by Aiden Bates
As soon as Buck was out of sight, I threw my shot back. Ordered another right after. And Something told me I’d need it tonight.
But before I could toss back my second shot, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a sound I’d been hoping for all night.
In truth, it wasn’t the fight tomorrow that was making me itch for the burn of alcohol simmering down my throat. It wasn’t even the gaze of the handsome Omega at the other end of the bar, either. Fighting and fucking were my specialties. I’d never gotten nervous for either. Just didn’t have it in me. But something else was leaving me twitchy, tying my stomach up in knots and making my jaw clench so hard it ached.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, flipping it open and crossing my fingers.
My father, Reggie King, was stubborn as a mule. When he was pissed off at me, it felt like being kicked by one, too. He hadn’t wanted me to come out to Vegas for this fight. He hadn’t wanted me to fight at all. Dad had wanted me to join the family security business like my brothers Kaleb and Harper had. Be a good boy, a good son. Stop breaking noses and join the King Private Security fold instead, which would tie me down to Fort Greene for good.
I hadn’t wanted to listen to him. Fort Greene had always felt like a prison for a guy like me—and the fact that I’d spent most of my teenage years in and out of the city jail hadn’t helped much. I’d always had the fight in me, whether it was taking my aggressions out on the high school bullies or throwing hands at drunks who whistled at women outside the local bars. Taking it to the next level, really making a name for myself in the MMA, meant getting out of Fort Greene for good.
Dad hadn’t liked that much. Hadn’t liked that at all. The last words we’d said to each other had been the angry kind, all cusses and swears and cheap jabs below-the-belt. The kind I only smartened up enough to regret once the moment had passed. The kind that had haunted me when I laid my head on my pillow every night since I left.
But the buzz from my phone wasn’t a missed call from him. No Good luck tomorrow, Rust, text, either. Just a low battery notification. Nothing more.
Holding my breath, I dialed his number again. The result was a fist to the gut. Six rings. No answer. Which meant that he was still pissed and I was still in the dog house, as far as he was concerned. When it came to Dad, I always found myself envying my brothers. Kaleb never did anything wrong, and Harper could do no wrong in Dad’s eyes. Josh was the baby—maybe a little soft for Dad’s liking, but not so soft that Dad disliked him outright.
And then there was me. The King family fuck-up. First a juvenile delinquent, now a meathead who hoped to make a career out of beating other guys’ faces in.
Dad didn’t just dislike me—he hated everything I’d ever done, everything I was doing, everything I ever would do. If I’d hoped for a chance to apologize before I went into the ring tomorrow, he was making sure I felt him crushing it.
“Shit,” I swore, reaching for the second shot.
“Rough night?”
I froze, then turned.
My family angst might have distracted me from the Omega at the other end of the bar, but apparently he hadn’t lost interest in me.
He slid onto the bar stool that Buck had just vacated like he owned it. It was his throne now. The scent of his cologne washed over me, light and clean. Expensive, but not overpowering. Sea salt and fresh cut grass, fine leather and crushed mint. Now that he was up close, I could see the color of his eyes, too. They were the clear, warm golden brown of a triple-cask scotch, with a hungry look in them that nearly made me forget my worries entirely.
“I’ve had rougher.” I tossed my shot back with ease, showing off. Omegas always seemed to like to watch me drink, and the booze gave me a second to ignore the way his closeness made my heart leap up into my throat at his presence. Gave me a second to think.
“Buy your next round?” The Omega held up two fingers, signaling the bartender without waiting for my answer. “You look like you need it.”
“Do I?” My voice was a challenge, cocky and confident. “What makes you say that?”
His tongue slicked out over his lower lip as he looked me up and down. “Maybe I’m just good at figuring out what men like you need.”
I narrowed my eyes at him as my pulse picked up by half a beat.
Fuck. Either it had been too long since I’d last gotten laid, or this guy was actually making me sweat. Most Omegas that came up to me like this were the ones that ended up all sweaty-palmed and hopped up on excitement, not me. But this guy, he was cool. Calm and collected, effortlessly so. He leaned on the bar, the hint of a smile playing on his lips and a little flash of deviousness in his scotch-colored eyes.
