This is the 13-plus version, with the juicy parts cut out. For the full M version, please visit me on AO3!
The '88 Ford's diesel engine starts up with a roar and then settles into a steady rumble. Rylie, like most people used to smaller modern and electric engines, startles.
"Sorry, should have warned you." Hunter reaches to turn on the heater. "It'll be less noticeable once we're on the move, though on a day like today, it'll take a few minutes to warm up."
She nods, but not as though she's paying attention. Slim, deft fingers pluck a black cassette from the tape deck, just missing his hand as he withdraws it. For as prickly as she was the night before about an alpha having the audacity to occupy her time zone, she seems at ease now—a state he wasn't sure she was capable of attaining in real life—unconcerned with accidentally touching that same alpha, and crap. He doesn't know what to do with that.
She turns the cassette over, taking in the smudged, faded writing, which spells out Deans top 13 Zepp TRAXX. "I can't believe anyone still listens to these. Though, having met him, I don't know why I expected anything else."
When she smiles at him, unguarded, friendly, he squints out the windshield as though he hasn't been staring at her, fascinated that she looks exactly like she does in her videos, yet doesn't, because she's real, she's here, filling the cab with her warm breathing and her subtle scent and he doesn't know what to do with that, either. "My dad made that for my father way back when they were still dating. As far as I know, Das's never actually listened to it. He prefers Christmas carols. For years he just . . . carried it around with him in his coat pocket, like a talisman or something. Please put on your seatbelt."
"Aw. Your folks are officially adorable." She adjusts the strap over her shoulder. The click of the buckle is lost under the engine's growl as Hunter shifts into reverse and navigates out of the lot, his arm braced across the back of the seat. Her hair, pulled into a ponytail, brushes his hand. It's as cool as the air blowing through the vents. "A mixtape is like the ultimate 'I'm so into you' move. They must have really been in love."
"Still are," he agrees. The love they have for each other as a mated pair, and for him and his siblings as their parents, has always been his ideal. Personal, and precious. And, therefore, nobody else's business. He clears throat, thinking to change the subject, but she gets there first.
"I wonder if it's different, having two dads," she murmurs.
"Pardon?"
She returns the cassette to the slot in the dash. "Nothing. Never mind. Can we go?"
It's clearly something. She digs in her purse as they bounce down the rutted driveway. With the crackle of paper and plastic wrap, she comes up with a crumpled pack of Morley Reds. She shakes it, and then pulls one out, pinched between her lips. Before he can object to her lighting up in his father's truck, she plucks the unlit cigarette from her mouth and slouches in her seat. She licks her bottom lip, staring out at the salvage yard. Balancing her hand lightly against her chin with her ring and pinkie fingers, she slides the flat of her thumbnail broodingly back and forth.
He slows to a stop at the intersection of the gravel drive and the paved road, under the sign's metal arch, mesmerized by the slight motion of her thumb, the pliability of her lip, pink and plush. From her clothes, her hair, wafts the faint acridity of old cigarette smoke. He doesn't like it. It's frustrating. It doesn't suit her, and it obscures her real scent—
"What are you waiting for, a green light?" Impatiently, she indicates the surrounding countryside, the road straight as a ruler, bordered by deep ditches and miles of barbed wire fencing. Stoplights don't exist out here.
Brought roughly back to reality by her sharp disapproval, he sucks in a too-small breath, then holds it long enough for his lungs to start to complain. Funny how he knows that scowl already. Does she save it for every alpha male out there, or is he special?
Her scowl intensifies. "And I don't know what your problem is, but you need to stop staring at me."
That answers that question; she does think he's a lying creep. It's his turn to frown. "I may be alpha, but I have not yet developed psionic abilities. I have to know your destination before I can deliver you to it. Were you planning on divulging this information any time soon, or were you going to let me choose? In which case I'd suggest the Behavioral Health Center, where they'll help you tone that narcissism down a bit."
Ouch. Tell me how you really feel. Rylie resists the urge to snap back at him because she kinda was the one who started that. "Jeez, sor-ree. Anybody ever tell you that you should come with a warning label?"
"No." He pouts out the windshield, ready to go but waiting on her, apparently determined not to speak another word to her.
"Pfft," she says, smiling behind her cigarette hand in spite of herself. Why does she suddenly find sulky and disheveled so damn attractive? Does it have something to do with a pair of relaxed blue jeans that hug toned thighs in all the right places? The slight five o'clock shadow defining the sculpted jaw? The tiny dimple that hints at an old ear piercing? It's so annoying! If only he were beta. She wouldn't hesitate for a secondto make a pass at one this beautiful.
His frown flickers as he glances at her, then he returns to fixed glaring straight ahead, reminding her that they still aren't going anywhere.
