by Amy Bellows
“Does that mean you don’t want a mate? Because if we were together, I’d be happy to help care for her. I know she won’t ever remember me, but I’m good at calming people down. I promise I’d be patient with her.”
I cover my eyes with my hand. He can’t mean that. No alpha is that kind. And certainly not an alpha who would be interested in me. My eyes sting as they well up with tears.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It isn’t… I’m not… you’d really help care for her?”
“Of course. If we were mates, she’d be my mother too, wouldn’t she?” He says this like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like any alpha would do the same.
Damien Ringdal is too pure for this world.
I quickly wipe my tears away. “So you want to talk? Over Skype or something?”
“No, Tatum. Over this website. That way you can get paid.”
“But you don’t have to—”
He holds up a hand. “I want to. I have plenty of money. And regardless of how this turns out, I want to take care of you, at least during the time we spend together.”
Would it be so bad to take his money? Even a few conversations would change everything about my financial situation. Some of the other camboys also work as sugarbabies. It’s not dissimilar.
And if he wants me as a mate at the end, then I could be with him.
No, I can’t let myself hope for that. Once he starts dating other omegas, he’ll forget all about me.
“Okay. I mean, yes. I want to do it,” I say.
He smiles. “Thank you. I really appreciate you giving me a chance to get to know you.”
The idea makes me a little nervous. It’s been a long time since I went on a date, and this is kind of the same thing.
“Uh, yeah. So, I like a lot of creamer in my coffee. The really ridiculous stuff too. Pumpkin spice, peppermint, marshmallow sprinkle whatever. If it’s over the top, I’ll probably like it.”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “All right. I like plain cream in my coffee. Or half and half.”
Of course he does.
“Snob.”
He laughs. “That might be true. I’m particular about the blend too. I prefer a lighter roast, and I like to buy beans that have been roasted locally.”
I bite my lip and resist the urge to tease him. “I’m a Folgers man myself. No use in spending a lot of money on coffee if you’re going to drown it in pumpkin spice creamer anyway.”
He laughs again. I like making him laugh. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and my stomach does this little flip-flop.
“My favorite musician is Dolly Parton. She’s a complete badass,” I say. “Let me guess yours. It’s Beethoven or something.”
He winces. “Well, not exactly. Andre Watts. He’s a classical pianist. I took piano lessons throughout my childhood, and I enjoy instrumental music.”
Well, isn’t he a proper gentleman?
“I sang along to the radio with my mom growing up. I can perform a very lively rendition of ‘Jolene.’ My ‘9 to 5’ isn’t bad either.”
Eventually, we get around to talking about The Golden Girls and Seinfield, which is our one common ground. Apparently, he grew up on Golden Girls too. His omega mother watched it with him. We start chatting about different episodes, and before I know it, I glance at the timer, and it’s been an hour.
Oh God. That’s 1,200 dollars. Because it’s through CamBoy.net, I can’t even refund him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize the time.”
He sits back and rests his hands on his bed, like it isn’t a big deal. “Don’t be sorry. I really enjoyed talking with you. What is your schedule tomorrow?”
Tomorrow? Does he want to talk with me that soon?
“I have class in the afternoon. I usually leave here around eleven, and I get back around five.”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Would you have coffee with me tomorrow morning at nine?”
“But you said this would be online—”
“It will be. I thought we could drink coffee at the same time. It’s the closest thing to a date we can have right now. If we talk for an hour, will that give you enough time to get to school?”
Another hour? Including what he paid for last night and tonight, that’s almost four thousand dollars.
That would be enough for me to catch up on everything. It might even be enough for me to have a heat.
Damien said he was going to take care of me. He really meant it.
“All right. Coffee, then. If you ask nicely, I might even sing ‘Jolene’ for you.”
He smiles again, and I get to see his eyes crinkle. He’s so handsome, he takes my breath away.
“Damien?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you wear your suspenders? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”
If it’s not too much trouble? What is wrong with me? Something about Damien turns me into a meek little boy, ready to let him do whatever he wants to me. And suspenders definitely aren’t going to help.
“Of course. It’s not too much trouble at all.” He has this smug look on his face. He knows how hot he is in those suspenders. That’s probably why he wears them.
“Talk to you tomorrow, Tatum.”
“Tomorrow.”
15
Damien
I’ve been good. I contacted thirty omegas last night and continued correspondence with the engineer I messaged the night I had sex with Tatum. I’ve fulfilled all of the promises I made to my mother. In exchange, she’s agreed to not say anything too sarcastic about my decision to continue seeing Tatum.
Well, most of the time. When I sent her to the store with a list of things to buy for him, she said a lot of sarcastic things. But she’s an author of romances. In the end, her sappy heart couldn’t resist helping me out.
After this is over, I’ll need to do something for her. Something extraordinary.
At nine o’clock, I’m suited up with my suspenders and a cup of coffee in hand. I click on the dual camera chat button and wait for Tatum to pick up. It takes him a few minutes, but I expected that. It looks like my mother was exactly on time.