He was good. He was hot. And best of all, he offered a distraction from my phone.
Exactly what I needed right now.
“I’m Daniel.” He pulled his gaze away from me to smile at our bartender. “Whatever he’s been drinking, we’ll have two of them.”
The bartender glanced at me for a moment, then immediately sold me out. “He’s been drinking house vodka.” Her green eyes flickered with amusement.” You sure about that?”
Daniel didn’t even flinch as he slid her a twenty. “Keep the change. House vodka sounds like exactly what we need right now.”
“Your funeral, pretty boy.” I smirked, accepted the shot when the bartender poured it and knocked it back without a flinch. I’d taught myself how to drink on cheap vodka. This guy might’ve had me a little shaken up in his forwardness, but I doubted he’d be able match me drink for drink on the stuff.
But to my surprise, Daniel swallowed his own shot just as easily. If it burned all the way down that handsome throat of his, he didn’t make any indication of it.
“You’re not the only one at this bar who knows how to drink.” A glint of pride flickered in his eyes as moved both our shot glasses away. “So. What’s the occasion? Broken heart, or did you lose at the roulette tables and break the bank?”
I laughed. That was Vegas for you—if it wasn’t one, it was usually the other.
“Neither, actually. Like I said, I’ve had rougher nights than this.”
“Ah. The old stoic Alpha, too tough to talk about his feelings schtick.” Daniel chuckled. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t give it to you.” I sucked my lower lip between my teeth as I studied the glimmering bottles lined up behind the bar, avoiding his gaze. The way he looked at me, it was like he could see right through my charade. That was new for me too—I wasn’t used to being called out like this, and I certainly wasn’t used to being undone with just a look. “I’m Rusty. Rusty King. From Fort Greene, South Carolina.”
I didn’t know why I’d added that last part. My inner good ol’ southern boy rearing his cowboy-hatted head, maybe. Maybe it was fate. Either way, it seemed to pique Daniel’s interest.
“That’s funny.” He smirked, but didn’t laugh. “I’m from Spartanburg.”
“No shit!” I couldn’t help but match his smile. “That’s barely two hours from where I grew up.”
“Sounds like we’re both a long way from home.” His eyes glimmered so gorgeously, I had to look away. If I stared too long, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to stop staring. “So, Rusty King from Fort Greene…are you going to tell me why you’re sitting alone, cursing at your phone, or am I going to have to pull it out of you by force?”
I glanced down at his biceps. Even beneath his shirt, I could tell he had some muscle on him—just not as much as I did.
“Would like to see you try.”
“Maybe later.” He tapped my knee with his. “Come on. Spill. What’s up?”
Sighing, I turned to face him. “Would you believe daddy issues are to blame?”
He laughed, a little noise of amusement like I was a stand-up comic and he was my audience. “With tattoos like these? Yes.”
I stiffened slightly as he brushed his fingertips against my wrist. There was a black rose there, dripping with ruby red. I’d
gotten it for my other dad when I was nineteen—my Omega dad. He’d died giving birth to my youngest brother, Josh. Even though he never talked about it, I had a feeling my Alpha dad had never really recovered from it. Developing daddy issues had been pretty much guaranteed from that point on.
“I’ve got a fight tomorrow. MMA. A big one—the career making kind.” I didn’t know why I was telling him any of this, but I supposed he’d asked. “My Alpha dad is pissed about it. Not returning my calls. Was kind of hoping that he’d show up, but…ah. Not in the cards, I guess.”
“Not in the cards,” Daniel repeated, his smile broadening. “There’s a Vegas metaphor for you.”
“Guess so.”
“You know you’re not the only one at this bar with daddy issues either, right?”
I glanced around the bar and smirked. “You could say that about any bar in the country, really.”
