With that hissed declaration, Marina stalked away on the dangerous points of her tall heels, furious curves and lush anger wrapped up in a glittering red dress that showed more than it hid away. Canting her head to the side, Quinn realized just how little she looked like Marina. The luscious waves of Marina’s dark golden hair were heavy curls of platinum for Quinn. The former left long and unbound, the latter cropped short and never left to its own devices. The crystalline blue eyes of the mother were a pale gray for the daughter. Even beyond the dissimilarity of coloring, Marina was lush in all the ways people desired while Quinn was… not. All sharp angles and firm jaw, Quinn would never be soft in the ways Marina was.
It had become clear somewhere around her tenth birthday why people gravitated to Quinn and not Marina when they were together. Well, not people—males, Alphas in particular, though there were the odd females.
Being an Omega was the only thing that attracted anyone. Not her face or her eyes, not her personality. It had been the sticky sweet scent that hung around her in a cotton candy cloud that drew them in like flies.
Suppressants had dulled her responses to bearable levels, the addition of a near toxic cocktail of more chemicals dampening her fragrance to almost imperceptible. As far as most people were concerned, she was just another Beta. Only once or twice a year did she have to endure the sheer agony of a heat put off for far too long.
Leaning closer to the mirror in the dressing rooms above Wicked’s dance floor, Quinn applied the metallic blue and gray eye shadow, accentuating her almond shaped eyes. The shadowy colors brightened the pale shade of her irises, turning them luminous. In the flash and glare of the lights, they glowed. Rolling her lips together to smooth the shimmering blue-black of fresh lipstick, Quinn leaned back to inspect her costume. Tight, tiny, and tinted to a steely blue, the shorts were obscene. Her top was little more than straps with the smallest scraps of fabrics to keep her decent. Three-inch heels—which still didn’t let her look many people in the eye—were more of the same. Short cuffed boots with their thin patent leather ties crisscrossing up the length of her legs to just above her knees.
She was sex on wheels, right?
Quinn snorted a laugh and gave her reflection wide eyes. A true smile slipped out before the cacophony of roll call tumbled through the chaotic room and stripped it away.
It was time to work.
“Four black labels, two whiskeys neat,” Quinn shouted over the thrumming squeal of some electronica beat. She didn’t know if this DJ was a regular, but he was off to a rough start. It was far too early to be playing something so frenetic, most of the dancers still imbibing their courage and drowning inhibitions in the shadowy booths and tables.
Lennox arranged the drinks on her tray with a nod and then rushed on to the next woman waiting to call in her order. There were a lot of inhibitions to drink down tonight.
Delivering the orders was easy enough, though chatting up anyone for a tip or two was impossible over the shrill wail of instruments blasting from the speakers. Making do with flirtatious smiles and the sway of her hips, she’d made a whole three bucks in as many hours. There was still time, but she’d be dancing the latter half of the evening and no tips then. No matter appearances, Wicked wasnota strip club.
Quinn wanted to eat tonight.
“They need a girl upstairs.” Daniel Rey, the other owner, yelled at her side as he pulled Quinn up short of a group of fresh-faced college students waiting to place orders.
“I’m already dancing up there for a split shift,” Quinn shouted back, too aware of his gripping her arm. Something had agitated him. Alphas were dangerous when they got pissed off.
“The private rooms, not the balconies.”
It didn’t matter that Quinn had frozen in surprise. Mr. Rey dragged her along, leaving her to enact a mincing half run to keep upright. The elevator was empty and cool as he pulled her inside, punching the button for the third floor. The doors swished closed with the bright peal, the grating music quieted to a dull roar.
“It’s a private party of businessmen. Just serve drinks, nothing else. You don’t hear a damn thing and you don’t see a damn thing, understand?” Releasing her arm, he pulled at the pristine cuffs of his shirt, shrugging the wide breadth of shoulders to settle the dark jacket. The man was a muscled giant, and she felt small and insignificant trapped in the metal box with him.
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“If you’ve got something worked out with Elijah, I don’t care, just not on the property. You get them back to their hotel before you do your shit.”
“I’m not a prostitute!”
Mr. Rey took a breath to say something, full lips already curling up into a smirk, but paused to face her. Dark eyes made an unhurried scrutiny of her appearance, taking in everything from the stiff mop of curls high on her head to the tips of her shiny boots. A low rumble issued from his chest, a not quite growl of consideration.
“Well then, I guess I don’t have to negotiate a price.”
The doors opened onto the far quieter third floor with that ominous statement. Taking her arm in a gentler grip, he tugged her to the left where an alcove swarmed with other women.
“Here’s the sixth one, Jackson. Remember to keep it clean, their glasses full, and be discreet. If you fuck this up, you’re no longer an employee here, got it?” Mr. Rey looked down the aquiline slope of his nose at them, the warm lights burnishing the rich ochre of his skin to a deep copper, glossing the inky blackness of his hair.
Quinn caught her lower lip between her teeth before the waxy taste of lipstick reminded her not to. It would be all right. It was just serving drinks, nothing to worry about. Still, her heart picked up its already racing pace and slammed around the delicate cage of her chest as she lined up with the others.
“Tasha, fix your skirt. Lisa, I don’t want to see you getting handsy,” Jackson, one of the managers, said as he paced down the line to inspect them before they were presented.
Quinn could just hear the low rumble of male voices from the other side of the hall through the double doors. Another chill slithered down her spine, gooseflesh prickling the backs of her arms as her jangled nerves went into overdrive. Why did they need six of them to serve drinks? How many men were in that room? Imagining the space of dark hardwood floors and buttery leather sofas overflowing with massive Alphas and aggressive Betas, Quinn had to swallow back a sudden mouthful of thin saliva. There wouldn’t be just no dinner tonight, there would be no money for things like electricity and gas, and most importantly no rent money if she screwed up. Her hands were already shaking.
“Marina, you know the rules. Not on the property.”
Jerked from her racing thoughts so hard she jostled the woman next to her, Quinn’s pale gaze careened down the line to where her mother stood. A dismissive flick of a feminine hand, bronzed to a golden glow from the sun, met Quinn’s utter shock.
Marina was here… and she knew the rules.
