Chapter 1
It had been acrappy day. A lot of people browsing, but very few sales. No one appreciates the actual value of original artwork. Any profit I do make doesn’t come close to covering the cost of paint, canvas and other supplies. Forget about being compensated for the time it takes to make art.
Add to the fact that I’m clearly an omega, and can get a cushy government payout every month and low rent in high-end real estate, well, pockets seem to magically sew themselves shut. Or they open up for a night with an omega. Did that once. Never again.
The stalls at the outdoor town market were closing up. I procrastinated the tear down in hopes that any final straggler’s eyes would roam across my display and find just theperfectpainting for their den or nest and buy it.
No such luck.
“How were sales, Cai?”
I looked over to the nice ladies in the stall two spaces away from me. They were packing away their merchandise; pottery.Unique mugs, vases, plates and things like that, complete with a potter's wheel for live demonstrations.
I hated being called Cai. It's one of the most overused names on the planet. It's our generation’s John. But, the pottery women have never been anything but kind to me, so I let it slide.
“Eh,” I shrugged. “Who wants to lug around awkward canvases when they can just carry an ice slushy and show off their new Ask Me About My Big Dinghy t-shirt?”
She frowned with sympathy. “Sorry about that, dear. But it’ll pick up next month, right?”
I forced a tight smile and nodded.
Next month.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that this might be my last hurrah, not sure I can afford a stall next month.
With a defeated sigh, I popped a wireless earbud into my ear and turned on my Scent of the Senseless playlist before I went through the motions of closing up shop. I started taking the canvases off their hooks and putting them in their milk crates and portfolio bags.
Maybe next time. Or maybe I should just give up.
I shook my head and took down the vinyl banner withFine Art by Cairain big gold letters, folded it, then did the same with the black tablecloth that I had purposefully spattered in gold and blue paint.
I wouldn’t let this pull me under. The day wasn’t over. Tonight, I was going to see Scent of the Senseless live, and that was sure to lift my dying spirit.
Chapter 2
I loved concerts. Theywere my escape from everyday life, away from thoughts of money, unrecognized talent, and my dreams of my work being on the walls of an art gallery. For a few hours I take all the worries and concerns and stress I’d been carrying around, drop them, and go absolutely feral in a crowd of hundreds that were letting loose just like me. There was nothing like feeling the music in the pit of my stomach. Even bad concerts, where shouty, sloppy frat boy alphas spill beer down my back or girls shoot filthy glances filled with jealousy in my direction because I was just pretty enough to be a threat; even those are a great time.
Some people, like my family, thought it wasn’t the smartest idea for an omega to go to concerts alone. Some people had the outdated ideas that omega equaled weak, demure, submissive. Especially without a pack.
I was just like any other person, and I had just as much right to be here as anyone else.
The sweaty, thrashing, screaming, singing bodies around me? These were my people.Thiswas my pack.
Omega Overdose were a metalcore band that were quickly rising in fame. This was their first show in Port Haven and in the ten minutes they had been on stage, they were absolutely killing it, and they were just the warm up band for the headliners, Scent of the Senseless.
I had floor tickets, which was always my favourite place to be. I didn’t usually go into the mosh pit, I’d rather experience the show on stage than bash myself against riled up alphas and betas. I was an enthusiast, not insane.
Omega Overdose ended their set to rapturous applause, though to be honest, at these types of shows, we’re all so hyped up that we’ll praise anything if it has the right energy. It doesn’t have to begood, justreal. Lucky for the opening band, they were sincere.
The house lights came up, and the stage hands and roadies began to tear down and set up. A drudging process but necessary, and useful for the crowd to get refreshments.
I could use another beer.
I wove through the crowd, and many of us already had the thin coating of sweat glistening on our bodies. I know I did. So many auras. So many scents. I slid into the line, which was really more of a cloud, of a merch booth, and looked over the offers of t-shirts, stickers and patches all hung up on a display. Maybe I’d get an Omega Overdose shirt. I’d definitely get one of Scent of the Senseless.
When I had finally reached the front of the “line”, I selected a Scent of the Senseless crop top.
“Can I also get a packet of scent blockers?” I asked. I knew my nose was in a perpetual wrinkle, trying to ignore all the scents burning through the theatre. A few years ago, the use of scent blockers and suppressants were a social courtesy for things like concerts, sporting events, and fairs. Events where people gathered in large groups and brimmed with energy andadrenaline. Lately, “going natural” had become popular. It was annoying.