“What I’m saying is, I get it.” His fingers stroked against the black rose on my wrist. He still hadn’t taken them away. “Hell. I’m here hiding from my own father right now.”
“Hiding, huh? That can’t be easy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Looking the way you do? Imagine you draw a lot of attention. Even in Vegas.”
That earned me another smile. “Maybe. But at least here in Vegas, my dad can’t trot me out and parade me around like some kind of trophy for World’s Best Dad.”
“Looking the way you do, it’s probably hard not want to parade you around.” I signaled the bartender again. If we were going to keep talking dads, it was time for another shot. I already had three rolling around in my system, but what Buck didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. “So. Is he?”
“Is he what?”
“World’s Best Dad?”
“Would I be lurking around Vegas talking to a man with more tattoos than your average Hell’s Angel if he was?” Daniel shook his head. “World’s Most Okay Dad, maybe. World’s Most You Tried, Kind Of Dad.”
“Heard that.” I slid the bartender a twenty of my own and used my knuckles to push shot number four Daniel’s way. “Guess we both need these, then.”
He raised it up to me like a Roman senator making a toast. “Guess we do.”
We clinked glasses and sucked the booze down. The bartender, sensing a pattern, had another two racked up for us, ready and waiting.
“On the house.” She tapped the bar with fingers weighed down by a chunky ring on each, then held up a hand before either of us could insist on paying. “Nuh-uh. You two are cute together, and you’ve already overtipped me.” Her grin was as all-knowing as it was filthy. “Just take the shots and get a room already.”
She left us with a swish of dark hair and a wink. In her wake, I found myself staring at Daniel again. His honey-blond hair, effortlessly styled. His politician good looks, like he was running for office without even knowing it—an election he’d win in a landslide based on hotness alone. His liquor-colored eyes, refracting light just like the bottles behind the bar.
“She’s got a point, you know.” He was the first to break the silence that followed.
“What? That we should get a room?”
Daniel scoffed and slapped me playfully on the chest. “That we’re cute together. You, with that dark hair and those pretty hazel eyes…”
“Pretty, huh?” I smirked. “Never been called pretty by an Omega before.”
“But now that you mention it…” This time, when Daniel’s fingertips found my chest, they lingered. He traced the line of my pecs through my shirt like he was memorizing a road map. “It’s what the gladiators did.”
“Gladiators?” He’d lost me—but for as long as he was touching me like that, I was happy to try and follow along anyway.
“Gladiators,” he confirmed. “Ancient Rome. Before battle they would, ah…take all of that pre-fight adrenaline, use it for something more…productive.”
“Mm. To…relax, I s’pose?” The alcohol was starting to stir around in me, turning my brain over in on itself and refocusing my entire attention on the only thing in the bar worth looking at right now: him.
He smiled slyly. “Something like that. There’s, um. A bunch of science that supports it. I just, ah…” His grin turned a little more wholesome as a giggle left his throat. A flush was rising to his cheeks too—the great indicator that yes, we had just blown through several shots, and yes, they were all kicking in just as we started talking stress relief. “Shit. I can’t remember any of it right now.”
“Maybe I could jog your memory.” I pushed shot number five toward him, feeling my pulse begin to pick up even faster. My heart had been pounding away ever since he came over, but now it felt like something was in motion that my body was trying to race to the finish line with an ever-increasing beat. The fact that I’d just tossed back five drinks probably didn’t help, either. “There’s a minibar in my room. Wanna finish these and see if it’s stocked with anything that will make us stop talking about our dads?”
Daniel picked up his shot and raised it to me again. “I suppose if you were already having a rough night…there’s no shame in making it a little rougher.”
“I’m an MMA fighter, Daniel.” I could only grin like a bastard as I swallowed my own shot down. “Rough is my specialty.”
2
Daniel
As soon as I laid eyes on Rusty King, I knew I wanted him. He was hot in that Clint Eastwood way, equal parts handsome, masculine, take-no-shit and dangerous. But hot would’ve only gotten an Alpha so far with me tonight.
