Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  “Want me to get you some coffee? Might help perk you up a little bit.”

  “Nah.” I waved Foster’s offer away. “Coffee sounds like it’d turn my stomach right now. I haven’t had any in… God, weeks at this point.”

  “Nip of whiskey, then? A good, stiff drink might make up for the lack of other stiffies in your life right now. Marco’s been putting together this bourbon cocktail with pickle juice in it, of all things…”

  I considered it—I really did. For some reason, pickle juice sounded strangely incredible all of a sudden, even though I’d never really considered myself much of anything to do with cucumbers. Getting blackout drunk and forgetting about Ace would’ve been the reasonable thing to do, I knew. But something in my body was so completely against the idea of alcohol, I also knew I wouldn’t be able to finish just one drink—let alone enough of them to get a Marine trashed enough to forget the only man I’d ever felt like I could have had something that lasted with.

  “Honestly? I haven’t felt like drinking in weeks. Which is…weird, I guess. But healthy, right?” I covered my mouth as I watched the dancers below picking themselves up off the stage and struggling to find their places in the routine once again. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for the party boy shit, I guess.”

  “Maybe,” Foster said, his voice suddenly tense. “Or maybe… Look, Noah, I don’t want to alarm you or anything…but did you and Ace have unprotected…y’know?”

  He made an okay sign with one hand and slipped the index finger of his other hand in and out of the little O shape the left made. My eyebrows shot up immediately—what a loaded fucking question, especially coming from my boss, of all people.

  “We did,” I said slowly. “But I’ve told you before, I can’t have kids, man. I’ve tried to before—just not possible. Or else I would have made him wrap his cock, right? I’m not an idiot. I know how babies are made.”

  “Right, but did you ever actually get tested? Confirmed infertile or whatever? Takes two people to make a baby, Noah. No cravings for caffeine, no stomach for booze, but I saw the way your face lit up when I mentioned fucking pickle juice…”

  “I…we didn’t,” I admitted. “But come on—what’s the likelihood that I spent a year of my life trying for a baby only to get knocked up when Ace, of all people, puts it in me?”

  Foster shrugged. “Maybe the guy you were trying with was the problem. Or maybe, Ace Winston has incredibly potent super-sperm, who knows? I’m just saying—the tightness in your stomach, the tiredness, those dreamless sleeps you were talking about earlier on and the way I’ve watched you blanch every time you walk past a dancer who’s put on too much cologne…”

  “I’m not getting morning sickness, though,” I pointed out, digging my heels in. “No early morning vomiting. No praying to the porcelain throne.”

  Foster laughed—not a nice laugh, but at least a somewhat sympathetic one. “Oh, you poor thing. Do you really think that morning sickness is the only sign of a pregnancy?”

  “I…I guess so?” I shook my head, unwilling to believe it. “I don’t fucking know, Foster! I’ve never been pregnant before—I didn’t even think I could be.”

  “Tell me this, okay? How do your nipples feel?”

  Normally, I would have laughed at that. This was a weird conversation, even by the usual standards for Foster and me. But as I cupped my left pec, even I had to admit… It felt strangely tender. My nipple pressed through my shirt, rising up to meet my hand immediately. Aching sore and hard enough to chip glass.

  “Shit,” I swore softly. “Yeah…they feel… Oh, shit. Fucking weird, yeah.”

  Foster nodded down to my pelvis. “What about your hips? Have you been having like, a dull pain in them?”

  I bit my lower lip. “I thought maybe I’d pulled a muscle or something.”

  “And your, ah…” Foster blinked as he tried to find the right words. “Have you been especially wet lately, by any chance?”

  I felt all the color drain away from my face. Whatever the dancers were doing on the stage below us now, it hardly registered. My entire vision had narrowed to a pinpoint—but I didn’t need to be able to see straight to recall the way I’d been soaking wet lately, like my body was suddenly producing so much honey that Ace and a dozen clones of him could have run a fucking train on me all night long if they’d felt so inclined.

  “I think I need to take a pregnancy test,” I said softly, the realization ringing in my ears as it sank into my bones.

