Lola & the Millionaires: Part One

by Kathryn Moon

  “This is your work. And two days of it too,” he said, tone friendly and warm. “It’s impressive.”

  I stared down at the mockups, the clean lines of the six layouts cleverly trimmed to show the overlapping product that worked between one tone and another. My smile grew, fed by the almost giddy scent of Cyrus across from me.

  “Is it good?” I asked. I thought so. I liked the subtle difference in my ink sketch faces, and I liked seeing the way the shades from the makeup had varying results from one sample to the next.

  “It’s our best this year, easily,” Cyrus said, leaning in. “And I’m not too proud to admit that this is the kind of concept I should be pushing, not my assistants. You’re getting the credit for this.”

  I was keenly aware of the lingering haze of Baby’s perfume hanging over my shoulders and in my hair as Cyrus stared at me. And while his focus was intense, he didn’t seem to be showing any of the usual alpha signs of arousal or aggression, signs I knew intimately.

  “Good,” I said, nodding, and he grinned.

  “Good. There’s a photoshoot we have planned this Friday, mostly of Zane’s arrangement. I’d like it if you came with me and him.” My eyes widened, and Cyrus waved a hand between us. “Don’t stress about it. I want you to observe, but someone will probably ask you to get a coffee or two.”

  “That’s fine,” I rushed to say. Coffee fetching had been more along the lines of what I’d been expecting in my first week, so I wasn’t about to act like I was too good for it now.

  A magazine shoot. With models and lights and professional makeup artists and the clothes. For a moment, in pure excitement, I forgot that I was alone in a room with an alpha I barely knew. A pure laugh, bright and surprising, rose up from my throat as my cheeks stretched and filled in the biggest smile I’d worn in months. When I looked up, Cyrus was at my side, my breath catching and muscles tensing, the laugh dying on my tongue.

  “Way to make a splash, Lola,” he murmured.

  Cyrus was tall, towering over me and making me tilt my head back to look at him. When he reached out to squeeze my elbow, I skirted back, his fingers barely skimming my skin. He was already backing away, heading for the door, and my heels continued to carry me back as my breathing came in soft gasps.

  Control, I chanted mentally, stretching the word to match my slowing breaths. Betty had said that Cyrus was perpetually flirtatious but never crossed any line with his employees. A touch on the arm might be overly affectionate for a boss, but he hadn’t lingered or squeezed the way my old boss at the restaurant usually did.

  “Get your shit together, Lola,” I muttered, twisting away from the door and moving to reorganize the products we’d pulled for the mockup.

  “Americano flat,” I said, passing Zane his coffee with a quick nod, before heading over to the lighted booths where the models were getting their makeup prepped.

  The rest of my first week had passed more or less as I’d expected. I learned my way around the photo editing programs we tended to use, practiced writing copy, and did the more basic assistant tasks I’d been prepared for like shipping products we passed on back to the companies. No one had blinked on Friday morning when Cyrus called me with Zane to head to the photoshoot, and I was relieved to see that the beauty editing team wasn’t as catty and competitive as Betty said the fashion editors were.

  I dropped espressos and non-fat lattes off to a few models who were busy holding still for their artist before taking the last over to our big star of the day—Rakim Oren. There was a massive alpha, taller even than Cyrus and twice as broad, hovering against the wall facing Rakim, but he made no move to stop my approach and kept his ice blue eyes over my head. My hand was shaking slightly as I neared the omega, a heady cloud of chocolate and caramel scented perfume hanging around him. It was a mouthwatering sweetness, airier but possibly even richer than Baby’s.

  Rakim Oren was one of the most famous and recognizable omegas in the world.

  He was stretching in front of the mirror, tan brow furrowed and neck arched as if he was inviting an alpha’s bite, his crystalline green gaze glaring at his own reflection in the mirror.

  “Honey and soy,” I said, resting the coffee cup on the only available inches of the counter, ready to back away.

  “Is it just me or does this look crazy uneven?” His voice was smooth and coaxing, more masculine than I’d expected against his innocent, open features. He had dark short hair, curls damp against his forehead, and a dense but close beard.

