Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  I nearly laughed. There was that word again—husband. I wasn’t sure where I stood with Riley at the moment, but husband? Wasn’t even close.

  Still, I didn’t correct him. Just paid for the vitamins, got my receipt and headed home to the man who probably still—to a certain degree—hated my guts.

  I came back to my apartment with the pharmacy bag held up like a war prize.

  “Riley?” I called out, scanning the room for a head of soft brown hair. My penthouse was open layout—kitchen, dining room, living room, all on one big, unwalled floor plan. My younger half-sister’s art school pottery projects lined the windowsill, holding orchids with avant-garde flair. A painting my mother had done before I was born hung over the fireplace, golden wheat fields bowing to the breeze.

  But no Riley. He must’ve been in the shower still—or maybe he was hiding away in the guest room.

  At least he didn’t steal your shit and run, I thought. Immediately, I regretted it. Heaven’s Ballroom didn’t employ that kind of dancer—and Riley wasn’t that kind of person. He was honest. Genuine. Too honest and genuine to even try to hide his pregnancy from me—let alone to steal artwork which only had sentimental value.

  There was another of my mother’s paintings in the hall, this one of the ocean during a storm. One of her later works, done just a few weeks before she passed away. A twisted metal bonsai tree rested on an end table—another of Samantha’s art school projects. There were more of the same in the guest room, my bedroom and the master bath—but nothing from my father. There never would be. My family meant the world to me, but my father wasn’t exactly family. That bastard hadn’t left me anything, and even if he had—it would’ve just ended up in the next day’s trash.

  I listened for the sound of the shower before knocking on the guest room door. Walking in on Riley coming out in just a towel wasn’t exactly a terrible prospect, but I knew it would only make things awkward for both of us. I gave the door two short raps and waited to hear him call, “Come in!” before I entered.

  “Oh,” I said softly when I laid eyes on him. “Shit—sorry.”

  “No,” he said, moving the jar of coconut oil off of his towel-covered lap and onto the nightstand. He was shirtless still, his hair damp and darkly waved. “No, you’re fine. I said come in, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” I agreed. “Just didn’t think you’d be…”

  He glanced down at the gleaming oiled expanse of his abs. “Raiding your pantry for moisturizer?”

  “Half naked,” I finished instead, clearing my throat. He looked good. Better than good. That glow I’d detected earlier at Rennot’s radiated all over him, bringing out his cheekbones and brightening his eyes. “The pantry thing is fine. Take what you need. But…” I gestured to the jar on the nightstand. “There’s moisturizer in the bathroom, you know.”

  He smiled softly. “Read online that coconut oil helps with stretch marks. Don’t want to lose my job after the baby comes.”

  I ran my tongue over my lips. Of course—Riley was a dancer. Naturally he’d be worried about how this affected his body long-term.

  “Will you keep dancing?” I asked with sudden concern. “I don’t—I didn’t think…”

  “Didn’t consider that getting me pregnant might cause me to lose all my livelihood?” He laughed. I was surprised to find that he didn’t sound all too bitter about it. “I’m kidding, Max. Foster will let me dance for as long as I like—you know that’s some men’s kink, right? Pregnant Omegas?”

  I glanced down at his stomach again, a surge of warmth rushing through me. Ownership. I could imagine him eight months from now, belly round and swollen, our baby nestled safely inside as I pressed a kiss against it, then worked my way northward…

  “I can imagine,” I grunted. Suddenly, my throat was bone dry. “Call Foster tonight. Tell him you’re on maternity leave from here on out.”

  Riley raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you don’t need the work anymore. If you’re carrying my child, you’re taken care of.”

  “If?” Riley cocked his head, his tongue darting between his lips. “Charming, Max. But if we’re still dealing with ifs, you know I don’t have to stay.”

