19. Brinlee

19

Every time I step out of the hospital, I feel wrung out like a used rag. My feet drag, my head is pounding. A weight sits on my chest, crushing my lungs.

It will turn out okay, I tell myself, my own little mantra. You have to have hope. It will turn out okay.

I've paused in front of the omega shelter again. The colors of the fa?ade draw me closer. They are so bright, and yet a darkness seems to underlie it all, a sadness that can't be painted over. The flowers at the window sills are wilted.

A figure moves behind the glass. It's a girl at the window, looking out, her halo of pale hair framing her face with light. I wonder what her story is, how she ended up there.

It makes my heart hurt for her.

For everyone who is losing themselves to despair.

Real despair, real fear, and the mountain of medical bills threatening to bury me alive don't count. I'd do anything to pay them, anything my boss at the club asks of me, I've already decided that today.

Anything short of actual sex.

No, I never thought I might be asked to give my V-card to a paying customer. It scares me, and makes me feel filthy in advance. I just… no.

My God, I really hope it won't come to that.

A tremor is starting inside me. I shouldn't think about it, about after, about tonight or tomorrow. Thinking makes it more difficult; it makes me feel sorry for myself, and that's unacceptable. Pity-parties never helped anyone. If I don't think, I will just do what I have to do and fix this.

I have to fix this.

Turning, I almost slam into someone. We both jump back with apologies. He's a tall, broad-shouldered alpha, his hair so blond it's almost white. He's dressed in black from head to toe, from his T-shirt to his leather pants.

He grabs my arm to keep me from toppling over, and his scent reaches me.

Leather and smoke.

I inhale deeply, and I clench hard between my legs. It's unexpected, and I let out a small gasp at the pleasure of it.

Good God, talk about a scent-match. It has to be that, right? I've never felt such an instant sexual connection to anyone. Sawyer's scent is arousing, too, but not as violently and completely, and although I'm not an omega, scents matter.

"You're Brinlee," he says then, and I belatedly place his handsome face. He was one of the alphas at Sawyer's café. Part of the group including Roman and Archer.

"Yes."

"I'm Kyrian. McGraw Pack. Remember me?"

I nod. So that's his pack. He has a pack.

And here I am, almost orgasming as I smell him.

Embarrassing.

He also seems to have forgotten his hand on me. His long fingers are wrapped around my arm, sending heat through the thin material of my blouse. His gray eyes blink at me, looking a little dazed.

"Kyrian," I say softly, repeating his name back at him. "I have to go."

"Don't run away," he whispers, and it's my turn to blink in surprise. "Tell me how to help you."

I glance between him and the shelter, and sigh. This time it's easier to step back, and his hand falls away. "I'm not an omega."

"Not only omegas need help," he says, but I'm shaking my head.

"I'm good, thanks. I don't need help." It's part of my second mantra. "I have to get to work."

"Wait, Brinlee?—"

"Sorry," I whisper, because I truly am—I'm sorry I'm attracted to these gorgeous men but don't have anything good to offer, sorry his scent is a hook inside me, sorry he already has a pack and therefore doesn't need me, sorry, sorry…

My sneakers thump on the sidewalk in a hollow rhythm as I hurry away, wondering why I find these guys in front of me at every step, if that means we were fated to meet and cross paths, fated to be together, but then what is fate thinking? What is fate good for when it wasn't meant to be?

"Brinlee!" I find Janice in the dressing room after my show of the night, getting ready for hers. "Haven't seen you around in a while. Why is that?"

"We just don't coincide much." I sink into a chair by the wall and bend over to unbuckle my strappy sandals with their sky-high heels. I'm in a red dress today, my lips a matching hue. My fake lashes tickle my cheeks as I bend down. "I looked for you but you usually have different days and times."

Janice is a beta. At least I think so. One may think designations are as clear-cut as the designation initials marked on our IDs, but I have discovered that many people feel like they're something else entirely.

She turns around on her stool, dabbing at the lipstick on her lips. "Look at you, girl. You look exhausted. What's going on?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, frowning. "Do I have dark circles? I thought I used enough concealer."

"I don't need to see dark circles under your eyes to tell you're tired."