  I glanced down at his shoulder and frowned as I stared at the splotchy, rushed cover-up of foundation on his skin. It looked cakey, the sponge marks probably as clear as whatever they’d been used to cover.

  “It’s…yikes, yeah.”

  Rakim sighed and rolled his eyes—eyes that took one look into a camera and made a company hundreds of thousands of dollars. “It’s Courtney. I swear she leaves everything to post. Like, we didn’t hire a makeup artist so someone could airbrush me invisible in photoshop, Courtney.”

  My lips twitched, and I was ready to make my escape again when I saw him reach for a foundation that was a shade or more too light for his skin to really blend.

  “Not that one,” I said.

  Rakim Oren’s hand froze over the bottle and his eyes slid to mine, a dark brow arching. “That’s the one she used.”

  “And now you’re splotchy,” I quipped, sighing as his lips curled. I pointed to two of the ignored options. “Blend those together and then powder with the one she chose.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

  I looked him over, more objectively. The lights on the mirror were good, but the ones for the shoot were warmer, and makeup was picky in high-resolution. Courtney, whichever of the women dressed in black that was flitting around the room, was right that touch-ups could be covered in the post-editing, but Rakim was right that it could also be done correctly beforehand.

  “I do,” I said, nodding.

  “Okay then, you do it,” he said, relaxing back into his seat.

  “Oh! No, I didn’t mean. I can’t—”

  “Cy!” Rakim called over his shoulder, and I stiffened as Cyrus looked up from his tablet and crossed to us.

  “What’s up, hun?” Cyrus asked, his alpha instincts making him stand taller and broader in front of the omega.

  “Who is this lovely creature, and can she do my makeup that Courtney has attempted with the subtlety of an axe when a butter knife was called for?”

  I snorted and choked on my stifled laugh as Cyrus just gave Rakim an indulgent smile. “This is Lola, our new girl,” he said warmly. “And she certainly can’t do worse.”

  Cyrus gave me a brief, warning glance. Not unfriendly, but more like ‘I vouched for you, so don’t fuck it up.’ The big alpha, the one who was dressed all in black and I was pretty sure was wearing a holster under his tailored black jacket, had moved a little farther away and was watching but without suspicion.

  “Fix me, Lola,” Rakim said, sweetening my name into a long rounded plea.

  Cyrus was already returning to his corner of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Ten minutes.”

  Fuck. Ten minutes gave me no room to hesitate.

  I lunged and grabbed up the supplies, and Rakim grinned and settled deeper in his chair, letting his head fall back to expose his throat and shoulders to me, his thighs spread open in front of him. Courtney had done a good job on his face at least, getting the dewy, fresh look that’d been assigned to the shoot, so all I had to do was correct her coverup on the omega’s shoulder. His outfit was hanging up at the corner of the booth and there wasn’t a shirt for the look, just a jacket and a patterned scarf and slacks. It wasn’t until I had my foundation choice mixed and was stepping up close, that I realized the need for the coverup in the first place.

  This wasn’t a tattoo cover. Rakim Oren had a bondmark.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, it’s like, not a secret, but since
no one wants bondmarks in shoots, it’s not general public knowledge either,” Rakim supplied.

  I pressed my lips together and grabbed a wipe, erasing Courtney’s clumsy work, revealing the shining crescents of the bite. I picked up a new sponge and set to my own work, using long smooth strokes to follow the line of his musculature, instead of the usual pressing dabs. It left more room for error generally, but also allowed for natural shadow. The ridges of the scar might catch some light or shadow, but that would be easier to photoshop out than bad coloring. When I moved to repeat the process on the other shoulder he raised his eyebrows.

  “So they match. It’s close, but nothing will ever be one-hundred percent perfect,” I said, concentrating on being even.

  Someone called five minutes in the room, and I grabbed a brush to blend and then powder, picking up a quick bronzer and highlight at the last moment and using it to soften the last line where I ended my work.

  “You do know what you’re doing.”

