Page 75 of The Omega's Alpha
“What are you doing?” he asked me.
“Trying to fix their problem,” I told him, and called Quin.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone chirped for a video call and I accepted it. Agatha’s and Dorian’s faces filled the screen. “Hey, guys, you’re surviving having Quin look after you?” They giggled, but behind them I heard Quin say, “I heard that. You wait until you see the mess they make now.”
I snorted a laugh, and turned my attention back to the pups. “You want to see where I’m at?” They nodded in excitement, and so I took them on a tour of the room—and of the models. I stopped first of all by the ones who had seemed the least unnerved by me. We chatted, I showed them the pups, the pups worked their magic, and I moved on. Performed enough times, the pups’ wide-eyed charm broke a lot of the ice that had been at the base of the wall between me and the other models and, while it didn’t work for everyone, it was enough that they no longer avoided me.
That was day one. Day two… I wasn’t sure I would survive.
The day of the show.
I sat backstage with all the rest of the models. My stomach roiled like a half-dozen pups after the same bone.
“Look up at the ceiling, honey,” the makeup artist said. “No, not your whole head, just your eyes.”
I rolled my eyes up and wished it was all over. The young man in front of me traced a heavy line of black along my lashes while I tried not to blink, then went back over it with another pencil, then a tiny brush with some sort of metallic powder on it. “Just a little bit longer,” he assured me absently. “Then we can finish up the other eye.”
He was quick, I had to give him credit for that. And when I looked in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself. The hairdresser had tangled strands of silvery tinsel in my hair—thankfully, not real silver, or I’d be sick right now. I’d thought it would make me look older, but it gave me a strange, other-worldly appearance that the other models didn’t have.
“All right, first outfit,” someone said behind me. I turned and grabbed the first hanger off the rack beside my chair and shed the robe that had been keeping me warm during the rest of the preparation. No one was shy about their bodies here—the entire room was filled with racks of clothing and men and women in various stages of undress as they got into the first of the many outfits they’d wear that evening.
I kept my back to everyone, conscious of the curving pink line at the bottom of my belly. Quickly, I pulled my clothes on, the loose patchwork pants a dark complement to the bright stripes of the satiny, lopsided shirt. I shoved my feet into a pair of shiny, sharp-toed half-boots and wished Quin was there to give me courage. But Quin had promised to be in the audience—he’d made it a condition of my participation, despite the pack’s need for money now that we had a couple thousand extra shifters in the enclave. Martin had shrugged and agreed, which had surprised me and made Freddy, who’d come along to the meeting out of curiosity, shrug.
“You’re new and you’re going to be a hit. He’s going to make more off you than a couple of seats in the front row will cost him. Don’t worry about it.” So I’d tried not to but now, standing in line at the foot of the stairs waiting to be told to go, I did worry. What if I was clumsy? Oh, Lysoonka, what if I fell off the catwalk? I swallowed hard against my heart, lodged firmly in my throat, but it didn’t help.
The model ahead of me walked up the short set of stairs and then, less than a minute later, a tap on the shoulder sent me brushing past one of the returning models and out into the bright, flashing lights.
I ended up being grateful for the bright lights. It made it really hard to see all the people staring at me, except for the odd glimpse. I felt incredibly awkward as I walked along the platform, keeping my eyes locked on the far wall, stopping at the end to turn and show off the clothes, then heading back again to the relative safety of the crowded back room. Like a marionette, all stiff limbs with little idea where they went. But I made it, finally stumbling down the stairs and back to my spot, where I stripped out of the first outfit, hung it up, and dove into the second one.
I never did see Quin.
My next trip, they sent me out with one of the girls in matching outfits. It seemed to go over well and I felt a little more comfortable with someone to take some of the focus off me.
On the third, and final one, I went out on my own again in a weird outfit with a huge faux fur collar, the one that Martin had designed right on my body. It was kind of stereotypical, but they were paying me an amazing amount of money, so I’d decided I could grit my teeth and get through it. The irritation did make me less self-conscious as I strode down the long, narrow stage and, for the first time, I was able to look beyond the lights.
I found Quin.
Three rows back, right at the end of the catwalk. I frowned slightly, but Quin sat stolidly in his chair, wearing an expression of glee that only a shifter would have noticed. I got to the end and turned, but I couldn’t leave without a backward glance and a small, sly smile in Quin’s direction.
The walk back off the stage felt like it took forever, and then there was the final trip out in the wake of the designer. The crowd roared and applauded and Martin grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up to the front of the crowd of models to clap with the rest of them. It was awkward, but I pasted a smile on my face and applauded the man who was going to write me—or Quin—a big check later on this week. Martin bowed over and over, and finally turned to walk back to the dressing room.
It was a relief to get off the stage and out of these strange clothes. I hurried after the humans and changed as quickly as I could—or started to. A hand on my shoulder caught me with my pants halfway down to my knees.
“You did wonderfully, my boy.” It was Martin. “You need to work on your walk though. Youtube, that’s where you should be looking. Mikey James, Stanford Lawrence. Watch them and learn.” He waggled a finger in my face, entirely unbothered by having a half-naked shifter in front of him. “You practice, I have another show in a month. My man will talk to your agent and sort out the details. Oh, and don’t get changed, there’s a party after and you’ll be there.” He nodded and moved on to congratulate the other models.
I pulled my pants back up and slowly put the shirt and jacket back on. A party. I hadn’t spent that much time with humans yet that I could face the prospect of having to be social with roomful of them with equanimity. Though the models had come around after I’d proved I wasn’t going to eat anyone, I still didn’t entirely trust humans and their alien thoughts. Was Quin allowed to go? In that instant, I decided that if Quin couldn’t, I wouldn’t.
Someone came up to me, one of the people running around telling others what to do though I hadn’t quite caught the name of his job. “Okay, we’ll just get your makeup touched up, then you can head down to the ballroom to mingle. One drink at most, and after that, stick to water and non-alcoholic things. The designer hates it when models lose their cool.” She started to turn away.
“Wait.” I reached out for her, then thought better of it and pulled my hand back. “My Alpha, he should come too.”
“Guests and models only. He’ll have to wait for you.”
I shook my head and began to take my shirt off again. “No. He’s my Alpha, he comes or I don’t.”
“Your loss,” she said, and walked off.
Well, fine. I didn’t want to go to a party anyway. I hung the shirt up and pulled my t-shirt on, then undid the pants.