  “I—” I opened my mouth to pick a fight, then thought better of it. Christ—I must have sounded like my own father, with all of these ifs and maybes. The bastard had probably demanded a paternity test from my own mother when she’d told him the news about me. “I’d like you to stay, Riley. I’d like to take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

  He pursed his lips, leaning back on the bed. Fuck—if that towel was any shorter, he’d be naked and I’d be having a goddamn heart attack. Pregnant or no, he was fucking gorgeous. Clever, hooded eyes. A sassy, fuck-me mouth. And now, he’d be just next door.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked, nodding to the package from the pharmacy still in my hand.

  “Right. Forgot.” I sat down on the bed next to him, his thigh flush with mine, and passed it over. He laughed as he dumped out all twelve bottles of the prenatal vitamins.

  “Max, this is enough for three pregnancies,” he pointed out. “Don’t you think knocking me up once is enough?”

  My cock throbbed. My head knew that was a dangerous train of thought to jump on, but my body obviously didn’t agree.

  “Guess you could say I’m thorough.”

  “I’ll say.” He weighed the three bottles in his hand, then popped one open and pulled a capsule out. “No time like the present, huh?”

  “Let me get you some water,” I offered, rising.

  Out in the kitchen, bent over the sink, I felt like I had to catch my breath. Being that close to Riley was impossible. It would’ve been difficult enough if it had just been his body. His warmth. His scent. But on top of it all, he was—well, he was him. Fucking teasing me. Back-sassing me. Keeping me on my toes and then, with the slightest implication of taking me inside him again, blowing me right over.

  I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and turned instinctively to the bar. There were half a dozen bottles of excellent scotch there—and after the day I had, I certainly felt like I needed a drink.

  Imagine how Riley feels, I told myself. And Riley didn’t even have the option of getting so roaringly drunk he didn’t have to deal with his feelings. His worries. His fears. Riley was too busy growing a child inside him—my child, if everything he was saying was really true.

  Shaking my head, I grabbed the bottles of scotch one by one and shoved them up onto the top shelf of one of the cabinets. There’d be time to bring them back down again when the baby was born.

  I filled the glass full of water and walked it back down the hall. If Riley couldn’t drink, neither would I.

  9

  Riley

  Max woke at the same time every day. Bright and early, as the saying went—only, it wasn’t even bright out. He was up before the sun. For the first week of mornings, I’d been snuggled so deep into the plush pillows of the guest room bed that I’d missed him completely. But on the eighth day, I fluttered my eyes open to the sound of rhythmic thumping and clapping—like some kind of satanic sunrise cheerleading routine.

  When I tiptoed down the hall to see what the commotion was about, I saw him there in the living room, muscles rippling. He was clad only in a pair of sweat pants, with a towel around his neck. Maybe for mopping up the sweat that was rivering down his perfect form. Max was doing push-ups—the kind where he pressed up with such force, he could clap before his palms hit the floor again.

  I reeled back, pressing my fingertips to my chest and breathing heavy. Staying fit was part of my job—or it had been, before this little pregnancy got in the way—and I couldn’t even do those.

  I closed my eyes, resting my back against the wall and imagining what it would be like if Max and I weren’t just two idiots who’d accidentally created a baby together. If we were married—well, for starters, Max wouldn’t have even questioned the fact that the baby was hi
s. I could tell he was warming up to the idea now that the initial shock had worn off, but if we’d been married? The thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. After he worked up a sweat like that, he’d come back to bed to me if I was his husband.

  Stop, I’d giggle as he pressed kisses onto my lips. You’ll get the sheets all sweaty.

  So? I’ll wash them later, he’d say.

  “Ahem.”

  The sound of Max clearing his throat startled me out of my daydream. Immediately, a beet red blush rose to my cheeks. He was standing there in the archway between the living room and the hall, staring at the way my hand—which apparently had a mind of its own—had worked its way down the front of the pajama pants his assistant had brought over for me.

  He didn’t look mad. If anything, he looked fucking hungry.

  And fuck—I liked him hungry.

  “Ready for breakfast?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. A little smirk played on his lips, one that said, you’ve been caught.

  “Breakfast sounds amazing,” I said with a nod.

