by Aiden Bates
The hesitation that Zachary saw was disappointing. He hoped to see excitement about meeting again, or at least the project, and he observed neither.
“Uh, sure. It’s . . . let me get your email address and we can set up a time.”
Not even a phone number? Zachary wrote his number down anyway, under his email address.
It took Bastian three days to contact Zachary to set up an interview, and then he apologized profusely and blamed it on his project.
“I’ve been analyzing test results,” Bastian said, “and I sort of lose track of time when that’s going on. What about tomorrow morning? You can observe me testing some of the kids, if that’s at all interesting.”
It was, in fact. Catching the psychologist on film in front of a classroom of adorable school-aged Stellar Landings residents would make for intriguing photo-journalism. Zachary took him up on his offer, but he was a little disappointed again. He’d been hoping for a nice conversation over dinner with a bottle of wine, but this would have to do. He started preparing some conversation questions to go over and realized that he planned quite a few more questions than he had with the other residents.
There was just something about Dr. Bastian Byers, even more than his moody good looks.
. . . And then in front of a classroom? Watching Bastian interact with kids practically made Zachary swoon. Alphas were so often indifferent to children, thinking that was omegas’ business, but apparently not Bastian. As Zachary watched and shot the photos, Bastian joked with the kids, taught them, and seemed to genuinely enjoy the time he spent with them. Even as Zachary turned his camera toward the teachers and the students, he kept one eye on Bastian.
Later, he forced himself to keep his mind on business as he conducted his interview with Bastian.
“As the newest transplant that I’ve spoken to, what would you say was the hardest adjustment to make when moving to Stellar Landing?”
Bastian looked thoughtful, and Zachary wished his camera was out then. His pensive gaze was intense, like he was coming up with the cure for both war and cancer with the same brainwave.
“Trusting people,” Bastian said after a few moments. “There has to be trust when you’re essentially locked up with these people for weeks at a time. They’re good people, they’re trustworthy, but that kind of unblinking faith doesn’t come naturally to me.”
Zachary thought he heard him add “anymore,” but he couldn’t be sure. It was a surprising answer; he was expecting something like “feeling claustrophobic,” like most of his other interviewees had said.
As they finished up the interview, both of their phones chirped with text messages at the same time. “Go ahead,” said Zachary, indicating that he didn’t mind if Bastian checked his messages.
Party tonight! It was Aaron’s wife, Denise, who seemed to have taken a liking to Zachary over dinner, and had appointed herself his personal social director. Rec room @ 7, please come! Denise had told him about it over dinner on Wednesday, and Zachary had given her a soft commitment. He really didn’t have anything better to do, considering he couldn’t leave the building. He wondered if Bastian would be there.
If Bastian’s text was from Denise, he gave no indication, and put his phone away without saying anything.
“Anything else?” Bastian asked, a smile on his face but not in his eyes, like he was already thinking of somewhere else he needed to be.
“Um, nope, that’s it.” Zachary cleared his throat. “Any chance you want to have lunch? I’ve got the makings for some mean BLTs up in my room, and I’ve got a couple bottles of Sierra Nevada. I could get some personal portraits.”
Bastian’s smile didn’t waver. “That sounds awesome, but I’ve got to log in today’s results. I like to analyze them when they’re fresh in my mind.”
“Of course, of course,” Zachary said, shaking his head as if he were silly to even ask. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the halls.”
Bastian stood, as if to dismiss Zachary. Zachary scrambled to gather his equipment and then nodded a terse goodbye to his subject. Once he was alone in the corridor, he sighed, letting out the tension that had been building up over the last half hour.
That guy is uptight . . . but so damn hot.
After spending an afternoon running their conversation through his mind, Zachary was almost sick of Bastian, but when he entered the rec room that evening and saw Bastian’s handsome face again, his pulse quickened again. He forced himself to greet Denise and Aaron first and allowed them to introduce him to some new people.
A purple-haired woman was standing next to Denise. She had a pierced nose and fuchsia lipstick. Zachary’s first thought was that she looked like a pixie.
It turned out that this young, vibrant woman was Gladys—the Gladys, of hair-cutting, stained glass-making, pie-baking fame.
“Gladys?!” Zachary pumped her arm too eagerly, he knew, but he was thrilled to finally meet her. “You’re Gladys?!”
“Zachary?! I’ve heard so much about you!”
Gladys was a dancer and a prancer, not standing still even during conversation, and suddenly Zachary understood why she had so many hobbies in addition to her chosen career as a novelist. All that energy needed to go somewhere. He would have loved to follow her around all night, but she had other people to talk to, of course.
Zachary loved people, and loved parties, but his inexplicable insecurity when it came to Bastian made him feel almost desperate. He forced himself to keep his distance after a quick nod hello. Instead, he danced with Denise, with Gladys, with Holly, and in a big group with all of them while several kids from the building dodged around them like puppies. Every once in a while, he’d catch himself scanning the room, searching out Bastian, and then he’d tear his eyes away.
Finally . . . finally . . . they bumped into each other at the punch bowl. Literally. Zachary turned with his drink, some kind of nonalcoholic froufrou thing made with soda and ice cream, knocked into Bastian, and ended up with the cold cocktail down the front of his shirt and jeans.
