by Aiden Bates
“He’s ponying up money for drinks to try to impress you,” Carlos countered.
“Yeah, well, it’s not working. I know this dude’s type, okay?”
Carlos rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even seen him yet. If you’d just pop your head out and have a look at him, you might change your mind.”
“I don’t have to see him to know what his game is.” I dumped a palmful of baby oil into my hand and began to work it over my chest, making every ridge of every muscle glisten. “Come on, Carlos. He’s not really interested in me. What kind of dude spends his evenings sending shots over to strippers?”
“You’re not a stripper, you’re a dancer,” Carlos corrected me. “And who knows? Maybe he’s just got the hots for you and wants to get to know you better. Is that so crazy?”
I laughed again. The sound was as bitter as a cup of cold, over-brewed coffee. “Yes, actually. Alphas don’t like me, man. Alphas just want to fuck me, fuck me over, then skip town. Remember Andrew?”
Carlos groaned. “Who steals someone’s house cat then runs off to California with it?”
“Guys that spend their nights sending shots to strippers.” I caught Carlos’ glare and corrected myself this time. “Okay, sorry. Dancers.” I glanced at my phone, thinking wistfully of Cleo Catra napping in the sunshine on Venice Beach. If I had the money for it, I would’ve flown out the second I realized she was gone and stolen her back—but unfortunately, no matter how hard I worked, there never seemed to be the money for it, and the local police department was surprisingly unsympathetic to the plight of my pilfered cat. “He still tags me in his Instagram pics of her sometimes.”
“Right, but Andrew was an outlier,” Carlos said.
“Was he? Because the guy I dated before him used the spare key to my apartment so he could break in while I was at work to steal all the copper pipes out of the walls,” I pointed out. “And the guy before him was just dating me so he could hook up with that cousin of mine who was on “Almega Bachelor,” remember?”
Carlos hung his head in defeat. “That was a rough Thanksgiving that year, I’ll give you that.”
“So.” I rubbed the last of the baby oil off onto my thighs until they were gleaming, then ruffled Carlos’ hair in that way I knew he hated. “Tell Mr. Mezcal that he should save his money or pick a more willing target. Okay?”
“It’s your birthday, Damon…” Carlos mumbled, summoning up a last-ditch argument.
“Which means I don’t want to hear about that guy again.” I gave him a grin and pinched his cheek as I headed to the back of the dressing room. “It’s my birthday wish, Carlos! Make it happen!”
Back in costuming, I plunged headfirst into a box of feather boas and fur coats, searching for the halo I’d tossed in there after the opening number. No sooner than I’d hit the bottom of the box then I felt a smack on my bottom, hard and firm.
“Spanks for the birthday angel!” Anders called out over me, letting out a loud whoop! “How many do I owe you tonight, hot stuff?”
“Save the spankings for your clients.” I chuckled as I withdrew myself from the costume box, spitting out a mouthful of white feathers. “After the bullshit those fuckers at table nine are putting us through tonight, I think I can forgo the spankings just this once.”
“Forty-three it is!” Anders announced, winding up for another whack at my rump.
I caught his wrist before he could make contact, twisting it in an Indian burn like the ones I used to give my little sisters when I was being a brat. “I’m twenty-five and you know it.”
“Okay, okay! Uncle already,” Anders whimpered. “Table nine really has you in a mood, huh?”
I released Anders’ wrist to rub the back of my neck. The stress of dealing with those assholes had immediately settled knots into both of my trapezius muscles, and with half the night left before me, it wasn’t likely to get any better.
“They’ve got you in a mood too, as I remember,” I said, chancing a wry grin. “Or have you already forgotten the way you beat the shit out of that one with your prop cocktail olive?”
Anders made a noise of disgust. “I’d like to see those fuckers call me a slut again. Next time, I’m aiming lower.”
“You should tell that to your stalker,” I teased. “Maybe he’d finally stop creeping on you.”
“That weirdo? Please, he’s a creep, but at least he’s sweet about it. It’s just been chocolates and flowers this week. Not even any of his bad poetry.”
