by Aiden Bates
The night I first met Alton was a night that I’d told myself I’d never relive again. I could still feel the cold sweat that had been on my skin after I slammed the back exit behind me that night, reeking of a beer that someone had tossed in my direction, tearing away the remnants of another shitty costume for another ill-advised theme night. Alton had found me at my lowest. My worst. Shirtless, pissed off, scared. Without my phone or my wallet, which I’d stupidly left in the locker room before storming out.
I’d thought about that night more times than I could count since—the kindness he’d shown me. The way he’d looked at me. Like I wasn’t just some sex toy of an Omega made for his pleasure—like I was a human, a real one. A man with thoughts and feelings and emotions separate from how good I looked in a pair of tight pants. We’d laughed the whole ride home when he offered to drive me there. Talked about normal things—the weather, the city, the way shitty Alphas made a bad name for men like him.
I’d been desperate for Alton when he finally took me to my doorstep. Desperate to keep feeling that way—like I was something more than just eye candy. Like I was a person again. So when I kissed him, invited him inside, and he’d been forced to pull away… God, I’d resented him for it. I had for years. But now that I had perspective on the whole situation, I knew it was the kindest thing he could have done for me.
He could have used me that night. Fucked me, fed me his cum, taken my body in the way that any Alpha who’d ever frequented Wesley Harmon’s club would have paid good fucking money for. But instead, he’d left me there. Respected me enough not to take advantage of what we both must have realized was a low point in my life. He’d given me the chance to rebuild myself that night, and every night after. Until he found me again. Until we found each other again.
And all it took to send me spiraling back to square fucking one was one off comment from Wesley Harmon. One slimy glance from that accountant from Alton’s company. One creepy comment from Alton’s boss—and just like that, I’d been propelled right back into that same headspace again. The sense of worthlessness. The dehumanization of it all. The entitlement of asshole Alphas who thought they ruled the world, and Omegas were just there to sit and look pretty while the adults made all the bad fucking decisions.
Alton had done his best to stand up for me, sure. But now I knew the score—the world that I would have to inhabit if I wanted to make things work with him. The world that I thought I’d never have to exist in again. This would be far from the first time he took me to a dinner where one of the other guests would recognize me. Who I’d been, not out of choice, but out of necessity. Except next time, it might be a state senator who’d seen me nearly nude at the Backdoor, dressed in some ridiculous costume. A pair of assless chaps while I gyrated my hips to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”. A pink G-string with a curly pig’s tail pinned to the back because Wesley Harmon had decided that what the Alphas of New York really wanted to see on a Saturday night was a bunch of ripped Omegas sashaying around dressed like we’d been pulled from the pages of fucking Animal Farm.
I wiped the sweat away from my face, feeling a strange tightness in my gut that I’d never experienced before. I felt sick to my stomach, nauseous like I’d just eaten bad sushi from that Japanese-Mexican fusion place in the Village. Dizzy—either with embarrassment, or anxiety, or the realization that what had happened in the first few minutes of Alton’s oh-so-important business dinner would happen over and over again for the rest of our lives if I stayed with him. If he even wanted me anymore, after the way his Alpha friends had treated me.
But they’re not his friends, I told myself as I stared myself down in the mirror. I was paper-white pale, green around the edges, my eyes watery and tired-looking from retching while fighting back tears. Not a good look by any means—one that I’d certainly have to rectify if I ever wanted to leave Malcolm Hayward’s bathroom ever again. Remember that night you met him again at the Ballroom? Max and Riley Griffin—those are the kind of people Alton spends his time with when he’s not trying to save the livelihoods of his employees in the face of corporate fucking greed.
Riley had been a dancer at the Ballroom once himself. And Max hadn’t cared—hell, Max had married Riley. Plenty of the other former dancers at the Ballroom had moved on in the same way. Had kids. Families. Lived perfectly happy, comfortable lives.
I balled my hands into fists, gritting my teeth and setting my mind on what I needed to do.
Go back out there. Show those bastards that they couldn’t shake me. Not like that. Or, at least, not for long.