  “I think you’re right.” Foster went to his desk, keying open a drawer and fishing out a little box from it. “Use the bathroom up here—I don’t need any of our potential recruits getting overly excited that we might have two spots to fill in the lineup instead of just one.”

  Ten minutes and two little blue lines later, and Foster’s suspicions were just as confirmed as my fears. My hands were shaking as I brought the test out of the bathroom with me, holding it like it was some kind of fragile, holy thing that I couldn’t risk dropping, or else it might break.

  “I’m pregnant.” The words sounded leagues away in my ears, and no matter how hard I tried to stop my fingers from shaking, I couldn’t make them. I hadn’t trembled so fucking hard since I’d come back from Iraq. Hadn’t felt so fucking shell-shocked since I’d literally been torn into by that last roadside bomb.

  “Yeah,” Foster said, nodding sagely. “Yeah, thought you might be. Christ—it’s like this place is some kind of fertility temple or something. You’re what, the fourth dancer in two years?”

  “Guess so,” I said, blinking down at the test again and trying to make sense of it all.

  Foster’s face softened as he came over to me. “How are you feeling? This has to be…a lot for you right now.”

  “Yeah,” I intoned, easing my shoulders back and trying to remember how to breathe. “Yeah… A lot pretty much covers it.”

  “Scared?”

  I nodded. “And…I know it’s stupid of me, but, also excited? I…I didn’t think I could even do this, Foster. And now…”

  “And now it’s all sinking in that the rest of our life is going to follow those two little blue lines,” he finished for me, twice as eloquent as whatever dumbass words I was going to try and sum my feelings up into.

  “You sure do know a lot about this for someone without kids,” I pointed out.

  He shrugged. “Had an accident myself a few years back. Nothing ever came of it, obviously. Miscarried about a week after I found out.”

  “Mystery Alpha?” I asked, doing my best not to sound surprised—even though I was. Omegas didn’t usually talk about their miscarriages. At least, apparently not until they had pregnant employees-slash-friends who were facing the music that they’d be singing lullabies and reading bedtime stories in nine short months.

  “Why do you think he sends so many flowers?” Foster said fondly. “He was so excited when I first told him. Think he was pretty heartbroken when it all came crashing down again.”

  “I’m so sorry, Foster.” I knew it was two years too late, but now that I knew I had this little life growing inside of me, the thought of losing it… I’d only just found out this baby even existed and already, the idea of not having it anymore would have fucking killed me.

  “Never mind that,” Foster said, shaking my sympathy away. “The more important thing is…how do you think Ace is going to feel when you tell him?”

  Suddenly, my throat was dry. My mouth felt like every bit of saliva had suddenly evaporated off my tongue. I was a fucking desert of a man in three seconds flat as I grappled with how to answer that question—maybe because I hadn’t even considered whether or not to tell Ace, let alone how he’d feel about it if I did.

  “I don’t know,” I said, swallowing painfully. “He’s… God, I don’t think he even wants to see me again, Foster. I left him in that Italian place with a bottle of champagne instead of so much as a glance goodbye. How do you even tell someone something like this after doing something lik
e that?”

  “I don’t know.” Foster stared at me for a moment, a wistfulness in his eyes, before he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around my neck. It was the kind of hug that Omegas like us rarely gave each other. Just because we could birth babies didn’t mean that we felt like we needed to get all melodramatic about it. “But whatever you decide, just know that you’re fucking family here, okay? Ace or no Ace—you and this baby aren’t alone.”

  Normally, I would have bristled at that kind of comforting. When Marines had feelings, we went out and found a nice, sturdy wall to punch. We didn’t whine and sob and hug things out.

  But just this once…I let it happen.

  Foster was right. He was family. Just as much of a brother to me as any of the men I’d served with. And more…I’d be damned if a hug wasn’t exactly what I needed right now.

  Just for a minute.

  Even if it wasn’t from the person I really needed it from just then.

  Just this once.

