амега (peterick)

six.

The Alphas hoot and holler their appreciation as Patrick hops down from the stage after completing his second performance of the night. Nonchalant to their fingertips grasping at his skin, he promptly ignores the No Intimate Touching rule and flings himself into my waiting arms, clutching me tightly with his legs hugging my hips. I spin him around once before placing him back on his feet, unconsciously allowing my hands to fall to his waist.

"I said you'd enjoy it!" he exclaims brightly.

"You were amazing, Allie," I say, and he blushes bright red.

I stare astonished at the beautiful Omega standing before me. This Patrick differs completely from the abused boy I'd found crumpled in the alleyway several days ago, but I have no complaints. He's sassy and confident in his own skin, unfazed by the flaws of his body, not that I can spot any at all. Despite his tire, his warm smile is unforced, and as bright as the day he'd first shown it to me; you'd never guess he was a dancer at a strip club, much less rundown by life's daily chores, an all too familiar hassle for the rest of us, and most of us can barely find the energy to go outside more than twice in one week. Selling sex is Patrick's specialty, and yet visually he is the definition of innocence; an infant's carefree mind, stuck in a grown man's body.

And I decide right then, his sweat slicked skin shimmering under the spotlights, that I like him. I more than like him, even. I want to take advantage of him. I want my instincts to open their eyes and teach me how to use influence.

I don't think about Buzz's rules, or the whistling of jealous Alphas grappling with themselves to keep their distance. My mouth is drawn to the Omegas almost by accident, as though someone's caught me hopelessly drunk and thought it would be funny to jostle me from behind. Patrick is less reckless about disobeying his boss and turns his face away, concealing a sheepish smile. "Not here," he mumbles. I seem to have forgotten how to speak, so instead I pout, tucking the tip of my forefinger underneath his jaw and gently tilting his chin up.

He gasps then, his shoulders jumping, like he's just remembered something important. "Come on, I want to show you something." He grabs my hand and tugs me toward the upper left corner of the room, where a pair of silk drapes hang from the ceiling, which the Omega dancers use to enter and exit the club before and after their performances. Patrick pulls me through the curtains, only giving me a brief moment to survey the dressing room (which is currently being used as practise space for the girls who'd been flouncing me earlier; I can still feel their manicured nails digging into my flesh like razor blades) before he's rushing us through a door and into the outside world.

The open space rises three stories up to the cloudless sky. The doors and windows of the old hotel rooms have been boarded up for years, but the balconies, lined with intricately designed iron railings, have been kept in pristine condition, and are still completely safe to use. We round the chipped, waterless fountain standing seven feet tall in the middle of the patio, and scramble up the spiraling staircases hand in hand, giggling, like two toddlers eager to get to their beds in preparation for Santa's annual nighttime visit.

A single suite on the top floor remains unblocked and free for use. Just like outside, the whitewashed room looks as though it's recently been cleaned, dark wood floors polished and ironed sheets tucked underneath the mattresses of queen beds. I wonder if the Omegas bring the richer Alphas up here for private sessions; the images of such scenes make me shiver.

"Quickly," Patrick snickers as he hauls me into the master bedroom. "Out here." He drops my hand to unclip the lock on the saloon style french doors, keenly shoving them open and rushing forward to the balcony edge. He teeters over the railing, his fish netted toes floating several inches from the ground, a wide grin plastered to his face.