I rinsed my face off with water from the faucet and gave a hard swallow, forcing my nausea back down my throat. I wasn’t going to let Wesley Harmon, or Malcolm Hayward, or even that creepy fucker John Simmons make me feel like I wasn’t good enough for Alton. Wasn’t good enough for their world.
Because if I did, then they’d fucking win—and letting them win was the last thing I had planned for the night.
As I turned the doorknob of the bathroom, I felt a renewed strength coursing through my veins. I could do this—bigger and better, with more class and composure than someone like Wesley Harmon could ever hope to achieve. Alton’s world was my world—or at least, it had been once. Maybe it could be again.
But as I pushed the door open, it came to a thumping stop after only swinging a few inches. I pressed again, budging it a few more—but there was something behind the door. Something strangely solid, like a heavy doorstop. One of those dragons that had been posted out on the front porch, maybe—come to life and prowling around Hayward’s big, ugly home.
My delusions of roaming dragons were put to bed immediately, though, as a set of thick fingers curled around the door, pulling it open slowly while a dark figure filled up the gap it made. Inky black hair, slicked back with too much pomade, framed the sallow-skinned face of John Simmons, Hayward’s surprise guest. His dark eyes, lit like smoldering bits of coal, stared me down soullessly. The smile on Simmons’ lips didn’t reach those eyes of his. Didn’t even come close.
The effect was startling, even more so than the fact that his presence was there to begin with. That smile was sinister in its amusement, and the glint in his eyes was cold. Clinical. Half-dead.
“Excuse me,” I said, lowering my gaze as I tried to brush past him.
He didn’t move to make way for me. Didn’t even try.
“Sounds like you’ve already been excused for the evening.” He tilted his head toward the dining room down the hall, where a peal of masculine laughter told me that Alton was holding his own just fine without me. “Doesn’t sound like they need you in there right now.”
“I don’t think it’s up to you to decide where I’m needed and where I’m not.” I set my jaw, fixing my gaze on his defiantly. Yeah, he made my fucking skin crawl—but after the session of soul searching I’d just come out of, I wasn’t going to back down to a man like him. “Move. Please.”
“Politeness.” He raised his eyebrows, faux-impressed. “I like that in an Omega. You don’t find that all that often anymore.”
“If your only encounters with Omegas involve cornering them in bathrooms, it’s more than you deserve.” I was keeping my cool, despite the churning nausea in my gut that was making a strong case for just throwing up on his ugly, snakeskin shoes. “You get politeness the first time. You won’t get it the second if you make me ask you again.”
“You’re an ornamental little thing, aren’t you?” he cooed, looking me up and down like he was at the butcher shop, picking out a cut of meat for dinner. “Here’s the thing, though, Eliot. I don’t think you’re really in the position to be asking for anything.”
“Am I not?” My temper was simmering on a quickly rising heat. “We’re all cultured, capable adults here. If you want my continued politeness, I expect you to respond in kind.”
“Are we? Because from the sounds of things, your date is cultured. Malcolm Hayward, sure. He’s cultured enough. I’m cultured. But you…” Simmons stru
ck out a finger, tracing it down the buttons of my dress shirt. “You sound like some gutter tramp that Palmer picked up from a back alley somewhere. Not that I mind that, of course.” His smile widened disgustingly. “Nice of Alton, to bring a party favor. Why don’t you and I have a little fun before we head back to the group?”
“I’m not a fucking party favor,” I snarled, placing my hand on his chest and pushing him backward. Not so little anymore—he stumbled backward from the force of my shove, exhaling hard enough that I could smell the stench of vodka on his breath. “You’re not cultured, and I’m sure as hell not fun.”
The smile disappeared from his face in an instant. I’d wounded his pride, and the look that replaced his slimy grin told me he didn’t take that kind of thing lying down.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he spat. “I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun before I send you back to your smart prick of a pimp, and best of all—”
He threw himself at me, the door swinging out so hard it slammed against the wall. His fingers wrapped around my wrists before I could retaliate, pinning me up against the bathroom vanity as his lips lowered to mine, the alcoholic reek of vodka pouring over me so heavy I gagged as it hit my nose.
