by Bates, Aiden
His Broken Angel
Heaven’s Ballroom - Book 2
Aiden Bates
Contents
Hello!
1. Nathan
2. Damon
3. Nathan
4. Damon
5. Nathan
6. Damon
7. Nathan
8. Damon
9. Nathan
10. Damon
11. Nathan
12. Damon
13. Nathan
14. Damon
15. Nathan
16. Damon
17. Nathan
18. Damon
19. Nathan
Epilogue
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His Broken Angel
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1
Nathan
What’s got three assholes but acts like it’s got six of them?
Three drunk Alphas talking shit.
I chuckled at my own joke, shaking my head as I watched the Almega version of Three Stooges try to bargain with the bouncer over whether or not they should be allowed to stay for the rest of the show. I’d had Mo, Larry and Curly pegged from the moment they started opening their mouths to heckle the dancers that night. They’d been born rich. They’d probably die rich. And between their birth years and their death years, they’d spend the whole of that little hyphen in between acting like they were better than everyone else because of it.
What they hadn’t realized yet was that they weren’t even close.
As someone who was actually better than everyone else, I would know.
I rapped at the bar, signaling for another drink. The bartender poured my martini dirty and strong—just how I liked my men, incidentally. The top-notch bar service was the reason I’d chosen Heaven’s Ballroom as my drinking hole for the night, but the dancers were what had kept me in my seat at the bar past 10:00 p.m. Dirty and strong didn’t even begin to describe them—particularly that last dancer that had been up on the stage.
Christ—even just in memory, he drove me wild. The sweat rivering down his sun-kissed skin, forming little tributaries as it hit the defined bulges of his abs. The way he’d worked his hips round and round like a carousel I wanted to ride hard, all night long. That little wink he gave in the second before he stripped off his breakaway pants, revealing a brazenly stiff bulge that was barely contained by the skimpy little thong he wore underneath. To call him a snack would’ve been an understatement—that dancer had been a five-course meal. Fine dining. The kind that made you want to lick your fingers afterward. Hell, I would’ve licked the entire damn plate clean.
But of course, the idiots sitting at the table up front had disrupted that particular fantasy for me. What kind of assholes went out to a club just to call all the dancers there sluts? It was like walking into a casino and complaining when you lost money. Tacky, for one. For another, fucking annoying.
I’d sent the dancer a drink after he’d given the hecklers a piece of his mind. If anything, that only made me like him more. Sassy, I liked. Sassy did it for me. I laughed again as I remembered his words.
“You wanna bark at something, you mangy mutts? How’s this for a moon to howl at?” he’d yelled back at them, cute little dimples appearing between the taut, flexed muscles of his ass as he’d smacked it.
What I would’ve have given to be the hand smacking that ass instead. There was something especially appealing about a man who gave as good as he got.
“What’s so funny, honey?” a high, soft voice purred in my ear, so sticky-sweet I felt like I needed to give the entire left side of my face a good scrub just to get the sugar off of it.
I turned, unsurprised to find a svelte little bleached-blond Omega sliding onto the barstool next to mine. I’d caught him eying me since the moment I walked in, all cocky and eager. His eyes had dropped to my crotch immediately, but I knew his type. Fifty-fifty chance he was checking out the size of my package instead of the bulge of my wallet.
“Inside joke. You wouldn’t get it.” I gave the bartender a nod of thanks as he slid my martini toward me across the bar.
The Omega intercepted it before my fingers could curl around the stem. “Maybe you should explain it to me then.” His eyelashes fluttered so thick and so fast, I was surprised he hadn’t rendered himself dizzy with them as he moved to sip from my glass.
I grabbed it from him before his lips touched the rim, reclaiming it neatly. “That’s not how inside jokes work, you know.”
He pouted, lips so pillowy they had to be ninety-percent silicone injection. “What? Don’t you like me?”
I laughed. “Sorry. Not my type.”
“I could be your type,” he offered, scooting his barstool a little closer to mine. His fingertips trailed down my chest, plucking at the unbuttoned edges of my button-down beneath my loosened tie. “For the right price, anyway.”
Oh, hell. Very much not my type.
He wasn’t in uniform—not the halo and angel wings of the Ballroom’s dancers or the sleek tuxedos of the wait staff. Obviously didn’t work for the club. That meant he’d either slipped in unnoticed on the arm of some hapless Alpha, or he had a pimp waiting for him in the bathroom who’d take me for every penny I had on me if I was dumb enough to follow those slender little come-hither fingers of his down the hall for something more private.
Either way, I wasn’t biting. I didn’t mind paying to be entertained, but I had qualms against paying for pleasure.
Especially when pleasure was something I had no issues getting for free.
“Thanks, but no. Not interested.” I turned away from him, only for those fingers of his to wrap their way around my tie and pull me back.
“You haven’t even asked what I’m offering yet,” he cooed, that fuck-me-silly-please-sir look thick in his gaze.