  So far, Max’s schedule had struck me as pretty clockwork. Gone early. Home late. I’d spent most of my days so far reading the business books I found in his office and texting the guys from the club while I waited for him to get home. Anders and Damon had temporarily moved into my apartment while I was away and reported that Kevin was still coming by nightly—just long enough to issue more threats, always leaving before the police got there. Noah mentioned that the Ballroom had been undergoing some strange happenings since he’d hired my replacement—clients being slipped business cards and coupons for one of our competitors, The Backdoor.

  “Who makes coupons for lap dances?!” he’d messaged me. “We miss you, kid.”

  “Miss you too,” I’d sent back.

  It had felt strange, leaving the Ballroom so abruptly. But it hardly felt right, wearing skimpy outfits and grinding on drunken Alphas while I had a baby growing inside me.

  It didn’t feel right either, taking advantage of Max’s charity like this—even though he wasn’t billing it as such. The way he acted, it was part of his God-given responsibility as the Alpha who had knocked me up. It didn’t stop me from worrying about what might happen if he decided he didn’t like me so much anymore—or from worrying about the day when he realized what a mess he’d gotten himself into and just decided not to come home at all.

  But by 7:00 p.m. each night, Max would come back through the door. He worked late, but he always came home on time.

  It gave me hope. I was caught between a rock and a hard place with this pregnancy, but I couldn’t imagine a better hard place to be up against than Max’s firm, perfect chest.

  Clockwork. He was stable, reliable, and I could anticipate his actions. It was more comfort than Kevin had ever made me feel, anyway.

  That morning though, over a plate of Max’s crispy bacon and dense, fluffy French toast, he sprang a question on me that surprised me.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  I laughed. “Same thing as every night, right? Maybe we order in. Maybe you cook. We put on a movie, I fall asleep on the couch, you carry me off to bed.”

  “I was thinking we might shake it up a little, actually.” There was a sly grin on his face. “My boss is a pervert and an asshole—fair warning—but he’s been getting pretty hung up on the idea of making a family lately.”

  I matched Max’s grin. “So you want to haul your shiny new Omega babydaddy to dinner with you? Show him that you’re in the family way now as well?”

  “You read me like a book, you know that?”

  I shrugged. “You’re an easy read.”

  “Yeah, well—it’s a gala, not dinner. But it would help me get a leg up on this promotion I’m angling for—which would mean more money for our little peanut here.”

  He leaned across the table, raising his fingers to me like he was preparing to give me a peck on the lips and stroke my belly. It was silly—I wasn’t even showing yet. But before he could, he stopped.

  “Sorry,” he said, rising abruptly. He glanced at his watch then tossed his napkin onto the table. “Shit—I’m late. Gotta go. Don’t worry about the dishes—the housekeeper will be around later. And don’t worry about what to wear—my assistant will swing by with some options this afternoon.”

  Max left in a whirlwind, like if he spent so much as a second longer in the apartment with me, we might have to talk about what had just happened. It was cute, in a way. But it wasn’t the near-belly touch or the abrupt exit that surprised me—it was the way he’d talked about the baby. Our little peanut. Our.

  Nine hours later, I was dressed in a tuxedo that cost more than I’d made last year, climbing into the passenger seat of Max’s Mercedes.

  “You look good,” he said with a billion-dollar grin. “Goin’ my way?”

  The anxious nervousness that he’d left with that morning had disappeared in the hours since. He was back to his normal, charming self, dressed in a tuxedo of his own. He must have changed at work.

  “Depends,” I teased. “Will there be food there? I’m starving again.”

  “You’re eating for two now—makes sense. And riding for two as well, come to think. Better buckle up.” Max reached across me, grabbing my seatbelt to buckle me in. The motion gave me a nose full of his cologne, always so elegant and manly and dark. Beneath it, it was just him. His heat. The scent of his skin.

  Just like that, I was transported to that first night again. Straddling his lap. Grinding my body against his. Making him want me—need me—desire me bad enough that he’d taken me out to this very car. We’d conceived our child right there in the seat Max was sitting in. Not the most glamorous story, maybe, but I didn’t have to tell the baby that.

