Page 4 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

FEVERED PAST AND HAUNTING GHOSTS

~RED~

T he fever came in waves, each one dragging me deeper into memories I'd spent years trying to bury.

The scents hit first—stale whiskey and cheap perfume, cigar smoke that had yellowed the ceiling of our ranch house, and underneath it all, the ghost of sage and lavender that meant mother .

But that scent was fading, had been fading for months since she'd died, replaced by the cloying sweetness of beta women who thought they could take her place.

I was eight again, standing in the shadows of the staircase, my small fingers wrapped around the wooden spindles like prison bars. The living room below swam in cigarette haze, and through it, I could see him—Nico Vale, my father, holding court like a king of nothing.

"Sold it this morning," he announced, tipping back another tumbler of bourbon. The ice clinked against his teeth. "That bitch thought her family ranch would be worth something when she kicked it. Thought she was leaving me set for life."

The women draped across our furniture— mother's furniture—laughed like hyenas.

They were all beta, every last one, their scents artificial and sharp like department store perfume trying to mask something rotten. One of them, a blonde with breasts that threatened to spill from her halter top, ran her acrylic nails down my father's chest.

"Poor little Nico," she cooed, her voice syrupy fake. "Stuck with a weak omega wife who couldn't even give you a son."

My hands tightened on the spindles until my knuckles went white.

Mother hadn't been weak. She'd been strong enough to love him, strong enough to believe his promises, strong enough to fight the illness that had eaten her from the inside out while he'd been at the casino, betting away her medical fund.

"Omegas," my father spat the word like it tasted bad. "Fragile little things. Can't handle a real man's world. Mine couldn't even handle childbirth more than once—gave me a useless daughter, and then her body just gave up. Probably for the best. Would've been embarrassing, having an omega son."

The blonde laughed, pressing closer.

"Don't worry, baby. We'll give you all the sons you want. Strong beta boys who won't disappoint you."

Another woman, a redhead who'd been eyeing mother's china cabinet, added, "At least you got something for the ranch. How much?"

"Enough to stake me at the high-roller tables for a month," he said, pride thick in his voice. "Gonna turn that dead woman's inheritance into real money."

I wanted to scream.

That ranch had been in mother's family for four generations.

She'd grown up there, learned to ride there, met my father there when he'd been a traveling salesman with a silver tongue and promises of devotion.

She'd died believing he'd keep it for me, her last words a whispered plea to make sure I had somewhere safe to grow up.

My father's eyes suddenly lifted, meeting mine through the haze.

For a moment, something flickered there—guilt, maybe, or recognition of what he'd become. But then he smiled, that same charming smile that had fooled my mother, and raised his glass in a mock toast.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, little Red?"

I didn't answer.

I just stared at him, letting him see everything I couldn't say.

The hatred. The disgust. The promise that I would never, ever be like my mother—trusting the wrong person, believing pretty words, dying for a love that had never really existed.

The blonde noticed me then, her lips curling in distaste.

"She's got that look. That omega look. You can already smell it on her, even this young."

It was true. Even at eight, my scent was starting to develop—unusual for an omega, who typically didn't present until puberty. But there it was, faint but distinct: wild cherries and honey, smoke and spice.

Nothing like my father's flat, metallic scent.

"She'll be someone else's problem soon enough," my father said, turning away from me. "Omegas always are."

I turned and walked up the stairs, each step measured and careful, my small hands clenched into fists at my sides.

Behind me, I heard the sounds that meant the "entertainment" was about to begin—zippers, giggles, the creak of mother's favorite chair under foreign bodies.

In my room, I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to stop the burning in my skull.

The world felt too hot, too bright, too much. The fever that had been building all day finally crashed over me like a wave, and I collapsed onto my small bed, the quilt mother had made still smelling faintly of her.

"I won't be like you, Mommy," I whispered to the empty room, tears streaming down my face. "I won't trust the wrong person. I'll be strong. I'll be independent. I'll find a pack who really loves me, who sees me as more than just an omega to use up and throw away."

The room spun, colors bleeding together like watercolors in rain.

My child-voice echoed in my skull:

I'll work hard.

I'll learn about each of them.

I'll be happy.

No man will ever do to me what Daddy did to you.