  15

  Ace

  By day, the Backdoor was just a dirty, average-looking venue that smelled faintly of old sweat and spilled beer. By night, though, it was a fucking snake pit. Scantily clad men in fishnets, eyeliner, neon body paint danced in grimy-looking cages that could be unlocked for private dances by feeding tokens into a slot on the side. Horny Alphas, all reeking of too much cologne and their own sexual aggression, humped and grinded on nearly anything that moved out on the dance floor. It lacked the Ballroom’s class, its dignity, the sense of performance and talent that drew in its high-rolling clientele.

  As soon as I stepped foot inside the club, I knew exactly why Harmon had wanted to take what the Ballroom had and make it his own. His club was cheap, sticky and slimy almost as if by design, whereas the Ballroom was the height of elegance and splendor. It made my head spin to think that I’d ensnared one of the Ballroom’s dancers even for a moment, even if it had been orchestrated by design and money and stupid fucking lies.

  As I pushed my way through the sweat-soaked bodies to Harmon’s back office, I couldn’t help but feel glad for a moment that I’d failed in my mission to convert Noah over to the Backdoor’s wicked ways. Elegant wasn’t the right word for an Omega like him. He was too rough, to wild, too like me to pretend he was anything so pretentious as that. But that perfect body of his, trapped in a cage to gyrate his hips for Alphas like the ones that hung out at places like this?

  Noah Layton would have been wasted on the Backdoor. Almost as much as he’d been wasted on me.

  It made me feel a little better as I took the money Harmon had paid me out of my jacket pocket and placed it onto his desk with a subtle thump.

  Wesley Harmon, clad in a cheap suit and a pair of eyeglasses, glanced down at the stack of bills, then slowly slid his gaze up toward me.

  “Ace,” he said, smiling like a bastard. “You know, if you wanted a dance from me, you only needed to ask.”

  “Your money,” I explained, crossing my arms and nodding at him. “It’s all there, Harmon. Full refund.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, the sharp-toothed smile disappearing. “And why on earth would I want that?”

  “Failed at the job you hired me for. Foster Collins and the boys at the Ballroom know what you’re up to. Won’t apologize for it, but I figured I’d at least give you your money back.”

  He blinked up at me twice, then removed his glasses and threw his head back in a laugh that lasted far too long for comfort. “It’s cute that you think that, Ace. But actually, you played your part perfectly. You’ve earned every dollar of that. You ought to keep it.”

  It was my turn to blink in confusion. “I’m not following.”

  “I suppose it’s silly to expect you to. You big, dumb Alphas are like that sometimes.” Harmon chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “You were never going to convert Noah Layton over to my lineup, Ace. That boy lives and breathes the Ballroom. It’s practically in his blood. But…as far as distractions go, you couldn’t have been a better one.”

  “Distraction,” I repeated, bristling at being called dumb. I was more street smarts than book smarts, sure, but at least I had the brains to know that cheap fabric and a half-assed tailor were never going to make a man like Wesley Harmon look good in a knock-off Armani.

  “Such a good one that it might as well have been magic. While you kept Noah and Foster busy focusing on your silly little scheming, I sent one of my boys over to poach their more willing dancers. One has jumped ship already. We’ll probably have another two by the end of the week. And besides—thanks to you, Noah’s leaving the Ballroom anyway. Really, when it comes to the call of duty, you’ve gone above and beyond.”

  My brow knitted itself together, low and annoyed. Whatever revelation Harmon was teasing me toward, I didn’t fucking like it any more than I liked the nicotine stains on his teeth.

  “Noah would never leave the Ballroom,” I countered. “You just said so yourself.”

  “No,” Harmon corrected me. “I said he’d never come work here. But he’s leaving, all right—their Instagram just announced it and everything. Your handiwork, no doubt.”

  He reached for his phone and pulled up the post, sliding it over so I could see it. The photo was of a group of the Ballroom’s dancers in the champagne room—Noah in the center among them, a bittersweet smile on his lips. Goodbye, Noah! Thanks for everything, we’ll miss you!

  It made my heart fucking stop. Not just the knowledge that he was leaving the only place he thought of as home, but that smile of his, too. The way it seemed so forced, it made my chest ache. The shallowness of it—the way it didn’t seem to meet his eyes.

