Chapter 22 Nelly
NELLY
Present day...
Heading to Wyoming
The distinct thrum of engines penetrated my consciousness first.
I was sitting on something plush.
My feet were against a floor that vibrated, sending gentle tremors traveling upwards throughout every part of me.
I flexed my fingers against my lap, silky material gathering in folds.
I didn’t open my eyes. My brain was trying to make sense of where I was, because everything felt wrong, out of place within the timeline of memory.
I tried to think, to picture the sequence of events which led me to this place.
Arriving at work.
Walking into my boss’s office.
Gathering my belongings from Club Midnight after… after…
I bit back the pain of it all—of Vince finding out I was Omega, of losing the new life I’d fought for, of saying goodbye to Crystal. I made myself keep recalling the details, as best I could through the haze.
Getting in that grim vehicle with the Betas.
The shadowy parking garage.
The elevator.
The memoires tried to escape me. I shook my head a bit to bring them back into focus.
The man named Grouse was saying something.
You’ve already been matched! You’re so lucky!
But I didn’t want it.
I didn’t want any of it.
I’d kicked someone, then hit someone.
I’d drawn blood!
But then everything went blank.
One thing I knew for sure—I wasn’t in a downtown Seattle high rise anymore, because nothing I felt or smelled in these moments aligned with what I remembered before passing out.
A spot on my neck suddenly pricked, as if the simple act of remembering caused the past sting of the doctor’s needle to ghost against my skin.
My eyelids resisted opening. They felt weighed down, as if my lashes had changed to steel instead of featherlight hair.
When I could finally pry my eyes open, unfamiliar surroundings swam into focus: leather seats, oval windows, the antiseptic smell of recycled air deliberately infused with artificial vanilla.
I blinked hard, present reality connecting the dots.
For some reason, the world was still hazy, as if I gazed at it through gauze.
I lifted my hand to rub my face and froze, unfamiliar fabric brushing against my fingertips. I skimmed my palm across the material. It terminated below my chin, hanging loosely. It flowed over my hair, seemingly connected to the dress.
The dress?
Looking down, my eyes took in the long, flowing dress that currently pooled around my ankles.
Expensive. Shimmering. My feet bore silver sandals made of delicate woven straps that caged my feet.
A quick inspection discovered delicate tennis bracelets encircling each wrist. Not mine. None of this was mine.
An ugly truth hit me.
I’d been drugged, undressed, and redressed into this outfit. Stranger’s hands had been all over my unconscious body. What else had they touched? How else had they violated my autonomy?
My tongue felt thick, coated with the bitter aftertaste of something medicinal. I swallowed hard, wincing at the dryness in my throat.
A plane. I was onboard a plane.
Through one of the windows, I could see the runway.
We weren’t moving now, a few people in vests were outside checking over things.
The giant turbofans were on, blades spinning in a blur, despite the passenger entry door being opened.
Was that normal? Didn’t they close that before starting the plane and taxiing onto the runway?
The sun was in view, hovering above nearby trees. Was it rising or falling? Was the day beginning or ending?
I looked around for a clock but found none.
My hands shook as I ran them down the front of the dress, feeling for pockets, for my phone, for anything that might help me. Nothing. They'd stripped me of everything familiar, leaving me in clothes of their choosing, on a plane headed God knows where.
No, not ‘God knows where’.
Wyoming. I clearly remembered hearing someone say Wyoming before I’d blacked out.
Again, I found myself mentally repeating, ‘this can’t be legal’.
Again, I found myself berating myself for signing a contract without fully reading it.
Again, I found myself hating that I was an Omega—so easily controlled, so easily pushed toward matching, mating, pupping.
If only I could turn back time…
If only I could go back to the day of the injury and double check my laces, double check my surroundings, double check that I was ready to make the jump as we practiced the next show’s choreography.
I’d agreed to be sold, agreed to go where I was told.
I’d done this to myself. As much as I wanted to blame Vince and Eros and every person who’d been involved in the reality of me waking up on this plane, I had held the blue pen and inked my moniker.
So here I was, packaged like merchandise.
Like a doll on a shelf, complete with clothes that she couldn’t change into herself because her limbs didn’t work.
And, even if they did, the doll had no brain to control her extremities.