I shrug. "I just danced for an hour and did a mini lap dance in some prick's tented lap."

"And yet you don't normally look so wiped out. Are you getting sick?"

"No, I'm… Will everyone stop asking if I'm okay?" I throw my sandals against the wall, and start tearing at my dress, wanting it off. "I'm fine. Being tired isn't a crime."

"Jesus, Brin, I know. Don't… Let me help you take the dress off, you'll tear it?—"

"No." I lift a forbidding hand. "I got it. Go and do your show, okay?"

"Okay. Fine. Don't get your panties all twisted up. You're in a mood, I get it. Let me know when you feel like talking."

Ouch.

She leaves and I take a few shuddery breaths, willing the sudden prickle of tears back down. She's right, I see it now. Anger takes over when it gets too much. Better anger than ugly sobbing and spilling my heart out, right?

Sometimes, though, I'm not so sure.

Guilt swamps me, though I manage to keep the traitorous tears back. Poor Janice. I'm like a fire-breathing dragon when I get prickly. And maybe it's also that time of the month? I have to check my tracker app. I need to apologize, later, when she's finished.

I'll wait. I have a book I borrowed from the library the other day. I'll be fine.

I have a book with me, and when I have a book, I'm never lonely.

If only Sawyer and the McGraw Pack didn't take up so much space inside my head… It's always been me and my brother, and then just me against the world. I have my job, my books, and coffee. What else does a girl need?

For the first time, the answer isn't instant and straightforward.

Sighing, I fish the book out of my bag and start reading.

I'm lost somewhere in the land of Faerie with a broody Fae king and his human bride. They are bickering, but you can tell that underneath the banter, they've fallen for each other already. There's a certain formulaic structure to these tales, so that I can more or less predict what will happen next, but that doesn't take away from the pleasure I get reading them. On the contrary, it feels familiar, cozy, and pleasant.

They will fight, they will give in, a catastrophe will tear them apart the moment they start realizing their feelings for one another, and they will fight to be together for the grand finale and the happy ending.

As it's supposed to be.

This king is apparently a wolf shifter, called very imaginatively Wolf—okay, so it's his nickname, he has amnesia, and I'm here for it—and his kingdom is overrun by ice wolves and?—

The door of the dressing room opens without warning and my boss walks in. I start at his sudden appearance. He's never come inside this room before, giving me a semblance of safety, since he could just as well have walked in on me undressing.

"Mr. Munro." I get up from my seat. I'm still in my red dress, though I'm barefoot. I haven't managed to change.

"You and your books," he scoffs. "Always with your nose buried in one."

I snap it shut with a guilty start. "Well, I'm off. Finished with my shift."

"And where are you going to go? Home to bed?" He's giving me a look I don't like. "Stay and party. You're single, not attached to a pack yet. You can have fun and money."

I feel my eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"We have an important person here, a patron of the club. I want you to do a lap dance for him. A private one."

I frown. "I don't do private shows. Customers can get handsy and pushy and I hate it, so?—"

"This isn't a request, girl. Get to it." He snaps his fingers, as if I'm a dog. "Go on."

And that's the other thing I hate about my job: my boss. I like dancing, I like the other dancers, but my boss? He's running this ship like a king, deciding what you will do and when. He has total control, as we don't have proper contracts. You don't like it? You can leave and never come back. But all of us working here need the money, and he knows it.

You said you'd do whatever is necessary to cover the bills, I remind myself. You didn't expect it to happen so soon, but whatever. Looks like you're gonna get your wish tonight.

It's just a lap dance, I tell myself as he closes the door, relieved I don't have to look at his ugly mug any longer. What an asshole.

A proper lap dance, not the brief gyrating on the air I do with customers salivating to stuff dollars down my cleavage. But I know how to do it properly, even if I've rarely done it. It's going to be fine.

I sit back down, shove the borrowed book into my bag and reach for my red shoes. I need to fix my hair and brush up my makeup.

I got this.

It's a chance, I tell myself. I said I need to make more money, and then this chance falls into my lap. A lap dance. See? It was written. I'll make enough to pay the medical bills, and maybe… maybe then everything will turn out just fine.

Believe it, Brin. You have to.