I snickered. Despite being one of the newest additions to the Ballroom’s dance staff, Anders was easily the most popular of all of us. It only made sense that someone like him had a stalker. Anders had been born too handsome for his own good—so of course receiving chocolates and flowers from a secret admirer just made this another normal week for him.
Not all of us had been that lucky, of course. Obviously, the best I could do was random drinks from some brain-damaged individual at the bar who didn’t understand that no meant capital-N, capital-O.
“Just don’t let table nine get to you when you go back out there, okay? Blake gave them his I’m-a-bouncer-and-I-can-bounce-your-ass talk, but when Kieran went on, he said they were still being dicks to people.” Anders sighed. “Night can’t get over fast enough, huh?”
I nodded, thinking of all the stuff I still had to do after I’d finished my last dance, showered and gotten back to our apartment. “You have no idea. I’ve got my midterm tomorrow. Probably going to be awake studying until then at this rate.”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “Um, no you’re not. You don’t turn twenty-five every day, dummy! The guys are all coming around after to drink! If you’re staying up all night tonight, it’s because we’re painting the town red—not because you’re locked in your room highlighting shit in your textbooks.”
And just like that, I felt another knot wind itself up in my shoulders. At this rate, I’d need my physical therapy degree just to figure out how to unwind them all again. It was the worst part of rooming with Anders, really. He only had two speeds: fast and faster. Slowing down was not an option, and if he had brake lines, he’d cut them ages ago.
“Please no,” I begged. “Come on, man. I really need the extra study hours. Seriously. We can go out this weekend or something.”
“This weekend isn’t your birthday,” Anders pouted. “Tonight is your birthday.”
“Fuck,” I swore, glancing up at the clock. “I need to be out on the floor right now. Can we table this argument for later?”
“Ugh. I suppose.”
“In that case, have you seen my halo? I can’t figure out where—”
Anders smirked, green eyes sparkling with mischief as he pulled the gold circlet out from behind his back and dangled it in front of my eyes. “Thought you might be needing it at some point.”
I grabbed it, jamming it onto my head and heading back up front in a jog. As I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the vanity mirrors on my way out, I almost smiled.
I’d never really considered myself handsome. Not like Anders, definitely—in fact, not really handsome at all. But that whiff I’d gotten of the Mezcal must have gone straight to my head, because for a moment, even I had to admit that I looked pretty good that night. My eyes could’ve been bluer, but they weren’t a bad color of blue. My hair was a mess, straw-colored and all over the place, but it gave me a devil-may-care look that I kind of liked seeing on myself.
I wasn’t about to go winning any beauty contests, and I certainly wasn’t going to attract a husband based on looks alone. But for a moment, I was willing to entertain the idea that maybe Mr. Mezcal really had liked me when he saw me up on stage, talking trash to table nine and putting them in their place. Maybe he wasn’t just another Andrew or Jason or James—maybe he liked me for, well, me.
I laughed at myself even as the thought came to me, shaking my head as I pulled myself away from the mirror and out into the crowd. Liking me for me—that was rich. Not even birthday wishes could make that
kind of magic happen. Cute fantasy, sure—but in the real world?
In the real world, things like that just didn’t happen to guys like me. That was Anders’ territory, far, far beyond my reach.
3
Nathan
Carlos sat the Mezcal back down on the bar next to me with an apologetic shrug.
“Can’t win ‘em all, amigo,” he said, flashing me a sad smile. “Believe me though, I tried.”
“Fuck,” I groaned, reeling back on my bar stool. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Sorry, buddy.” The bartender mopped a rag across the bar top and shifted the shot of Mezcal a little closer to me. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
I shoved the shot back toward him. “Take it. I need a clear head right now.”
“Aww. If your ego’s hurt…” Carlos cooed.
“My ego is not hurt,” I was quick to correct, pointing a finger at him with ferocity. “I just need to figure out how to make this guy notice me. Never could work well drunk.” Not that Don Sterling would’ve ever let me get away with trying. The customers at Sterling Enterprises could rest assured in my dedication to sobriety.