I wanted Rusty for a different reason. A more cruel one, maybe, or at least one that was a little more selfish. More important than his looks, his muscles, those perfect hazel eyes of his or how good he looked when he was tossing back cheap booze was the fact that my dad would hate him.
Coupled with the fact that Rusty was having dad problems of his own, I supposed that made us a match made in heaven. Or maybe one made in hell. Either way, I knew where I wanted this night to end.
Tonight, Rusty King was the perfect sin.
We were drunk. That much was obvious. I’d been two drinks in when I finally told myself fuck it and walked over to talk to him. Plus another three shots while talking to him left me a little wobbly when I stood to take him up on that invitation to his room.
“Woah there, pretty boy.” Rusty slipped his arm around me as I rocked back a step, laughing at how off kilter I suddenly felt. “You sure you’re okay to come up to my room?”
“If you’re sure you can handle me if I do,” I shot back immediately. I bit my lip as I turned to him, pressing my palm against his chest. God—and what a chest it was. Firm enough with muscle that he might as well have been made of steel.
“Oh, darlin’,” he teased, his accent tinged with a southern drawl. “Handlin’ pretty boys like you was what I was made for.”
As we stumbled to the elevator, I could feel every eye in the hotel bar trained on us. Who could blame them? We were obviously the hottest people in it. Leaving together like this, with Rusty’s arm around my back and his fingers curled against my ribs, could only mean one thing.
We were going to fuck. We knew it. They all knew it. The bartender had called it before the proposition had even been made. There was something I liked about that, the exhibitionism. The spectacle. I liked the way Rusty hugged me a little closer to him as he smashed the up button on the hotel’s glass elevator. I liked knowing that all the way up, anyone who could see us would be watching keenly, waiting, thinking about what he was about to do to me. What I was about to do to him.
What could I say? I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth and I’d spent my whole life sucking on it. I had a trust fund that could finance a small European nation and an old money pedigree that even the Kennedys would’ve been jealous of. Every Alpha I’d ever dated, ever known, wore designer polo shirts, vacationed in the Hamptons every summer, drove a car that was worth more than most normal people would make in a year. How could I
not be into the idea of being hauled up to a Vegas hotel room by a man as rough and rugged and tattooed as Rusty King? As far as I was concerned, it was high time I spat out that silver spoon and started sucking on something more substantial instead.
“How many in are you?” he asked me, bent over the minifridge in his room while I checked out how well his ass filled out his worn, faded blue jeans.
“Huh?” I blinked, then let myself fall back to sit on the bed. Christ—he was good looking enough even just from behind that I was having a hard time keeping track of the conversation flow. My childhood etiquette tutor would’ve slapped my knuckles with a ruler if he’d only known how hard I’d thrown all of his lessons out the window tonight.
“How many drinks have you had tonight, hot stuff?” Rusty straightened and turned, a tiny bottle of Fireball whiskey held temptingly in each hand. “Don’t want to get you too drunk.”
“Oh.” I laughed a little, almost nervously. Not my M.O. at all—but neither was getting drunk with an MMA fighter in a hotel bar and letting him take me to bed. “I had two before I got up the courage to come talk to you. Plus another three with you at the bar.”
“Had to get up the courage, huh?” Rusty laughed as he tossed me a bottle. I nearly didn’t catch it—somehow, at some point, my hands had started shaking. But he didn’t need to know that. “The way you were looking at me before you came over, I thought you’d already fucked me half a dozen times with your eyes alone.”
“I, ah. Maybe I had.” He wasn’t wrong. I’d been putting out my best come over here and tear my clothes off vibes, willing him to come over and talk to me instead. But then his buddy had disappeared and Rusty had turned to his phone. After that, I’d been forced to take matters into my own hands. “But you’re, well. Formidable looking, I suppose.”
“Formidable, huh?” He tried the word on like my Omega father tried on designer suits. He looked pleased with himself on how it felt. “Mm. Yeah. I like that. Booze.” He cracked open his bottle and raised it to me with a wink. “The great equalizer.”
