Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  “Confused, mostly,” I admitted, casting a sympathetic glance at the young Omega who’d drawn the short straw of being assigned as Hayward’s personal punching bag. “Want to explain to me why everyone outside seems to be mid-purge?”

  “Oh, just some stuff with the Feds,” Hayward said, waving my worries away like he was trying to clear the air of a bad smell. “Not anything that you need to concern yourself with.”

  “The Feds?” I sputtered, blinking at his casualness. “Mal, that’s absolutely of my concern—I’m CFO, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Oh, don’t be such an old biddy,” Hayward chided. “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything.”

  “Federal law enforcement…not a big deal? You’re kidding, right? I’ve just been over our books, Mal! We were running a perfectly clean, legal business, last I checked.”

  “And it’s your job to continue making it look that way.” Hayward leaned forward in his chair, pulling back the head of the little bird on his desk and setting it into motion. It made a soft, watery noise as it rocked its beak in and out of a tiny cup of liquid positioned on the stand beneath it. “Look, really, you don’t need to worry about it. I’ve already figured it all out—we’re going to be fine.”

  “Making it look that way?” I repeated, before quickly shaking that particular bit of outrage out of my head. If I followed up on every piece of shady shit that Hayward put forth, we’d be there all day—him saying something terrifying, me repeating it like the world’s most anxious echo. “Mal, if we’re going to be fine, then explain to me why the hell everyone outside is acting like our records contain the fucking plague!”

  Hayward rolled his eyes with the boredom of a teenage girl who’d just been given a curfew she fully intended to break. “I asked the boys in accounting to be a little…creative with our books last quarter, okay?”

  “You did what? Why the hell wasn’t I consulted on this?”

  Hayward only grinned. “You did look over the numbers, Palmer. They did a pretty handy job of things, if even you didn’t catch them.”

  I clenched my jaw, fighting back an embarrassed flush. He was right—I should have caught them. The fact that I hadn’t was a personal blow to my ego that I’d have to worry about later. There were bigger disasters to concern myself with for the time being. “Maybe I didn’t catch them,” I conceded, “But someone obviously has.”

  “And like I said, I’ve already taken care of it.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Explain how.”

  “Dinner date with Mickey Montgomery and his new Omega husband,” Hayward said, sounding twice as pleased with himself as he should have.

  “No,” I said immediately, my stomach turning at the mere thought of it. “Absolutely not.”

  “Yes,” he countered. “You know what a hard time he’s had socializing ever since he left that socialite ex of his for the new Omega tramp. We do dinner with them, ingratiate him to our cause for an evening, he’ll sort everything out with the federal investigators. Problem solved.”

  “Then you can do it alone.” I doubled down on my position—and on the way my molars were grinding in between words. Mickey Montgomery was an asshole and everyone in Manhattan knew it. He’d left his last husband and three kids six months earlier for a hot little gold-digging piece of ass without so much as a wave goodbye. Wining and dining a dickhead like him wouldn’t just be social suicide—it’d be professional suicide on top of it, federal connections or not. “I’m not going to be a part of it, Mal. Look, I’ll have another look at the books, we’ll see if we can’t convince the Feds that this is just an accounting error.”

  Hayward cringed slightly. “It, ah, might be a little beyond that.”

  “So we have to fire some people.” I didn’t like it, but they had to have known that what they were doing was wrong.

  Hayward laughed. “I threatened to fire them if they didn’t do it, Palmer. They were just following orders. Do you really want that on your conscience?”

  “Then step down,” I suggested. “Retire to the Bahamas. Hire some attractive, glib Alpha to take your place instead.”

  Hayward’s brow lowered, the laughter disappearing from his face. “If I go down, the rest of the company goes down with me. I built this place, I’ll burn it down before I leave it.”

  I blinked at him, desperately fighting back the urge to pull back my fist and knock his jaw out of place with it. At his best, Hayward was a corporate genius. At his worst?