So, the doll needed helping hands to move her body to and fro, shoving legs and arms into their proper places.
Then there appeared more hands to brush her hair.
More hands to apply her makeup, never asking if she preferred a natural look versus glam.
And yet again more hands arrived to carry her limp body onto a plane.
Where were the hands now?
The doll was alone.
Belted into a seat, waiting for take-off.
My hands formed tight fists in my lap, nails digging crescents into my palms. The anger felt good—better than the fear.
Better than the violated feeling that made me want to tear this dress off and scrub my skin raw.
Anger was familiar. Anger—weaponized into sheer stubbornness—had gotten me through my career imploding, through my grandpa dying, through my grandmother’s mind fading, and through every handsy customer who thought a lap dance entitled them to more.
I unballed my fingers and looked down at the belt. I released the latch and tried to stand.
My legs wobbled.
My head swum.
The aftereffects of whatever Eros used to drug me still lingered in my system.
I fought my way through the fog. I had no idea if I could get off the plane, let alone run fast enough to find safety beyond the runway.
It was probably a foolhardy plan—to deboard and pray my legs wouldn’t fail me, when they had already failed me once so greatly that I lost my life’s dream.
It was likely a prisoner’s madness—that a captive could dig beneath their cell, push up through the ground beyond their cage, and disappear into the night without spotlights and guards catching sight.
But I had to try.
I barely made it two steps from the seat when a dark shadow fell across me.
A Beta.
One forehead vein bulged cartoonishly.
Tall, thick, muscled. Wearing the same suit as the oppressive men from Club Midnight.
The jacket strained across his formidable build, like he'd been sewn into, and the seams might give at any moment. Where the hell was Eros getting these Betas who, if you didn’t look too closely or smell too deeply, could pass for Alphas?
"Sit. Back. Down." His voice was firm, punctuating each word with power, leaving no room for argument.
I remained standing. My heart hammered against my ribs.
It wasn’t defiance; I was frozen in fear, my momentary fury vanished. My eyes darted past him, calculating distances. Emergency exit by the wing. Ten feet, maybe. Open passenger door. There, waiting, taunting me.
"I need to use the bathroom," I lied, my voice shaking slightly.
The man's expression didn't change. "And I told you to sit down.”
“And I told you I need to pee,” I pressed, though going to one of the cramped plane bathrooms wouldn’t save me… Not unless the toilet lid opened to magically reveal a gaping hole and the runway beneath.
Another man appeared, body passing through the open passenger door. This one was leaner, with sharp eyes that assessed me with cold efficiency. He carried himself with practiced vigilance. His gaze fell on me, then locked on the other man. They were a team.
"Do we need to subdue the product?" the newcomer asked, not bothering to address me directly.
The first man's eyes never left mine as he responded. "Possibly."
I remained frozen in place, caught between fight and flight, neither option particularly viable while trapped in a metal tube thousands of feet above the ground. And now, scared to death, I really did need to pee.
The second man approached slowly, half circling around where his partner and I were in a stand-off. He casually blocked my view of the emergency exit. At this closer distance, I spotted a tiny spider tattoo at the corner of his right eye.
"Real nice that we don’t have to treat them with kid gloves anymore," he said conversationally to his partner, as if I weren't standing right there. "Did you hear about that other bitch and her cat? Thought Darryl was going to quit over it.”
The first man grunted in agreement. "She's the reason they changed things.”
“About damn time. It was easier to hand them off to the plane staff though. Less paperwork, and a lot less liability for us.” The lean man gave a devil-may-care shrug, as if they were discussing a shipment of paper goods rather than a person.
“Hey,” the second man clapped the larger one on the shoulder, “at least we get time and a half with a travel bonus. Can’t complain too much."
My fingers curled into fists at my sides. Subdue. Product. That other bitch. The dehumanizing language wasn't accidental.
"I'm not sitting down until you let me take a piss," I said, injecting steel into my voice. The same voice I'd used when drunk Alphas at Club Midnight got too handsy. Pat on the back for me, my voice was steady this time.
“Very ladylike,” sneered the bigger man, the vein on his head seeming to bloat larger.
“Wonder if she’ll get returned,” the spider tattoo jerk mused. “Seems like most clients don’t take too well to mouthy Omegas.”