  “I used to do a lot of live video tutorials. No photoshopping in post,” I said, smiling.

  Rakim’s stare was an almost tangible pressure on my skin, and my lungs were full of his perfume, the scent growing stronger with every minute passing.

  “You didn’t want to be a makeup artist?” he asked.

  I did, kind of. I also wanted to work at Designate and study and influence new trends. Mostly though, I hadn’t worked in a year, and I was happy to just be back in the world that I loved.

  “Apparently, I can be both,” I said instead, catching his glittering smile. “All done.”

  At the same moment, one of the assistants called for Rakim to be dressed.

  “Thanks, Lola,” he said as I dropped poor Courtney’s supplies back to the counter and left to join Cyrus and Zane.

  I flashed him a quick smile and then ducked out of the way of the fuming brunette whose work I suspected I’d just corrected.

  “Show off,” Zane muttered as I reached him, the snap in the tone balancing perfectly between irritation and teasing.

  Cyrus just winked at me and returned to watching the room in its busy work.

  Four

  Lola

  The photoshoot went late, and while Cyrus told both Zane and I that we could head out whenever we wanted, Zane didn’t budge, and neither did I. It was somehow both dull and thrilling to watch. A lot of time was spent waiting, rechecking, retouching, reorganizing, and then the room would work twice as fast to compensate.

  Rakim was done early, escorted out by his giant of an alpha security guard, the privilege of being the star of our models for the day. I wondered briefly if the alpha security was actually Rakim’s bonded alpha, but dismissed it quickly. The big guy was too professional and showed none of the usual hovering and possessive alpha behaviors. Another sickly sweet omega female was early to leave, and I wasn’t surprised it was the beta models who were called to stay late. Kind of typical.

  Cyrus parted ways with us when we finally left the room after eleven, and Zane grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator as I went to grab my purse.

  “It’s club night!” he said, shimmying his shoulders at me as I headed for our group office.

  I debated briefly asking him to wait, joining him for the night. Except that would expose my habit, and even if Zane was after the same thing—a temporary hook-up for the night—there was something vulnerable about letting someone else see that side of myself. Plus, I was still a little shaken from my last attempt.

  I was alone in the elevator on my way down, when it stopped two floors below mine, doors parting.

  Oh god, please no.

  As if I’d conjured him by thought, standing in front of me was the handsome beta whom I’d run from just days ago. He was stepping inside the elevator, facing me directly, even as his eyes grew wide with shock and recognition.

  “You—” he gasped before he was cut off.

  “Lola!” Cyrus was at the beta’s back, and the only possible worse thing than ending up in an elevator with this beta for fifty floors was the new reality of the four men entering the carriage.

  I would be in this elevator with my handsome stranger beta, my boss, his boss Matthieu, and another unfamiliar alpha. Already my heart was pounding, knees buckling, and I slid toward the corner, my arms folding around my stomach protectively. Cyrus was speaking to me, or speaking about me, but all I could hear was rushing, gusting wind—no, my pounding pulse. My lungs were frozen, refusing to take a breath, and the unfamiliar alpha—tall and blonde and classically handsome—brushed against my shoulder, making me shudder and press against the wall.

  Suddenly the sound of the elevator was crisp again, Cyrus’ honeyed tone falling to silence as four pairs of eyes fixed to my trembling form.

  “Lola?”

  The beta’s hand raised and stopped Cyrus from stepping closer at the same time Matthieu’s did.

  “Give her space,” the beta said. The alpha who’d brushed against me backed away with the others to the opposite wall.

  Hold her down. I tried to swallow down the tangled trap of memories rising up.

  A high-pitched ringing in my head burned in my ears and then settled, revealing the soft, low whine vibrating in my throat. The elevator was cloying and heavy with alpha scents—sticky champagne and smooth velvet warmth and something heavy and sweet.

  “Lola,” the beta whispered, stepping between me and the alphas.

  “Leo,” the blonde alpha warned in a gentle tone but stopped as the beta’s hand went up to quiet him.

  “You’re all right,” the beta said softly.