In a way, catching a man was no different than playing the stock market. First, you picked your target—in my case, I was a go big or go home kind of guy. Then, you did your research—which I had. It didn’t make any difference whether I was reading the financial news, trying to decide whether the latest billionaire dick-pic scandal would affect the markets or not, or whether I was figuring out my current object of affection’s favorite drink.
But dick-pic scandals, much like shots of Mezcal, didn’t always go over the way you thought they would. I’d bet poorly on the former earlier that morning—it’d been cocky of me to assume that the American public really cared anymore who their billionaire industry leaders were sending pictures of their wangs to. The latter, to my dismay, had been a bust as well.
But that was the thing men and the markets also had in common: they weren’t easily simplified. I should’ve known better than to try something so pedestrian as sending an Omega like Damon a boring-ass drink. He wanted to play hard-to-get, that was fine by me. I just needed something that would jump out and wow him—something so big and impressive that he had no choice but to pay attention to me.
I glanced down at my phone on the bar top, then immediately thought better of it. While my own dick pics were nothing short of fine fucking art, for some reason this didn’t seem like the time.
Instead, I flipped through my messages, letting the drollness of my eternally full inbox scroll before my eyes while I mulled my next move over. Duncan Rourke, one of the finest finance men on Wall Street (as long as you weren’t counting present company), was sending me pictures from The Backdoor—another Omega strip club, but one that could only dream of having the Ballroom’s class and style. He had three strippers draped over him like fabric samples in a tailor’s shop—none of whom, I was proud to admit, were half as good-looking as my target for the night.
Damon had a face like a Navy SEAL and a body like a Navy SEAL who ate other SEALs for breakfast. He was strong, sensual, with thick wrists that were just begging to be held down against a mattress and lips that desperately needed to be crushed beneath my own. The slender-hipped, waifish thing had never been my type when it came to Omegas—I liked an Omega who looked a little more like a challenge. I didn’t spend hours pumping iron in my private gym every night just to pick up some frail little thing who’d break the second I got him in my arms. I wanted to conquer, and Damon was the kind of man who looked like he could use a good conquering.
He’d succumb to my charms in the end. They always did. But of course, it would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if he hadn’t been putting up such an inexplicable fight.
“Nate? What the hell are you doing here?” I recognized the deep baritone of Max Griffin’s voice before he parted the crowd between us, his own handsome Omega tucked beneath his arm.
“Max!” I grinned, rising to shake my fellow Alpha’s hand. Sterling had been trying to tempt him over to our company ever since Max had left Hayward Financial six months ago. Max had only just recently signed. “Didn’t think I’d see you in a place like this for a good long while.”
“You might not again,” Max’s Omega—whose name I hadn’t caught yet—said with a coy smile. He ran his hand over his belly, which looked nearly ready to pop. “We’re only here for the night.”
“Riley, this is Nathan Garnet—the man to beat in the finance game these days.” Max was quick to make the introductions—always a gentleman. I’d heard he came from a rough upbringing, but someone had obviously raised him right. “Nate, meet Riley, my—”
“Fiancé,” Riley finished, flashing a shining silver ring on his left hand before looking adoringly up at Max. “I know we said we wouldn’t tell anyone yet, but…”
Max laughed. “But now you’ve told the biggest loudmouth in Manhattan. Half the city will know by midnight.”
“Hey,” I said, mock offended. Admittedly, I did love a good rumor or two—but Max was Sterling Enterprises family now. I could save the gossip just this once. “Your secret’s safe with me. Scout’s honor.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “If you were a Boy Scout, I’m Tom fucking Hardy.”
“Fair.” I chuckled, watching the way Riley’s fingers found homes for themselves in the spaces between Max’s. It was a beautiful thing—one that was far beyond my own romantic capabilities, but still sweet to watch nonetheless. “When’d you pop the question, Maxy?”
The couple shared a devious look.