“Best of all,” he finished, an evil glint in his eyes, “Hear all that laughter? Hear anyone coming to the rescue? Poor Eliot…your little boyfriend in there won’t be able to do anything to save you. Not quick enough to stop me.”
17
Alton
The first course felt empty without Eliot there. The only salvation was that by the second, Simmons’ phone rang, forcing him to excuse himself to take what must have been a very important call.
I was about as happy with Simmons’ presence at the dinner as I was about the way Eliot had been treated. It broke my heart to see him blush pink like he had. To see him maintain his composure, even through the nastiest of Wesley’s insults. To see him excuse himself when he couldn’t maintain that same composure any longer.
Just one night, I reminded myself as I raised my glass of wine thoughtfully, then placed it back down on the table without drinking. Just one night of entertaining these nitwits, saving the company—then, never again.
As I glanced over to Mickey and his date, as far as I could tell we were appeasing them as planned. Mickey had a massive grin on his face as he gestured with his hands, either describing the length of something he’d caught during his last deep sea fishing excursion, or, more likely, bragging about the length of his own dick. As for poor Flavio, it seemed that he’d be entertained for as long as Hayward’s Wi-Fi held out. Wesley and Hayward himself were doing most of the heavy lifting on our side of the conversation, making a point of laughing uproariously at everything Mickey said that might be construed as even vaguely amusing and asking questions at all the right places.
I was grateful for that much—because it let me consider what the hell Hayward’s actual play was here. After seeing the way Simmons had doctored our financial stats, he seemed like the least appropriate possible dinner guest to parade in front of the man we were supposed to be convincing to make Hayward Financial’s problems go away. But with Simmons out of the room, I gave a glance to Hayward as Mickey’s big fish story came to a close. Hayward gave me a nod in return—if we were going to propose anything to Mickey, now would be the time.
“Quite the tale, Mickey,” I said tactfully, giving him a well-practiced, teasing smirk. “Sure you’re not embellishing things a little?”
“HA!” Mickey slammed his fist down onto the table, sending the wine in his glass sloshing before he picked it up to tip it down his throat. “Aren’t you the sly one, Palmer? Nothing gets past you, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I cast another glance at Hayward, still feeling my fury toward him boiling inside me for putting me in this place to begin with.
“Ah, nothing like a little embellishment to take a good story to the next level though,” Mickey sighed, smacking his lips. “That’s what they taught us all in business school, isn’t it? Art of true salesmanship—little white lie never hurt anyone.”
“Funny you should say that, Mickey,” Hayward picked up where I left off. “Palmer and I might have a bit of a little white-lie scenario to deal with ourselves, incidentally.”
Mickey narrowed his eyes delightfully, wagging his finger at Hayward like a teacher to a misbehaving schoolboy. “You scoundrel. I knew you must have had an agenda, inviting me over like this.”
“Don’t play coy, Mickey. You know we’ve always liked you,” I lied fondly.
A wistful glint lit up in Mickey’s eyes. “You know, Palmer, that means a lot, coming from you. Hayward—no offense, Hayward, but we all you know you lie through those pearly whites of yours so hard, you’re going to wind up with gaps in them. But you, Palmer…” Mickey nodded, placated. “Glad I at least wound up with one honest friend after the divorce.”
“Then you’ll help us,” Hayward said, patting his lips earnestly with his napkin as he leaned forward in his chair. “Maybe not for my sake, no. But for Palmer’s…he’s got a little girl to take care of, you know.”
“Ah. Lizzie. Right.” Mickey patted Flavio’s knee, that wistfulness still twinkling away in his grin. “Always liked that daughter of yours, Palmer. Flavio and I could only hope to have a kid like that of our own someday.”
