Sometimes I wish I could tell people the lengths I’ve gone to for this job. I wish I could join in the good-natured contests of who’s done the most fucked up thing for Hollywood, wish I could trade nostalgic anecdotes about my childhood without keeping careful track of every lie, wish I could just… tell someone and laugh about it over beer.
But if anyone,anyone, finds out the truth, everything ends.
I’ll be swaddled in bubble wrap and shipped back to Bumfuck, USA.
I try to forget it, almost believing my own story that the meds I must take at a precise time every day are for a congenital thyroid disorder.
But the truth is inescapable. That I hate alphas so much, that I can’t just turn my brain off and kiss their boots like everyone else in this fucking town does, is proof.
It doesn’t matter that I had my teeth filed down or that my ears healed perfectly. No matter how well my red color-depositing conditioner tones my naturally teal hair to a cool brown with every shower, and even though I got my fucking irises tattooed to hide their natural amber-orange with whiskey brown…
I can’t change my fucking DNA.
I can’t escape.
I’m an omega.
CHAPTER
TWO
MYLO
Two months later
The gymnastics centergreets me with its characteristic scent of chalk and sweaty feet. Blue mats sprawl closest to the entrance, leading to the faded carpet of the spring floor. A vault runway angles for the foam pit, which cuts the gym like a moat, with the balance beams and bar setups on the far side.
Large windows look in from the offices and party rooms, one of which is already drenched in hot pink decorations; the gaggle of kids before me will head there as soon as I’m done tiring them out.
I deliberately keep my schedule open, which means I’m free for any audition or gig that might pop up. I make most of my money covering last minute for friends who have their own auditions, gigs, or other emergencies.
Grace, one of the first stunt performers I met in LA, texted me late yesterday about covering for this birthday party, andI’ve spent the whole morning assuring a high-strung Dance Mom type that I am in fact qualified to entertain her precious, prodigious eleven-year-old and her gaggle of friends.
When Dance Mom saw me, she caught herself just shy of sputtering, “But you’re a man.”
I think the main reason she relented is that at a slim five-foot-seven, I’m hardly larger than the kids. She watches me like a hawk from the edge of the mats, and I ignore her.
The birthday girl herself is tyrant enough. She crosses her arms, waiting impatiently for the rest of the ten-year-olds to complete their forward rolls.
“Can we go eat cake yet? I’m bored,” she says, tugging at the hem of her hot pink leotard.
I flick a glance at her while keeping an eye on the other kids. “You’rebored? Wasn’t this your idea?”
She glances toward her mother, then turns slightly away, chewing on the end of her pigtail. “No,” she says quietly, pouting. “I don’t want to do gymnastics anymore, but Mom says I have to. She says it’s my favorite, but it’snot.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
The kid’s big brown eyes flash up at me, surprised and a bit wary. I’d wager it’s the first time an adult’s asked her that.
“Riding horses,” she whispers.
“Do you do trick riding?”
Her wariness wavers. “What’s that?”
“Hm, it’s sort of like balance beam except the beam is a galloping horse.”
She keeps her arms crossed, trying to stay cool. “Really?”