This time, my laugh came with an eye roll. “Trust me, sweetheart. Whatever you’re offering, I have no need for.”
His face fell. “For free, then. You’re hot enough.” He shrugged. “I could do with a little fun on the side tonight.”
“How about this?” I bargained, unwinding his fingers from my tie. “You move that little ass of yours off that barstool and try peddling it to someone who cares, and I don’t report you to management. Something tells me they wouldn’t be happy to learn someone’s peddling fun on the side in their establishment. What do you think?”
“Oh, fuck you,” the Omega spat at me—but at least the threat of management sent him packing. He didn’t seem like the type who was used to hearing no—but then again, neither was I.
Besides—I already had my eyes on a different prize that night.
“Any word from your dancer friend?” I asked the waiter I’d sent backstage with a drink earlier when I spotted him restocking his tray at the bar.
The waiter ran a thumb over his pencil-thin mustache and shrugged. “He said thanks. Don’t think he was interested, though.”
That blew me back for a second. I blinked, eyebrows raised.
“Not interested?”
The waiter laughed, sharing a knowing glance with the bartender. “Sorry, handsome. Damon’s like that. Not easily bought. Not even with fruity drinks. I’d cut your losses and set your sights elsewhere, if I were you.”
Not eas
ily bought. If I’d been any other man, I might’ve taken the advice. It wasn’t like there was any shortage of dancers at the club that night, and I wasn’t short on cash. For a fifty, I could have had any one of them straddling my lap in a private room before they even learned my name.
But now, I had the name of my mystery dancer—Damon. Even better, I had additional intelligence on him.
He wasn’t going to be an easy catch, no. But in my experience, that only sweetened the deal.
“Send him another. What’s he like?”
The bartender chuckled. “Damon? Mezcal, if you insist—but like Carlos said. Lots of regulars in tonight, and he’s a popular attraction.”
“I bet he is,” I agreed, biting my lip as I remembered the bulge of his biceps and the flex of his thighs.
“I can find you one of the other dancers,” Carlos offered, smoothing his mustache down again anxiously. “You’ll have an easier time—”
“No,” I told him. “Mezcal it is, then. Top shelf. Let him know I’m not easily dissuaded.”
I glanced down front, where the hecklers seemed to have convinced the bouncer that they’d be on their best behavior in exchange for the opportunity to keep their seats. Somehow, I doubted that their reassurances were genuine. That was the thing about dealing with assholes. As much as they tried to hold their shit back, they always returned to their true nature in the end.
Carlos laughed tiredly as he followed my gaze. “It’s your money, man. As long as you’re wooing the talent instead of harassing them, I’m not going to tell you how to spend it. Just don’t get pissed at me if he doesn’t bite.”
I echoed his laugh. Difference was, mine was genuine.
When it came to Damon, a little biting was only the beginning of what I had in mind.
2
Damon
“Mezcal, huh?” I laughed as I raised the shot up to the light, catching a whiff of smokiness in the tequila’s scent.
“Top shelf,” Carlos added. “Happy fuckin’ birthday, huh?”
Mezcal. Well, fuck me sideways. The mystery man at the bar had either guessed my favorite drink—or more likely, he’d bothered to do a little digging.
I had to give him credit. He was nothing if not persistent.
Nonetheless, I shook my head as I placed the drink back down on Carlos’ tray. “Happy fuckin’ birthday indeed. Tell him I appreciate it—but I’m not interested.”
“Really?” Carlos ran his free hand through the slicked-back darkness of his hair as he balanced the tray on his other palm. “The guy likes you, man. Surely you can squeeze in one little dance for him tonight?”
I shrugged my angel’s wings back on, enjoying the weight of them on my shoulders. “I could. But I don’t wanna.”
“Why the hell not?”
“He’s trying to buy my affections. Via alcohol. It’s a little insulting, don’t you think?”
“He’s ponying up money for drinks to try to impress you,” Carlos countered.
“Yeah, well, it’s not working. I know this dude’s type, okay?”
Carlos rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even seen him yet. If you’d just pop your head out and have a look at him, you might change your mind.”
“I don’t have to see him to know what his game is.” I dumped a palmful of baby oil into my hand and began to work it over my chest, making every ridge of every muscle glisten. “Come on, Carlos. He’s not really interested in me. What kind of dude spends his evenings sending shots over to strippers?”
“You’re not a stripper, you’re a dancer,” Carlos corrected me. “And who knows? Maybe he’s just got the hots for you and wants to get to know you better. Is that so crazy?”
I laughed again. The sound was as bitter as a cup of cold, over-brewed coffee. “Yes, actually. Alphas don’t like me, man. Alphas just want to fuck me, fuck me over, then skip town. Remember Andrew?”
Carlos groaned. “Who steals someone’s house cat then runs off to California with it?”
