an omega. They don't want the drama we bring, as if it's our fault we have to take a few extra unplanned days off for our heat. As if it's our fault unruly alpha's can't contain themselves around us.
We're faulted for the very things we're praised for.
It's their prerogative if alphas want to play up the stereotype of hyper-aggressive meatheads with uncontrollable sex drives, ready to rut at the drop of a hat, but they can't blame omegas like me who refuse to comply with that narrative.
So, we're left with server-type jobs, where getting coverage is easier if we call out. I could sign a bunch of paperwork and disclose I'm on heat suppressants stating I wouldn't need time off for heat or scent-blockers, which confuse my designation, but frankly, I don't want to discuss my body with an employer, under any circumstances. No one else has to, not betas or alphas. It's not fair.
I'm not technically disclosed at my catering job, but they have yet to ask, and they have so many employees that no one cares what you are. Besides, I'm always drenched in cheap scent-blockers, so no one can tell what I am.
I spot Roxy on stage, her legs wrapped around the pole while she extends her arms, pushing her generous chest up toward the sky, swaying upside down like a gymnast with her alphas watching in the wings. She's the only packed-up omega who works here. Her chosen mates adore her more than anything, and the fact that they can watch their beautiful mate take her clothes off and dance like the world's most ethereal creature in front of others without losing their shit is proof that we are more than our designation.
With a quick glance around the room, I find the tables with empty drinks, adjust my bustier, then get to work.