  “How the fuck is that my handiwork?” I asked. “He broke it off with me, Harmon. If he’s leaving, it sure as hell isn’t my fault.”

  “Isn’t it?” Harmon’s grin grew crueler by the minute. “Word on the street is, some scruffy, dark-eyed Alpha went and knocked him up. The Ballroom dancer we poached just confirmed it for me himself. Out of commission for at least nine months—and after he gives birth, he’s not exactly going to be able to give lap dances with a C-section scar.”

  My teeth clashed together, molars grinding as I processed the news.

  Noah Layton, pregnant. Noah Layton, leaving the place he was so passionate about because some scruffy, dark-eyed Alpha had put a baby into him. What Harmon was insinuating was obvious. If Noah was pregnant, the baby was mine. But Noah’d said that he wasn’t able to get pregnant—if he hadn’t, I would’ve had the decency to go pick up the morning-after pill for him after that first night. Worn a condom for him. Been careful. Made sure we were safe.

  But if what Harmon was saying was true…

  “You’re lying,” I accused, the cold, dark sense of guilt in my gut multiplying with my every breath.

  “I’m not,” Harmon said, pulling his phone away and pushing the money back at me. “What incentive would I have to lie? Like I said, Ace—you’ve more than earned that money. You ought to keep it.” His eyes trailed down my body again, focusing in on the zipper of my jeans beneath my belt. “Unless there’s some other way you’d like me to repay you? Sounds like you’re pretty virile…and if you like knocking up Omegas so much…”

  “Fuck you,” I spat, shaking my head as I stormed out the door. On the way out of the club, every sweaty Alpha I encountered moved instinctively out of my way. The fury was rolling off me like heat off the pavement in the rain, rising up in steam and swirling around my head so thick that I could hardly see straight.

  I fucking hated Wesley Harmon for putting me up to talking to Noah in the first place. I hated myself for everything I’d done to him—the seduction, the lies, and now a pregnancy on top of it all.

  I hated myself for taking the job to begin with, and I hated myself even more for making sure that he’d struggle to find work as a dancer ever again.

  Out on the street, my chest heaved like there was something violent and angry caged beneath it. I felt like a monster, from the pit
of my stomach to the way my hands were curled into tight, hard fists. Maybe I was one. It would take a monster to meet someone like Noah and so thoroughly ruin his life. It’d take something even worse than a monster to knock him up and leave him to deal with the consequences on his own.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, my boots hit the pavement like I was trying to stomp it down beneath my heels. I’d gone into Wesley’s club that night knowing that I’d fucked up on every level with Noah. Now, I was leaving with the knowledge that there was no limit to how badly I’d managed to ruin things.

  Don’t trust an Omega, my father had told me—but now, I wished Noah’s own father had told him the same about men like me. Every cell in my body was telling me to go to him now. Apologize. Beg forgiveness. I had some money tucked away that could support us while I found proper work. I had a hard, chiseled body that could protect him and our baby both from all the bullshit this stupid world could throw at us. But at the same time, every cell in my brain was telling me that I should’ve known better than that.

  Noah’d already given me one chance to make amends. I should have taken it—and instead, I’d thrown it away so thoroughly, I knew there wouldn’t be a second one. Noah was too good for that, and I was too undeserving of any forgiveness he could find in his heart to offer me.

  All I could do was stomp down the pavement as I battled my way through which of my options was the lesser of two evils. That’s what it really boiled down to in the end—which would hurt Noah least? Did I have the decency to disappear the way my Omega father had disappeared on me? Disappear into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again? It would allow Noah to live his life without my long, dark shadow hanging over him. Raise our child the way he wanted. Someday, find some handsome, loving Alpha who knew better than to fuck up the best thing that had ever come into his life. Or did I go to him the way I wanted to? Be the father that my own father had never been? I could support Noah, support our baby. I had the connections, the funds, the hunger to offer him the world and beyond—if he’d only let me. If he’d only find it in his heart to find some way to take me back.