Flavio only snorted, rolling his eyes with every indication that getting knocked up was the last thing on his mind at the moment. As for me, I just choked down the guilt that came with lying—I was good at it, sure, but that didn’t mean I liked it—and reminded myself not to mention to Mickey that he already had three children of his own who would probably be appreciative if their father would spend less time fucking bored nineteen-year-olds.
“So what’s the issue?” Mickey asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”
“Well, it’s like this…” Hayward began.
But as soon as he started into things, a loud BANG! echoed from down the hall, stopping us all in our tracks.
“What the hell was that?” Mickey asked, furrowing his brow.
“Probably just the wind.” Hayward waved Mickey’s question away. “So our books…”
As Hayward launched into his explanation of what he and John had done, I checked my watch and glanced at Eliot’s empty seat. Unless he’d been crying in the bathroom, trying to figure out how to come back out and perform with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, he’d been gone for an awful long time. Too long, in fact. A second glance toward Simmons’ empty seat left a strange tension in my chest, a flash of worry shooting through me like loosed lightning.
I was still trying to place that worry when I heard a second noise—a dull thump, like something heavy hitting a wall.
“Christ, Hayward. You have someone locked in your basement or something?” Mickey interrupted, his brow lowering into a full scowl of confusion.
I was already rising in my chair, that sensation of wrongness spreading through me like wildfire. “Why don’t I go check on Eliot? Make sure everything is all right?”
“Oh, Alton, don’t be so—” Wesley started, but I was already striding out of the dining room, shouldering my way past one of Hayward’s waiters as I made my way out into the hall.
That’s when I heard it—a third noise. The heavy, guttural exhale of someone being hit hard somewhere soft and vulnerable.
That’s when I broke into a run.
Before I made it to the bathroom, the door came crashing open before me. Through it stumbled Simmons, doubled over and clutching what I could only assume was what was left of his balls. As Simmons bounced against the opposite wall, slumping with pain, Eliot emerged from the bathroom behind him, a snarl on his lips.
“How fucking dare you, you pathetic, sadistic scumbag!” Eliot shouted over Simmons, raising his fist in preparation to lay down what looked like one hell of a punch.
I dove between them immediately, catching Eliot by the wrist before he could make a c
hoice that he might come to regret. “Eliot, what the hell—”
“He called me a fucking party favor, Alton.” Eliot’s shoulders heaved, lurching forward with every exhale like he might punch me just so he could get at Simmons again. “Tried to fucking force himself on me—”
I lowered my hands from Eliot immediately, my heart pounding against my ribcage like it might burst out of it immediately. Suddenly, I was left wondering if Simmons had even had a call to begin with—or if he’d just excused himself so he could get a chance to corner my Omega alone.
“Are you okay?” I asked Eliot, putting my priorities in line immediately. Number one was Eliot’s safety.
“Yeah,” Eliot breathed, nodding slightly. “Kneed him in the balls before he could do anything, but—”
“Good,” I said, running my thumb across Eliot’s cheek before I turned to Simmons. “Then as for you…”
Priority number two was obvious. The most natural thing in the world. Simmons straightened, snarling, “I didn’t do fucking anything to that worthless little slu—”
But before he could finish off his insult, I finished it off for him. My fist crashed against Simmons’ mouth, tearing the skin of my knuckles as his teeth shattered against them.
He dropped like a stack of hundreds at an Atlantic City roulette table, slumping to the ground with a wordless whimper of pain.
“What the hell, Palmer?” Mickey shouted down the hall where he and the other dinner guests had gathered.
I supposed he wanted an explanation. They probably all did. But as far as I was concerned, the evening was over. I only gave it to him in passing, my arm around Eliot as I ushered him towards the front door.
“Apologies, Mickey. Didn’t mean to ruin your evening,” I grunted as I pushed through the fray.
“Not at all, Palmer…but why the hell—”
“It’s nothing,” Hayward said dismissively, glaring at me as he tried to turn Mickey back to the dining room. “Just a lover’s spat, from the looks of things. You know how it is, dating strippers—wouldn’t have invited Simmons if I’d known that he was one of Palmer’s slut’s old flames…”