But even as I made those promises, I could hear my father's laughter downstairs, the sound of furniture breaking, of women moaning, of everything mother had built being destroyed one night at a time.

The heat in my head intensified, and suddenly I wasn't eight anymore.

I was twenty-four, and the fever wasn't from childhood illness but from suppressants that were slowly poisoning me.

The scents changed—no longer bourbon and cheap perfume but expensive cologne and omega fear, the particular cocktail of pheromones that meant The Crimson Roulette.

A cool hand pressed against my forehead, shocking me back to consciousness.

My eyes snapped open, my body going rigid with instinctive fear.

In the velvet prison, unexpected touch meant danger.

"Them suppressants are ruining you, Cherry Bomb."

The voice cut through my panic like a knife through silk. My vision focused, and there she was—Briar, sitting on the edge of my narrow bunk, her hand gentle against my burning skin.

Huh…I was…dreaming…

"Briar?" My voice came out as a croak, disbelief making me blink repeatedly.

She was really here, in our old room, the one nobody else had wanted after she'd disappeared.

The "cursed" room, they called it, because everyone who'd shared it had either vanished or been sold.

She looked different in the dim light of our single lamp. Without the mask and the performative sexuality of last night, I could see what two years had done to her. Fine lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before, a tightness to her jaw that spoke of clenched teeth and swallowed screams.

But her scent— God, her scent was stronger than ever.

Cherries soaked in brandy, dark chocolate with a bitter edge, and something…new. An aroma that smelled like rain on hot asphalt, like rebellion given form.

"How did you—" I started, then stopped. Well…this used to be OUR room. She still knew the code. In three years, I'd never changed it from the combination she'd set: 0702, the date she'd arrived at The Crimson Roulette.

I tried to sit up, my head spinning with the movement.

I'd fallen asleep on my stomach, face buried in the pillow that still sometimes smelled like her cigarettes from years ago.

Nobody had wanted to room with me after Briar left—said sharing with Red was bad luck, that anyone who got close to me disappeared.

They weren't wrong. First Briar, then Cynthia, then Diana.

All gone.

But I hadn't minded the isolation.

The room was smaller than the others, just a bunk bed and a shared dresser, while the "good" girls got suites with real beds and private bathrooms. I could have upgraded months ago—Marnay had offered twice—but I'd refused.

Maybe because I liked the simplicity. Maybe because some pathetic part of me had been waiting for Briar to come back.

And here she was.

She was back…which meant maybe I wasn’t so cursed…

I pushed myself up on all fours, yawning so wide my jaw cracked. My mouth felt like I'd been eating cotton, and my thoughts moved like molasses.

"Not a morning person," I mumbled, which had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

"It's evening," Briar corrected, her voice oddly gentle.

I froze mid-stretch, my brain struggling to process.

"What?"

"Evening. As in, shift starts in two hours."

"WHAT?!" I shrieked, scrambling to stand.

The Manager would kill me. Literally.

I'd seen what happened to girls who missed shifts without permission?—

My legs buckled like overcooked spaghetti. I would have face-planted into our cracked linoleum floor if Briar hadn't caught me, her arms surprisingly strong as they wrapped around my waist.

We both stared at my traitorous legs, which were trembling like a newborn fawn's.

"You haven't been taking your other pills, huh?" Briar's voice was resigned rather than surprised.

I frowned, trying to focus through the lingering fever.

"They're expensive. How am I supposed to save enough to get out of here if I'm spending half my tips on medication that just makes me functional enough to earn more tips?"

The irony wasn't lost on either of us.

The circulation medication costs two hundred dollars a month—money that could go toward my escape fund. But without it, the double doses of suppressants caused nerve damage that made my legs go numb after lying still too long.

Briar didn't respond to my economics lesson. She just sighed and adjusted her grip, helping me stay upright.

"Come on, let's get you to the bathroom."

"I have a shift?—"

"No, you don't." She started moving us toward our tiny ensuite, the one luxury of even the smallest rooms. "After our performance last night, the Reeves pack left a massive tip. Apparently, we did such a good job 'entertaining' both packs that Marnay's feeling generous. Three days off, paid."

I gaped at her, trying to process this unprecedented generosity.

Three days off? Paid?