  At his worst, he’d cost every person in the entire fucking building their jobs—including me. I didn’t know what I hated more—the idea of Hayward getting away with whatever bullshit he’d strong-armed the accounting department into pulling, or the idea of five hundred plus employees losing their livelihoods while I was forced to go crawling back to Don Sterling to ask for my old job back.

  “If we’re seen out in public with Mickey fucking Montgomery, our clients will never trust us again,” I pointed out, swallowing back my anger and hoping to God Hayward would listen to reason for once. Mickey wasn’t just a social pariah. In the financial world, his name was synonymous with scandal and destruction. People like Hayward and I only reached out to people like Mickey in times of direst desperation.

  Which, apparently, wasn’t far from the case.

  “The dinner will be at Mr. Hayward’s place,” Hayward’s secretary put forth timidly, casting a nervous glance at Hayward and hunching like he expected something to be thrown at him for speaking out of turn.

  Thankfully, Hayward wasn’t in the mood for throwing his desk ornaments around—just yet, anyway. A sly grin returned to his face instead as he leaned back in his leather desk chair, crossing his arms behind his head.

  “Besides, Mickey’s already accepted the invitation—on the express condition that you’ll be there.”

  “Why me?” I found myself shouting—and immediately felt bad about it when I noticed the way it made Hayward’s secretary flinch.

  “Because,” Hayward explained, “The last time Mickey and I had dinner together, I may or may not have taken a swing at him. But he likes you, Palmer. Thinks you’re a classy guy. And that new little tart of his—Alejandro or whatever his name is—he rather likes the idea of being wined and dined by Alton Palmer of the Upper East Side Palmers. And, of course, your date.”

  “Date?” I shook my head, realizing that I was repeating Hayward’s words back at him again. “Why the hell do I need to bring a date to this thing?”

  “Because I told him we’re a family-oriented company, Palmer. Do try and keep up.”

  “You’ve been riding that lie for years now,” I pointed out. “It’s still not true.”

  “I’m a family man!” Hayward protested, pouting.

  “A dozen bastards from a dozen different Omegas doesn’t really count as family-oriented in our circles, Mal.”

  “Maybe not,” Hayward admitted with a shrug. “But I have a date. Mickey has fucking Fabio—or whatever his name is. And so it follows that you must also have a date, my friend. It’s a couples thing.”

  “Make it a singles thing,” I grumbled.

  “Triple-date is an easier sell.”

  “I don’t have a babysitter,” I countered, racking my brain for any excuse I could find.

  “Brett,” Hayward barked, and his secretary inhaled sharply as he straightened to attention. “Find Mr. Palmer a babysitter. Stat.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hayward,” Brett simpered back, looking relieved to have an excuse to scurry out of Hayward’s office.

  “There,” Hayward said, grinning wide. “Any other complaints?”

  “I don’t like it,” I told him frankly.

  “You don’t have to like it. You’re saving the company, Palmer! Saving all these people’s careers and paychecks! Noble fuck like you, you should be thrilled for the chance.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said, completely aware that it didn’t matter. Hayward had me in a corner and he knew it. The look on his face said it
all—then he opened his mouth and reinforced it.

  “I know you don’t, buddy. But that’s what you get for being a hero, isn’t it?”

  “Fuck,” I swore, pushing out the door and storming to my own office.

  I knew what I should have done. I should have gone to the Feds immediately. Handed over everything that I legally could to them. Helped them figure out where to point the warrants so they could acquire all the rest. There was one accountant in particular—Simmons, who we never should have hired in the first place—that I strongly suspected had a literal goldmine of illegal activity sitting in the hard drive of the computer on his desk.

  But if I went to the Feds, Hayward would take the whole company down with him. I knew enough about our financial state to know that if we could dodge these charges—and if I kept a closer eye on our books from here on out—we could survive it. No one would lose their jobs. The company would move past it—but only if Hayward’s little plan with Mickey Montgomery worked.