  “Look at her, fuckin’ desperate for that knot isn’t she?” he hissed, laughing as he watched Indy push my thighs back and open until I cried out at the pain of the stretch.

  “She’s gonna fuckin’ scream for it? Aren’t you, Showgirl?”

  I swallowed, turned away from the men in the elevator, darkness flickering over my gaze, and pressed one hand to the polished gold interior of the elevator, trying to brace myself against their voices, Buzz and Indy. The alphas who’d toyed with me for weeks before I’d run from them. My own reflection was clear in the metal, wide-eyed and shaking, the warped shadows of the men at my back twisting on gold.

  Be normal. Control. Get your shit together, you fucking idiot. I swallowed my next whimper, fixing my gaze to the corner of the floor where I couldn’t see any of the men out of the corner of my eyes or in the reflection.

  Again, darkness flickered, but this time I realized it wasn’t my memories or my panic attack.

  “Oh Jesus, not now,” muttered one of the men.

  It was the fucking power in the building.

  The elevator jerked, and my already weak knees gave up. I slid to the floor as the lights flashed and the elevator stopped.

  I whimpered against the bare pillow, rocking my hips back as if I could force Buzz deeper.

  “You think you get my knot? You think you deserve that? You’re a fuckin’ beta, Lo,” he laughed, skirting back from me. “God, look at you, tryin’ to bare your fuckin’ throat for me. Don’t think so, babe. You’re just ass.”

  “Lola, take a deep breath for me.”

  “Open wide, bitch, that’s it.”

  The small space was full of burnt marshmallow and pine sap, and I gagged, jerking as a warm hand brushed over the back of my neck.

  “It’s just me,” the beta, Leo, murmured. “You’re safe.”

  “Oh no. You’re not getting away. You wanted a knot, you’re fucking getting one.”

  Breathe. Breathe, idiot. But I couldn’t, all the air had gone out of the space and I was surrounded by alphas, no matter what Leo said about being safe. I clawed at the smooth tile of the floor, another thin whine squeezing out from behind my clench teeth.

  “Caleb.”

  “I don’t think I sh—”

  “Caleb,” Leo repeated, voice sharper.

  Fingers bruising around my wrists. Teeth snapping and grinding and pinching skin, but never bi
ting. The horrible pressure of their smells and their bodies. Hadn’t it been sweet for a few days? When had it stopped feeling good?

  I thrashed as I was pulled into a pair arms, one hand digging—

  —Pulling hard at my hair as I sobbed—

  And tucking my head against a warm throat.

  A hand clamped over my nose and mouth, muffling my voice until I couldn’t even breathe.

  Gentle warmth coated my throat like syrup as that dense, soft scent turned me limp and languid…

  Trying to catch my breath on the lumpy bed, tears and spit wetting the sheet beneath my cheek. It was time to go, wasn’t it?

  “You’re mine now, Showgirl.”

  I woke, my head pounding, my body aching like I’d strained every muscle all at once, and there was the beta.

  They called him Leo.

  “You’re safe,” he said immediately, rising up just slightly to hide the figures behind him. “They just got the elevator down to the first floor, and the doors are about to open.”

  I leaned forward, thoughts foggy, and didn’t try to fight him as he helped me to stand. I wasn’t doing it on my own. Not after an attack like that, that was for sure.

  I knew they were watching, the alphas. I swallowed my moan at the understanding. Cyrus Cohen and Matthieu Segal had watched me completely lose my shit. Or had heard it. I wasn’t sure if the blackness from the power outage had persisted or if that had been part of the panic attack.

  “You’re safe,” Leo whispered again, a thick arm holding me close to his side.

  I wasn’t wearing my heels, and my head drooped to glance down at the floor.

  “I have them,” Leo said, showing me my shoes linked in his fingers. “I’m going to walk you out.”

  “There’s a car waiting.” Matthieu’s voice, his accent sharper now, stopped abruptly as I flinched.

  “I’m going to walk you to the car, and I’d like to make sure you get home safe,” Leo said. “That’s up to you, though. Is that all right?”