“Guys that spend their nights sending shots to strippers.” I caught Carlos’ glare and corrected myself this time. “Okay, sorry. Dancers.” I glanced at my phone, thinking wistfully of Cleo Catra napping in the sunshine on Venice Beach. If I had the money for it, I would’ve flown out the second I realized she was gone and stolen her back—but unfortunately, no matter how hard I worked, there never seemed to be the money for it, and the local police department was surprisingly unsympathetic to the plight of my pilfered cat. “He still tags me in his Instagram pics of her sometimes.”
“Right, but Andrew was an outlier,” Carlos said.
“Was he? Because the guy I dated before him used the spare key to my apartment so he could break in while I was at work to steal all the copper pipes out of the walls,” I pointed out. “And the guy before him was just dating me so he could hook up with that cousin of mine who was on “Almega Bachelor,” remember?”
Carlos hung his head in defeat. “That was a rough Thanksgiving that year, I’ll give you that.”
“So.” I rubbed the last of the baby oil off onto my thighs until they were gleaming, then ruffled Carlos’ hair in that way I knew he hated. “Tell Mr. Mezcal that he should save his money or pick a more willing target. Okay?”
“It’s your birthday, Damon…” Carlos mumbled, summoning up a last-ditch argument.
“Which means I don’t want to hear about that guy again.” I gave him a grin and pinched his cheek as I headed to the back of the dressing room. “It’s my birthday wish, Carlos! Make it happen!”
Back in costuming, I plunged headfirst into a box of feather boas and fur coats, searching for the halo I’d tossed in there after the opening number. No sooner than I’d hit the bottom of the box then I felt a smack on my bottom, hard and firm.
“Spanks for the birthday angel!” Anders called out over me, letting out a loud whoop! “How many do I owe you tonight, hot stuff?”
“Save the spankings for your clients.” I chuckled as I withdrew myself from the costume box, spitting out a mouthful of white feathers. “After the bullshit those fuckers at table nine are putting us through tonight, I think I can forgo the spankings just this once.”
“Forty-three it is!” Anders announced, winding up for another whack at my rump.
I caught his wrist before he could make contact, twisting it in an Indian burn like the ones I used to give my little sisters when I was being a brat. “I’m twenty-five and you know it.”
“Okay, okay! Uncle already,” Anders whimpered. “Table nine really has you in a mood, huh?”
I released Anders’ wrist to rub the back of my neck. The stress of dealing with those assholes had immediately settled knots into both of my trapezius muscles, and with half the night left before me, it wasn’t likely to get any better.
“They’ve got you in a mood too, as I remember,” I said, chancing a wry grin. “Or have you already forgotten the way you beat the shit out of that one with your prop cocktail olive?”
Anders made a noise of disgust. “I’d like to see those fuckers call me a slut again. Next time, I’m aiming lower.”
“You should tell that to your stalker,” I teased. “Maybe he’d finally stop creeping on you.”
“That weirdo? Please, he’s a creep, but at least he’s sweet about it. It’s just been chocolates and flowers this week. Not even any of his bad poetry.”
I snickered. Despite being one of the newest additions to the Ballroom’s dance staff, Anders was easily the most popular of all of us. It only made sense that someone like him had a stalker. Anders had been born too handsome for his own good—so of course receiving chocolates and flowers from a secret admirer just made this another normal week for him.
Not all of us had been that lucky, of course. Obviously, the best I could do was random drinks from some brain-damaged individual at the bar who didn’t understand that no meant capital-N, capital-O.
“Just don’t let table nine get to you when you go back out there, okay? Blake gave t
hem his I’m-a-bouncer-and-I-can-bounce-your-ass talk, but when Kieran went on, he said they were still being dicks to people.” Anders sighed. “Night can’t get over fast enough, huh?”
I nodded, thinking of all the stuff I still had to do after I’d finished my last dance, showered and gotten back to our apartment. “You have no idea. I’ve got my midterm tomorrow. Probably going to be awake studying until then at this rate.”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “Um, no you’re not. You don’t turn twenty-five every day, dummy! The guys are all coming around after to drink! If you’re staying up all night tonight, it’s because we’re painting the town red—not because you’re locked in your room highlighting shit in your textbooks.”
And just like that, I felt another knot wind itself up in my shoulders. At this rate, I’d need my physical therapy degree just to figure out how to unwind them all again. It was the worst part of rooming with Anders, really. He only had two speeds: fast and faster. Slowing down was not an option, and if he had brake lines, he’d cut them ages ago.
“Please no,” I begged. “Come on, man. I really need the extra study hours. Seriously. We can go out this weekend or something.”
“This weekend isn’t your birthday,” Anders pouted. “Tonight is your birthday.”
“Fuck,” I swore, glancing up at the clock. “I need to be out on the floor right now. Can we table this argument for later?”
“Ugh. I suppose.”
“In that case, have you seen my halo? I can’t figure out where—”
Anders smirked, green eyes sparkling with mischief as he pulled the gold circlet out from behind his back and dangled it in front of my eyes. “Thought you might be needing it at some point.”