  Max was a good driver, as it turned out. Kept his distance from other cars and braked early. He only had one moment of road rage—a flash of fury as a cab running a red light nearly clipped our front bumper before it skidded to a stop. I’d heard somewhere once that a driver always protects their own side during a collision, but with Max, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. He swerved slightly to the right, ensuring that if the cab did hit us, it’d take his side instead of mine. His hand shot out across my chest as he slammed on the brakes.

  “Half-witted fucker,” Max grumbled as he drove around the cab while its driver flipped us off. “You fucking colorblind?! Could’ve killed us!”

  Normally, road rage would’ve been a turn-off for me. Kevin had always been a shitty driver. He drove his mother’s minivan like he’d stolen it—and in hindsight, for all I knew, maybe he had. The few times that he ever did try to take me somewhere, he ended up swearing at the other cars the entire time. But when Max had road rage, it was oddly sweet. Protective. Reminded me of my dad a little bit, which was weird.

  My dad had always been an exceptionally good man. People never reminded me of him—maybe because other men usually had a hard time measuring up.

  At the gala venue, Max handed off the keys to the valet with a folded hundred tucked beneath then jogged around the car to grab the door for me.

  “How gentlemanly of you,” I purred, enjoying the feel of his fingers wrapped around mine as he helped me up.

  “I might have been raised on a farm,” he countered. “But I was raised right.”

  The gala was being held at an event center called Guastavino’s. With its high, bricked ceilings and candlelit ambiance, it looked like a castle on the inside. Women in sparkling ball gowns and bright-eyed Omegas hung on the arms of tuxedoed men throughout the space. A few were even dancing to the light jazz of a band in the corner—almost as good as the Ballroom’s house band. The tablecloths had been draped in a tasteful pink, with balloons scattered all around to match.

  “Raising money for breast cancer,” Max explained. “Normally I’d just write a check, but…ah. Never mind.” He waved his hand, dismissing whatever it was he was about to say.

  “But what?” I pressed, curious.

/>   “My mom,” he said with a shrug, suddenly becoming deeply interested in a spot on the wall across the room. “Died of it when I was just a teenager.”

  “I’m so sorry, Max.” I squeezed his hand gently. Losing his mother at that age—I couldn’t even imagine. My own mother and I still Skyped for hours every weekend. The thought of losing her like that made my throat feel uncomfortably tight. “That must’ve been hard on you and your dad.”

  “Dad wasn’t really in the picture. I got by okay, though.” There was a thinness to Max’s voice that told me he wasn’t really keen on getting into it any further. “Still hungry?”

  “Starving,” I said with a nod. I was aching to ask him more about his mother—she’d obviously meant a lot to him, whether he was ready to talk about her or not—but I knew better than to pry too much. Everyone grieved in different ways. It surprised me that Max had opened up as much as he just had.

  As we headed for the buffet table where stuffed mushrooms and little blinis piled high with caviar were displayed in abundance, a man approached us and clapped both hands onto Max’s shoulders.

  “Griffin!” the man roared, red-cheeked and beaming. He shook Max by the shoulders, which Max seemed to allow—but not enjoy. “How the hell are ya?”

  “Same as I was when I saw you a few hours ago, Mr. Hayward,” Max pulled on a forced grin, then swept an arm around me. “And how are you?”

  “Drunk is how I am. Started at noon, though—so I fucking better be,” Hayward—Max’s boss at Hayward Financial, if I had to guess—said with pride. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Not tonight.” Max’s fingertips squeezed a little tighter around my waist as Hayward’s eyes fell on me.

  “Well, well.” Hayward licked his lips and raked his fingers through his ruddy brown hair as he took me in. “You know, Griffin, they’re serving dessert after dinner. You didn’t have to bring your own!” He roared with laughter, which didn’t surprise me. He struck me as the kind of man who always laughed at his own jokes.