Page 43 of One for the Money
What doesone wear to a circus that is meant to bring thrills and fear to its attendees?
It’s not like there is a mood board for this kind of thing, but something tells me it’s not a pencil skirt. Or slacks.
But my options are pretty limited. I didn’t have great options to choose from when I packed up my stuff. It was all stuff I had planned to donate, so I’m not particularly attached to any of it.
Eventually, I decide to wear my hair down and to boost the waves up with some curl cream, throw on some dark eyeliner and red lips, and slip into my slightly too tight jeans. I typically follow the philosophy of tight bottom loose top, tight top loose bottom, but today I’m going to break that a little.
The bruising on my ribs has healed, so I’m comfortable wearing my long-line, black strappy sports bra as a top. It’s going to be dark, so I should be okay even if there’s some lingering color from the injury. I tie a black and white plaid shirt around my natural waist to disguise a bit of my soft stomach, and then throw on my canvas sneakers.
It’s the best I can do.
Some part of me recognizes that I’m treating this like a date. But I know it’s not. I know this is just me supporting some coworkers and sitting with Jude to watch them do their jobs.
So why do I feel the need to impress them? Why do I want to look cute so badly?
I’m not going to examine that.
Since Quinton told me he thinks I’m his scent match, I’ve avoided him and Matteo as best as I can. Which is to say, I’ve hidden every time I see them coming near me.
Really mature, Alex. But being his scent match is not something I’m willing even to begin to entertain, and I don’t want to get his hopes up by spending time with him. We can’t be scent matches. And even if we are, we’ll never know because I’m not going off my suppressants.
Maybe in a different time or place, but this is neither the time nor the place.
A knock on my trailer door startles a whine out of me, but I smother it before whoever is on the other side can hear it.
“Jude?” I say as I pull the door open. “I thought we were meeting in the tent?”
He grunts and tries to slide his bulk past me into the trailer that has become my home. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to ask to come in or to say anything at all, but he just gestures for me to close the door. Once I do, he speaks.
“Yeah, I needed to talk to you about that. You’re not sitting with the audience.”
I relax a little. Being a female Omega garners a lot of attention, and I would prefer the attention to be solely on the performers tonight. I’m not good in the spotlight. “Okay, that’s good. Where am I sitting? In the wings or whatever the circus equivalent is?”
He shakes his head. “You’re in the ring with me.”
I drop the water bottle I was picking up off the table. “Hi. I must have misheard you, because there is no way you just said I’m going to be in the fucking ring with you.”
He crosses his arms over his bulky chest. He’s already in what I assume are his performance clothes, and I can’t help but check him out. His thick thighs are wrapped in black denim with neon yellow stitching, and his giant feet have on boots that look like they could crush me, in a hot way. His upper body is clad in a black shirt with the same neon yellow color, but this time it features a plaid pattern. His black, curly hair is gelled, the spirals well-defined, and his overall vibe is dangerous and intimidating, but in a way that makes my core clench.
I don’t know if I realized before now that Jude Oliver is fucking sexy. A Titan.
“I did say that. It’s the safest place for you. I would have to leave you alone between acts because none of these assholes can run the show.”
“Then I don’t have to watch tonight,” I tell him, taking a few steps back toward my nest. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is!” His words come out rushed, and he clears his throat. “The cast is excited to have you in attendance tonight. I promise, it’s going to be fun.” He extends his hand to me, his usually stern face breaking out into a surprisingly sweet, encouraging smile. “Trust me?”
Trust me. Those two words carry so much weight.
Can I?
Can I trust this man, who is almost a stranger, with my emotional well-being?
I have no idea. My gut and I aren’t on the best of terms, since it hasn’t always led me down the right path.
He senses my hesitation, and his hand wavers a bit. “You’re safe with us, Alex.”
How I wish that were true. But after being chased by psycho clowns that work for him, I know it’s not.