After three minutes, the chat window opens, and Tatum’s face comes into view. He has the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Thank you, Damien!”
He’s holding the basket with everything on the list I gave my mother: eight coffee creamers, a variety of chocolate bars (last night he told me how much he loves chocolate), and two cartons of blueberries because he described them as “the greatest indulgence.”
He sets the basket down and laughs. “I forgot my coffee. Sorry. I’ll be right back.” He leans over to stop the chat.
“Leave it on,” I say.
His smile fades. “You’re too nice to me. You don’t have to do this just because you feel bad about the other night. I’ll be okay.”
I’m not sure who convinced Tatum that he didn’t deserve the love and affection of an alpha, but I sincerely hope he goes to hell.
“Please go get your coffee. I’ve really been looking forward to this date. Thank you for agreeing to it after my horrible behavior.”
That seems to ground Tatum. He leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later with a steaming mug. With a shy smile, he glances at all of the creamers. “Which one should I try?”
“You get to choose. That’s why I bought you eight of them.”
He drags his hand through his hair, which I’ve come to realize means he’s nervous. “You can’t possibly want to pay twenty dollars a minute to watch me pour coffee creamer. Do you want something else instead?”
I wish he was here so I could take his hand and kiss it or wrap my arms around him.
“I assure you that I have every intention of paying twenty dollars a minute to watch you pour coffee creamer. Tatum, this is the only way I can date you right now. Please don’t worry about the money.”
&
nbsp; “I just can’t imagine… I’ve never not worried about money.”
When I was sixteen, I inherited a generous trust fund from my omega grandpa. That, in addition to the money I’ve made as a heat companion, has made me very comfortable. Maybe I should be sensitive to the fact that Tatum hasn’t been as lucky.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to buy you a gift. I like giving gifts.”
He ducks his head, and his shy smile widens. “I really like your gift. Thank you.”
Thankfully, he stops worrying about the cost of the time and starts pulling out each of the creamers to discover which flavors he has to choose from. “Salted caramel, peppermint, French vanilla, hazelnut, Irish cream, mocha, amaretto, and frosted sugar cookie. Oh my God. Frosted sugar cookie? That sounds ridiculous. I must try it immediately.”
That’s one thing I wasn’t expecting. Tatum is funny. The more time I spend with him, the more certain I become that he’s the one.
He wrestles with the packaging until he finally has the bottle open. After adding a generous amount to his mug, he holds it out to me. “Cheers?”
“Isn’t that something you only do with champagne?”
He shakes his head. “Life is too short for standards like that.”
It’s strange. I’ve spent my entire adult life following every rule I could to prove to my alpha mother that I could be a heat companion and still lead a good life. And here Tatum is, sitting on the bed where he jacks off in front of hundreds of guys, as shameless as can be. By my alpha mother’s standards, Tatum would be a terrible choice as a mate. He doesn’t come from a “good” family or have an Ivy League education. But Tatum is right. Life is short. If I can’t be a heat companion, I want to be happy. I think Tatum could make me very, very happy.
I lift my mug. “Should we toast to something?”
Tatum wiggles his shoulders. “Yes. I think we should. To suspenders. Because dayum.”
I laugh. “To beautiful smiles.” I lift my mug again.
Tatum looks adorably bashful as he brings his mug to his lips.
“How is the creamer?”
He grins. “It is absolutely everything you could hope for from a frosted sugar cookie creamer. Thank you.”
Making him happy is so easy. I wonder if I can convince my mother to deliver another package to him.
Probably not.
I pull out the list I made last night of things I need to learn about Tatum. A crash course of sorts. If he’s going to be my mate soon, there’s still so much I need to know.
“Dogs or cats?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a second. “Dogs, but only because my mom is allergic to cats. Well, no. Also because cats claw up the furniture. And honestly, because I don’t like cats that much. But if you like cats—”
“I prefer dogs.”
His shoulder relax. “Good.”
“What’s your favorite drink?”
He bites his lip and stares back at me nervously.
“What? Is it something embarrassing like sex on the beach?”
He busts up into a fit of giggles. “Is there really a drink called sex on the beach? Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s rum and orange juice with grenadine, I think. It’s too sweet for me, so I’m not positive about all of the ingredients.”
He takes another sip of his coffee. “Well, this is a bit of a mood killer, but my alpha grandma was a raging alcoholic, so I don’t drink. That stuff is genetic. Also, it would freak my mom out if she saw me drinking.”
Tatum doesn’t drink? I don’t think he’s ever going to stop surprising me.
“Favorite holiday?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Christmas.”
“Really?” After seeing him dress up as a professor, I would have pegged him as a Halloween guy.