“Oh, shit . . . I’m sorry,” Bastian said, grabbing napkins into a bunch and handing them to Zachary.
Zachary had never been so thrilled to have ice-cold liquid dripping down his body.
They stood there together, not speaking, as Zachary dabbed at his clothes and Bastian mopped up the puddle on the floor. Zachary’s brain searched frantically for something to say, but he could think of nothing as he stared at the top of Bastian’s head, his hair glossy even under sad fluorescent lights.
Just when he was going to splutter out something, anything, about music or the weather, Aaron approached.
“So Zachary, did Bastian tell you about the community project this weekend?”
“No, what’s that? Sounds interesting.”
“He’s setting up a sunlamp therapy room this weekend. We’re all pitching in. We could use some extra muscle.”
Bastian just mumbled his agreement, and Zachary couldn’t tell if he was being shy or didn’t want Zachary there.
“I’ll be there. Not much else to do while we’re snowed in anyway!” Zachary replied. He could hear the eagerness in his own voice.
Bastian stood up and gave him a closed lip smile. “Great. We appreciate the help,” was all he said before turning and dumping the sodden napkins into a trash can with a plop.
Chapter Seven
The banging of hammers, the smell of sawdust and fresh drywall, the subtle buzz of temporary lights. It was all so oddly soothing. One small part of Bastian’s plan was being accomplished, and he took it all in with a feeling of calm satisfaction.
Alaska was known for its burly, masculine men, and Bastian was grateful that so many of them turned up to help him create the light therapy room. He himself hadn’t wielded a hammer since, well, ever, now that he thought about it, and now he simply conferred with the guys who were making quick work of the two walls that were going up.
The new room was big enough for four people to sit under sunlamps in com
fortable chairs, and also had space on the floor for younger kids to sit and play while receiving the therapeutic light. A thirty-two inch television, Blu-ray player, and secondhand Playstation would be installed as soon as the dust settled. The lamps could be turned on by any adult for the recommended amount of time, allowing any resident who needed a boost of sunshine to get it when they needed it.
As he moved about the area, Bastian felt great. He was growing to love the Stellar Landing lifestyle, and the residents as well. Now he was doing something to make everyone’s life a little better.
. . . His own included. He would be his own guinea pig, scheduling regular sessions under the lamps and catching up on some pleasure reading. Maybe it would ease the current funk he’d been in.
He kept catching whiffs of the omega in the room, Zachary Kelso, and it was annoying him. Bastian’s body was responding as it should, his heart thumping, his groin stirring, but Bastian resented that. He also got the feeling that Zachary was interested in him. Bastian didn’t want that.
Omegas were a distraction. A distraction that caused pain. Bastian had important work to do here at Stellar Landing, and every time his mind zeroed in on that delicious omega aroma, he reminded himself of that.
Zachary had been there all morning, helping handy Aaron put up the new walls, and then installing the industrial hooks that the heavy sunlamps would hang from. Bastian overheard Zachary say that he wasn’t much of a handyman, but Bastian saw Zachary’s biceps flex impressively with every lift . . . saw his glutes bulge under his jeans as he climbed the ladder.
Omegas are a distraction. Focus, Bastian. Focus.
Bastian turned away from Zachary and Aaron, pulling out his phone to call the furniture delivery company. The Stellar roads were still closed and he needed to reschedule the delivery of the chairs and the TV.
He was on hold when he heard the loud metallic groan—he couldn’t even tell what it was, the sound was so weird—followed by a shout and two crashes. It all happened so fast that by the time Bastian turned to see what the noise was, Zachary was already on the ground with Aaron beside him and others gathering.
“Out of the way!” Gladys commanded. The purple-haired woman was a licensed first responder, and immediately took charge. Bastian held his breath, as they all appeared to be doing, as she called Zachary’s name and checked his vital responses. Zachary was silent.
“Bastian, get Dr. Nick on the phone,” Gladys commanded, and Bastian did as he was told.
It was all a blur. Several of the other residents were also first responders—it just made sense in a community such as theirs—and knew what to do, which was great since there was no way they could get Zachary to a hospital in this weather. Within minutes, Zachary was in the clinic, hooked up to monitors, and Dr. Nichols was on his way.
“You’re going to bleed if you don’t stop,” Gladys said. She had shooed everyone else out of the clinic except Bastian and another medically trained resident.
Bastian looked at her blankly.
“You’re biting your lip so hard, you’re going to split it. And I don’t need to take care of anyone else right now.”
“Oh.”
The guilt was heavy. Zachary was volunteering on Bastian’s project, and somehow, one of the new walls—not yet anchored—had crashed down on him. It wasn’t the weight of the wall that caused his unconscious state, but hitting his head when he landed. As soon as the doctor arrived, a CT scan could be performed.
“It’s probably not that bad,” Gladys said in a soothing voice. “He’s breathing, his heartbeat is strong, and his pupils are responding. He’ll probably wake up in no time. Just a little concussion.”
That didn’t make Bastian feel any better.
When Dr. Nick rushed in an hour later, Bastian slipped out and headed up to his own place.