  This was a fiasco of the highest degree, and it would only get worse—unless I did as Hayward said. Shit like this was why I’d initially chosen to go with Sterling Financial in the first place. My only regret was that Don Sterling was enough of a bastard that he’d forced me right into Hayward’s money-grubbing little hands. Under Hayward’s thumb like this, I had no choice but to play nice and play along—or else, he’d take all five hundred of his employees down with him, just like he’d threatened to do. Hayward did a lot of lying, sure, but I’d known him for long enough to know that he didn’t bluff.

  Which meant that I had to go to his stupid dinner.

  Which meant that I had to find a stupid date.

  I poured myself into my own desk chair and pulled out my phone, sighing at the prospect. I hadn’t been on a date in so long, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to anymore. But, on the other hand…

  I pulled up Eliot’s number and hit the button to start a text. It was a long shot, sure, but I didn’t know who else to ask. And, after all…I had suggested that we go out together sometime. It wasn’t an ideal first date, no, and it wasn’t how I would have liked to rekindle things with him…

  But until this latest Hayward-flavored forest fire was put out, I didn’t have much of a choice.

  I shot off the text then immediately pushed my phone across my desk and away from me, a slick, nauseous feeling rolling in my stomach. It wasn’t how I wanted to do things, but it was the only chance in hell I had at the moment. Eliot was handsome, charming, and, having worked at the Backdoor at one point in his life, more than capable of entertaining sleazeballs like Hayward and Mickey Montgomery for the night. And selfishly, I knew that if I invited him and he accepted…at least I’d have a chance in hell of having something that could resemble a good time.

  My phone buzzed back immediately, faster than I’d expected. I dove for it anxiously, reading his words so fast they nearly made my head spin.

  Tell me more, the text read, and against all expectations, I found myself writing my response with a smile.

  6

  Eliot

  “Dinner at your boss’ house.” I chuckled, tugging at the lapels of the suit jacket Alton’s tailor had dressed me in. The black silk was cool and soft beneath my fingers, a perfect contrast to the expensive wool the rest of the jacket was made of. “Not exactly a traditional first date.”

  “Not much about this is traditional.” Alton came up behind me, brushing nonexistent lint off my shoulders. “Do you hate it?”

  I smirked, watching the way he moved in the mirror before us. He was watching my body, the way the jacket hugged my shoulders with perfection that only a Manhattan tailor could provide, but me—I only had eyes for him.

  “The jacket or the set-up?”

  A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Either. Both.”

  I rolled my shoulders back, enjoying the cut of the suit and the feeling of Alton’s body so close to mine. “The suit’s nice.”

  “Nicer than you’re used to?”

  I shrugged. “Nicer than I’ve been used to for a while. Not the nicest thing I’ve ever been dressed in, though.”

  He blinked, inclining his head slightly. “You do know this is Armani, right?”

  I turned, squaring my body up to his. “You don’t think I’ve worn Armani before?”

  A glimmer of interest caught in the hazel of his eyes. “I didn’t think so, no. The Ballroom is a nice place, but I didn’t think it was designer suit money nice.”

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t always a stripper.”

  “You’re not a stripper now,” he pointed out.

  “Stripper, burlesque dancer. It’s not really all that different in the end.” I plucked at Alton’s lapel, midnight blue to my suit’s black. We shouldn’t have matched, but his tailor had chosen the colors specifically to complement each other. He was obviously worth whatever Alton was paying him. “My family was pretty well-off when I was younger, though.”

  “Tailored Armani well-off?”

  I shrugged again. “Something like that.”

  “It’s a wonder that they didn’t set you up with a trust fund, then.” He breathed out nice and slow as my fingers trailed up toward his collar. “When Armani-rich Omegas like you end up in New York, you’re usually living in penthouses on Fifth Avenue and spending all your time doing Broadway call-backs.”

  “That was the plan, once upon a time,” I admitted.

  “What happened?”