“Just a few minutes ago, actually,” Max admitted, a grin that wouldn’t quit plastered across his face. “We, ah…might’ve met here at the Ballroom. Thought I’d remind Riley of where it all began.”
“I used to dance here,” Riley explained.
“Is that how you won each other over? With a lap dance?” I tutted, wagging my finger the way my nanny always had when she’d caught me climbing the fence onto the neighbors’ property to play with their dogs.
“Started with a lap dance.” Max pressed a kiss to Riley’s temple. “I don’t think I really won him over until he saw me smashing Malcolm Hayward’s face against a counter.”
I threw my head back, roaring with laughter. Everyone had heard of the terms at which Max had been fired from Hayward Financial. Hayward’s nose was still crooked from the encounter—almost as crooked as Hayward himself.
“Congrats to both of you.” I clapped Max on the shoulder as they drifted toward the door. “See you at work tomorrow?”
“Better be on your toes,” Max warned me. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a lucky man this week.”
“I always am.” I watched them go, seeing the way Max wound his hand around Riley’s waist as they made their exit.
Fuck, that must’ve been nice. Not for me, of course—I’d never met anyone I’d ever be able to see myself settling down with for more than a night or two, let alone a lifetime—but in general, I imagined it was a pretty comforting thing. Having someone to rely on, depend on, someone waiting for you when you came home after a long day…
It was never going to happen for me, of course, but when I said I was happy for Max and Riley, I meant it. The only person I had waiting for me at the end of the day was my corgi, Lady—but to be fair, she was always happy to see me, which was more than what some people could say. For the time being, I knew I’d just have to be content with what I did have: incredibly persuasive good looks, a bank account with more zeroes than I knew what to do with, and a cock so big I had to order my condoms special-made.
Somehow, I suspected I’d be just fine.
Up on stage, the band was plucking out the groovy opening lines of “Light My Fire” by the Doors while a copper-haired hunk in a fireman’s get-up shimmied beneath the weight of his hose across his shoulders. Wolf whistles and cheers rose up every time he removed another part of his outfit until he was wearing nothing but his boot
s, a G-string, and his fireman’s hat.
He was handsome, of course—all the dancers at the Ballroom were. But my eyes weren’t so interested in the no-doubt enchanting things he was doing with his hose. I was still itching to see the other dancer again—Damon. Once I’d decided on a conquest for the night, it was hard to let my mind wander elsewhere.
Unfortunately, when I found him in the crowd, he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as his firefighter friend was.
I spotted his angel wings first, full and white-feathered as he thrust his shoulders back down by the tables just beneath the stage. His halo was perched atop his head jauntily, and his body was so slick with oil that I couldn’t help but think what he’d look like covered in my cum instead.
But his brow was turned downward in a scowl, and his lips were pulled back in a snarl. To my disgust, I saw one of the cat-calling jackasses from earlier had grabbed onto Damon’s ass, attempting to pull my dancer into his lap.
I glanced around for the bouncer, but he was nowhere to be found. And while some of the other patrons looked as though they were uncomfortable with what was happening—the drunken, redheaded Alpha refusing to let Damon go no matter how hard Damon pulled away—no one was actually doing anything about it.
Fuck.
I supposed that was my cue.
I rose from my barstool, heat spinning itself wiry and tense in my chest. I wasn’t thinking—in that moment, rational thought was a luxury afforded to lesser men.
I claimed the expanse of the Ballroom between Damon and me like Hannibal Barca thundering across the Alps into Rome. By the time I got to the table where he was being grabbed at, my shirtsleeves were rolled up to my elbows and my cufflinks were tucked away safely in my pockets.
These pricks wanted to get handsy, they could get handsy with me.
“Let go,” Damon warned the redhead a final time, throwing his hip outward as he struggled to slide out of the Alpha’s grasp.
“Oh, come on, honey,” the Alpha cooed while his table mates guffawed nastily. “If you weren’t looking for a little sugar, you shouldn’t have come over here dressed like such a treat!”