If anything happened to Zachary, Bastian wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
***
The phone rang harshly, cutting through a weird, troubling dream that Bastian was relieved to be roused from. As soon as he woke, though, he remembered what was going on in the real world. He’d been asleep for three hours.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Gladys.”
“How is he?”
“He’s awake.”
“Thank God.”
“But he’s not doing great, exactly.”
Bastian swore under his breath. “What’s wrong?”
“He doesn’t remember a damn thing.”
Dr. Nick broke it down for him as soon as Bastian got back to the clinic. Zachary seemed to be physically fine, except for a fractured ankle, but he was experiencing at least short-term retrograde amnesia, not remembering anything that happened before his accident.
Nothing.
He didn’t remember his name, or where he was, or where he came from. He couldn’t tell Dr. Nick the name of his family members, or where he worked, or what his hobbies were. He couldn’t remember where his room key was, nor his cell phone passcode.
Nothing.
“Zachary’s safe here as long as he’s being monitored. That’s all they would be able to do at the hospital anyway. As soon as the roads clear, we can bring him in. Since we know he works for National Geographic, we can start calling there when the phones are up. Hopefully someone can connect us to family. Until then, he does need round the clock care, and we will need a few volunteers.”
Bastian took the first shift.
Chapter Eight
Bleach and rubbing alcohol.
Cold air coming out of ducts above.
Sterile white blankets that offered so little warmth that he needed four to keep from shivering.
Lights that never went out. Dim but still intrusive.
And strangers, always strangers, smiling at him with pity, handing him food, sitting and reading and trying to make conversation.
He had no idea where he was.
He had no idea who he was.
The strangers kept calling him Zachary, and he learned to respond to that name, but he did not recognize it as his own. They told him that he was a photographer for National Geographic, but that didn’t ring any bells.
The doctor checked on him daily, and the nurse spent the day nearby in the clinic. Three times a day, people brought meals and snacks. Hot, delicious food, homemade lasagna, meatloaf, breakfast casserole. At six o’clock every evening, the nurse left and shifts began: the kind strangers would stay with him for a few hours at a time. And every night at ten p.m., the same guy came and slept on the couch nearby until early the following morning when the next shift began.
His name was Bastian, he told Zachary. He lived here in this big building, with hundreds of other people, and they were all trapped in the building in the snow in Alaska.
“Alaska?” The word made sense to Zachary, at least. He knew that Alaska was a place in the US that was very cold and rather remote. How did he know this, but not his own name? The doctor tried to explain but Zachary zoned out. That wasn’t nearly as important as just knowing anything about who he was.
It was now the fourth night that Zachary could remember, and Bastian arrived again at ten p.m. Zachary found himself looking forward to all of his visitors because they were kind people with different personalities, and his brain yearned for some kind of connection to reality. Bastian was one of the better visitors because each night he brought books and movies, and was willing to engage in conversation until Zachary was tired.
What Zachary knew about Bastian at this point was that he was a psychologist—“I don’t know much about amnesia though,” he said, “That’s not my specialization”—and he’d been conducting research in the building. He liked to read, he liked comedies and psychological thrillers, he liked to hike at the state parks but only the easy paths, and he seemed like a nice dude. He also obviously felt responsible for Zachary’s condition, since Zachary had been working on Bastian’s project when he hit his head.
Zachary knew that he found Bastian attractive and
that he smelled wonderful. The thought alighted on Zachary like a butterfly, just a mild, pleasant surprise: I’m gay. I like men. Huh.
The days and nights blended together in a blur, despite the pleasant companionship, though, and the man who only knew himself as “someone they call Zachary” began to feel desperate to learn who he was.
Chapter Nine
“How well did you two know each other?” Nick asked Bastian. He found it curious that Bastian insisted on spending every night with the injured omega.
“Not well at all. We met a few days ago, but I feel like shit that he hurt himself while helping me out.”
Nick nodded, but he didn’t believe him. No one gave so much of himself without an ulterior motive. And Nick was pretty sure what that motive was. The patient was a gorgeous omega who was, by all indications, unattached and in need.
Bastian wanted to get some.
Nick couldn’t blame him. Normally he only spent one day a week at his office in Stellar Landing, but with Zachary under his care, he needed to stop by every day, and he found himself looking forward to it. Even with so much of his personality clouded by the amnesia, Zachary was an intriguing and attractive man.
Zachary’s eyes lit up when the doctor walked in the room. Nick loved that. Sure, it was largely because Zachary was desperate for answers, hopeful that the doctor could provide some, but Nick wanted to believe it was partly because there was an alpha-omega attraction.
And Nick was not beyond using Zachary’s compromised condition to his advantage. He knew how to win an omega’s heart; they loved that sappy, lovey-dovey stuff—flowers and home cooked meals and poetry.
Thus, on the fifth day after Zachary’s accident, Nick woke up early and used his oven for only the second time in as many years. What omega could resist an alpha doctor who also baked?
“I have a treat for you,” Nick announced, pushing in past the clinic’s swinging door, holding the saran-wrapped loaf. “Banana bread, made with extra walnuts for brain health.”