  “Things changed.” A year ago, talking about my failed Broadway career might’ve left me feeling sad and pathetic, but now it only reared its ugly head as wistfulness instead. “My parents lost their company when I was getting ready to graduate. Bankrupted the family. All the money they were going to use to pay for penthouses and Juilliard ended up going to pay off their debts instead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alton said simply, but I only laughed.

  “I didn’t have to come out here anyway. Guess I just wanted it too much to deny myself the chance. But you know how it is—living in New York is too expensive for silly dreams.” I took the price tag on the suit beneath Alton’s arm between my fingers and glanced at the number written on it. There were enough zeroes on it that it made my breath catch in my throat. “Hell. Or, I guess, maybe you don’t know how it is at all.”

  He took my fingers into his, pulling them away from the tag. “Maybe I don’t. But that’s the beauty of this, isn’t it? You let me dress in the way you should’ve been dressed all these years anyway, come out to a nice dinner with me, let me wine you and dine you and impress you with the size of my bank account…”

  “It’s not the size of your bank account that interests me,” I said, a wicked glint catching in my gaze.

  “Oh?” He pulled back, his tongue flicking against his lower lip. Dark pink. Soft looking. Just wet enough that I could imagine how it’d feel flicking against my lips instead. “What is it, then?”

  I pulled myself a little closer to him, my thighs brushing against his. “See, I’m actually much more interested in the size of your…” My knuckles dragged against the crease in his slacks, dragging upward until I could feel the slightest bulge in his crotch. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I felt him inhale, just before I moved my fingers up to his chest. “Heart.”

  “That’s sweet.” His breath left his chest in a laugh. “And here I was, thinking you were after either my wallet or my cock.”

  “Give me time,” I teased, my lips turning up toward his. Now we were so close I could feel his breath on my skin.

  “Keep close to me like this, and I’ll give you whatever you—”

  “Gentlemen?”

  We both turned sharply to the door of the changing room, where Alton’s tailor had posted himself up in the doorway. The tailor was a short, round, red-faced bald man with a scowl on his brow that told me he didn’t tolerate any hanky-panky in his fitting rooms—not even for men as wealthy and impressive as Alton Palmer was.
>
  “Sorry, Mark. Just enjoying the cut of these suits,” Alton apologized.

  “As long as that’s all you’re enjoying the cut of,” Mark grumbled back. “Ready to settle up?”

  “As good as you look in this… Why don’t we get dressed?” Alton told me, a flash of disappointment in his eyes as he reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay for these and have them sent back to my place.”

  “And then?”

  He grinned. “How about lunch? My treat.”

  As Alton and Mark disappeared back out toward the register, I gave myself one final glance in the mirror. Alton was right—I did look good in the suit. It was the perfect black for my complexion and the perfect cut for my build. It was so perfect, I almost didn’t even feel right in it. Like some kind of impostor. A fake. It had been too long since I’d worn something so expensive. Hell, after my parents’ company went under, I’d never thought I’d wear anything nearly so nice ever again.

  I took the suit off like it was made of thin, fragile glass, putting it back on its hanger with reverence. I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy all of this—flirting with a billionaire, wearing fabric worth its weight in gold. It was the life that I’d envisioned for myself back when I was just a stupid teenager with too much money to have any sense. Just like my dreams of Broadway, I thought I’d left all the silly imaginings of this kind of world behind me.

  At the Ballroom, I knew who I was: Eliot Ashton, dancer, entertainer, lower middle class with every chance of staying that way.

  Here, in Alton Palmer’s favorite tailor shop, I was still Eliot Ashton—but I was the version of myself who could actually touch designer suits again instead of just seeing them in the crowds that came to watch me every night.

  A shiver ran down my spine as I changed back into my street clothes. Worn-out denim and pristine white t-shirts with the sleeves cuffed—that’s who I was now. A taste of the finer things with Alton couldn’t hurt in passing, I knew, but when it came right down to it, I also knew I had to be wary around him.