“Oh, yes. My mom and I always go and get a real tree. We get our own axe and everything. It’s sort of dangerous. Well, to be honest, really dangerous. We’re both hopeless at cutting it down, so we stay up the mountain for half the day hacking at it, and when it tips over, it’s the best thing ever. Then there’s the decorating bit. We were always poor when I was growing up—” He stops. “Well, obviously we still are, but anyway. My mom would buy popping corn and thread, and we’d spend the night making our own garland out of popcorn. We always get hot cocoa for the occasion too. It’s the best. What about you?”
My answer is a bit unusual, but we have to talk about it before this goes any further. Tatum needs to understand my heat companion work will always be a part of me, even now that it’s over.
“Thanksgiving.”
He gives me a funny look. “Really? Out of all the glorious holidays, Thanksgiving is your favorite?”
“Yes. Sometimes heat companions also act as a form of sperm donor. I’ve sired five children at this point. I don’t have any parental rights, of course. The omegas wanted to care for the children on their own, and I believe it should be up to them. However, as a part of my contract, I get to see the children once a year on the day after Thanksgiving. I know that I’m not their parent, but I still feel connected to them, and it gives me a lot of joy to eat one meal with all five of them together every year.”
He lets out a little huff and looks up, as if he’s trying to hold back his emotion. “Wow. That’s beautiful.”
It means a lot that he understands. I feel the same way. The oldest child is nine now. Last year he played a game of chess with me after dinner. The youngest is three. She insisted on attending last year’s dinner in an Elsa costume. Every single child was conceived during a heat, so I spent a lot of the heat pregnancy with their omega fathers. Our connection isn’t something I want to throw away when I have a mate of my own. I helped them all bring a child into the world and kept them healthy through the process. That experience was meaningful to me. They may not be family in the traditional sense, but it feels that way sometimes.
“Are all of the kids ridiculously smart like you? Or ridiculously good-looking? They probably are, aren’t they?”
I shrug. The children are all intelligent and adorable. I’m not going to deny it.
He lifts his mug again. “To holidays with family.”
I take another drink of my coffee, and move down to the next thing on the list.
16
Tatum
A different package comes every day. On Tuesday it’s a bed frame from IKEA. On Wednesday it’s a small, sturdy dresser for my clothes. On Thursday Damien sends me a basket full of different kinds of hot cocoa and popcorn: “In case you want to celebrate Christmas with your mother in March.” The note has an “XOXO” that makes me melt a little.
I want to tell him not to bother. The gifts make me a little uncomfortable. But Damien gets this satisfied look in his eyes when I tell him how much I love the thoughtful things he sends. He really likes taking care of me. And if I’m honest with myself, I like being taken care of.
We have coffee with each other every morning. I try a new creamer and report back on the quality of each of the flavors. Then we talk. Sometimes we discuss things on the list he’s created to help us get to know each other, but the conversation always goes off the rails, and we end up talking about books or funny experiences we’ve had while doing sex work. Talking to him is so easy, I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s all over.
And it will be over soon. He’s giving himself three weeks to make an “educated decision” about who he wants to bond with, and that’s it. The sweet man who tells me hilarious stories about resorting to the use of phallic vegetables when an omega’s heat went on for so long he couldn’t get it up anymore, will simply be gone from my life. No more suspenders, no more crinkly smiles, and no sweet notes tucked into gift baskets. I’ll go back to my regular life.
It’s best not to think about it.
On Friday, I get an envelope instead of a package. Inside is a formal invitation to a “chaperoned dinner” at his house tonight at seven. On the back of the embossed card is a scribbled, “You d
on’t have to come if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll understand.”
He clearly doesn’t realize the power he has over me. At this point, I’m not sure I could deny him anything. I even cancelled my show last night, which was a really, really bad idea. I just didn’t want to take off my clothes for other alphas. Damien’s given me enough money to last me until graduation. If I get a job shortly afterwards, I won’t have to do the camboy thing anymore. It isn’t that I dislike the work, but I don’t want to take my clothes off for anyone other than Damien right now. Not that he’s asked me to take my clothes off. I just want to be only his for a few weeks. Even if he isn’t technically mine.
I pull up his contact info. He gave me his phone number last night “just in case.”
Thank you for the invitation. It’s lovely.
I get a response almost immediately.
Does that mean you’ll come? I’ll make you macaroni and cheese from scratch.
I told him that was my comfort food. Not from scratch, of course. But I’m sure I’ll love it.
I have to go to my internship today. Could we do it a little later, so my mom doesn’t have to be alone all day?
Damien asked quite a few questions about my mother yesterday. Specifically, what her care entails and what my coping strategies are on the days when her condition upsets her. He took notes and everything.
Bring her with you. My omega mother will be eating with us too, and I’d like to meet her.
When was the last time someone wanted to meet my omega mother? Three years ago, people still saw my mother as a person, not a burden. But eventually, they began to understand how permanent and disorienting her memory loss was, and everyone stopped calling.
Okay. Thank you. The dinner invitation doesn’t have an address. Will you text it to me?
If it isn’t close to a train stop, we might be in trouble. The buses don’t run very late on Friday night in Grayson.
