“We’ve got other options.” He leans forward, forearms on the bar, closing the distance between us. His scent like woodsmoke chokes me. “Vodka? Rum? Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine.” I shoot a glance toward Papa, hoping he’ll wrap this up fast.
“You ever dance?”
“What?” The question catches me off-guard.
“Dance.” He gestures toward the empty pole on the small stage. “You’ve got the look. Skinny, but some guys go for that. Innocent face. They’d eat you up.” His gaze travels down my body, taking inventory. “Might be easier money than what your daddy is cooking up.”
“I don’t dance.” My skin crawls, and it’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“Everyone can dance with the right motivation.” His smile reveals too-white teeth.
Before I can respond, the barstool next to me scrapes, and a big fat man drops down beside me. The bartender pushes my drink toward me again and then scrambles to put a shot glass in front of the guy, splashing in some amber liquid.
“Not interested in dancing?” he asks before downing the shot in one go. “That’s a shame. But we’ve got other opportunities for pretty young things like you.” His voice drops lower. “Side work. Private rooms. Very discreet, very lucrative.”
I hesitate, but before I can answer, Papa bumps my other side and pulls up a stool.
“There you are, Lynn.” His hand lands heavy on my shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. And all my hope dies.
“Randy! This yours?” He gestures at me like I’m just a thing.
“Mack, this is my daughter, Lynn.”
“She’s a pretty one.” The fat man’s gaze slides over me again. “She tells me she doesn’t like to dance.”
This is where a father is supposed to step in. Curse him out, punch him in the face. Rush me out of here to someplace safe. But Papa just shrugs, his fingers still digging into my shoulder.
“Lynn’s real flexible,” he says, the double meaning obvious in his smirk. “Open to opportunities. I got her next heat booked. After that, she can be all yours.”
Nausea rises in my throat. I’m going to be sick.
“Bathroom,” I manage to croak, sliding off the stool. “I need to… excuse me.” I stand up so quickly, the bar stool topples over. I blindly sprint for the back of the bar, knowing there has to be a bathroom somewhere. I sidestep two guys in the hall and it barely registers that they are jerking each other off.
The bathroom door bangs shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the bar like someone hit mute. I stumble to the furthest stall, fingers fumbling with the rusty lock until it slides into place witha reluctant click. I pull my hair back and spit into the toilet. My lungs feel too small for the air I need. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I press my forehead against the cool metal partition. The stench of industrial cleaner barely masks the underlying reek of someone else’s vomit.
He had always framed it like it was a favor to me. Poor little omega that no alpha wants. What else is she supposed to do but rely on her Papa to find someone for her heat?
But he’s been making money off it. He’s been selling me for heat.
I wrap my arms around my middle, holding myself together as my body threatens to shake apart. This isn’t happening. Except it is.
He’s selling me.
My breathing slows as I swallow back the bile. I can’t go back out there. Can’t keep pretending things will get better if I’m just patient enough, obedient enough, invisible enough.
I need help.
My hands still shake as I pull my phone from my pocket. I can’t call Beckett. I don’t want him to know. I couldn’t stand it if he knew. How could I ever look at him? All he’d see is an omega whore.
I tip my bag out onto the floor and sort through the receipts and gum wrappers, my mostly empty wallet. Tia’s card finally emerges.
She said I could call her anytime. Anytime. If I ever needed anything.
It takes me three tries to tap in her number.
“Ash!” Tia practically squeals. “We’re having girls’ night. Margs and nachos. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