"Walgreens. The one on Minnesota," she says, picking a stop at random. The abrupt, absurd thought that she'd like to scratch at his stuffy exterior a little, just enough to get to the skin beneath, distracts her. His thick, wavy hair is on the shorter side. It feathers by his ears and at the nape of his neck. A nice neck. One that would have invited her across the barroom so she could slip her hand into its collar and play with the locks there. Mmm, yeah, she bets his hair's soft, too. It looks soft, the neck sturdy. A neck which she would have first caressed, and then teasingly bitten, defying society's expectations of the submissive omega. Then, she'd lick away the sting, and show her remorse through wet, lingering kisses—
The stricken puppy look he shoots her, the wide, mismatched eyes swiftly darkening into a predatory stare, the full lips parted on a gasp, nearly bowls her over. Arousal cracks in the air, overwhelming the heater, threatening to steam up the windows.
Oh, no!
Rylie squeaks. Has she lost her mind?! She should not be fantasizing around a man who is hardwired to know when she likes what she sees, to respond to and meet her changing moods—which he is doing right this minute, squirming in his seat, face getting redder by the second.
Their mutual embarrassment is palpable. She's not even interested in him! Not like that. His pretty face is rapidly redefining her ideal type, there's no denying it, but she feels more protective toward him than excited. She can't explain the feeling, either. It's just there, hovering on the edge of her consciousness.
Not like it matters. She's omega. She is the ultimate aphrodisiac, less than a week from her next heat cycle, and she is wreaking havoc on Hunter Winchester's thread of reason, stretching it to its breaking point.
It never gets that far. His eyes appear to lose focus, but then he swiftly turns his face away. His erratic breathing sounds frightened; his hands squeeze the steering wheel so tightly the tendons seem ready to burst from the skin.
His intentions are clear. He's not going to touch her, won't even look at her, until he gets his body's response to her pheromones back in line. Whatever else is going on, she is safe with him.
Yet she was the one who didn't trust him enough to get into a vehicle with him in the first place.
It's her.
She's the problem.
"Oh, jeez, I'm so—!" Rylie grabs the handle and rolls down her window as fast as she can. Freezing wind slices through the cab, clearing her head in an instant. The sight of Hunter huddled over the wheel, palms creaking on the leather, sends spears of shame stabbing through her belly. She whispers the words, afraid that if she tries to speak, she'll gag on them. "I'm sorry."
His voice comes out so raw that her throat aches in sympathy. "I'll order you an Uber. Stay here."
The door slams with a bang that shakes the entire pickup. Hunter staggers away from it, both hands buried in his hair, his sneaker boots sinking into churned up, grayish snow. Though he doesn't feel the cold, nothing kills the mood quite like the odor of livestock, threaded in the abrasive wind. He fishes his phone from his pocket. Since his mechanic dad would string him up for relying on other people to drive him around, he has to install the app to schedule a ride. He does it, however, and punches in his card number without hesitation.
He waits, pacing in the waning daylight, for the fifteen minutes it takes the car to appear, aware the whole time of Rylie's eyes on him. He hears the click of her door opening over the continued rumbling of the pickup's engine, and the snap of it shutting. Then he hears her trudging over the ice and snow. The heater must have been running full blast because he can feel her when she stops at his side, burning through his clothes.
"Um . . . Thanks for, uh, y'know, everything." Rylie can't help herself. In the falling dark, Hunter's posture resembles that of a scolded child. It causes her a pang of guilt. Damn it, this isn't what she wanted. What is wrong with her? She's done nothing but be rude to the poor guy, and truth be told, what she did back there could be considered sexual assault. Hesitantly, she taps the side of his hand, shivers at its chill. "I really am sorry about all this. I didn't set out to mess with your head, I swear. Maybe I can make it up to you? As, you know, friends." She cringes. Seriously, could this get any more awkward? "Let me buy you supper, at least. Please."
She doesn't expect him to twitch under her touch, for his hand to flip over, to grasp hers. She allows the contact, offering to share her warmth if nothing else. Then she holds on because it feels nice, because it feels like something has been saved, calming them both.
Screw what Bela said. Setting out with the intention of snagging an alpha protector? It was an awful idea to start with. Rylie's done enough damage these last couple of days. She stretches her fingers—an invitation that Hunter takes to lace his with them, to press their palms together.
Finally, he meets her eyes. He stares intently into them, and then he's wordlessly passing her off to the other car and closing the door behind her.
He chose to accept the fee to secure a confirmed beta driver. He takes a deep breath, then another, of searingly cold air. For the first time in his life, he reacted to an omega's pheromones, but the woman they belong to isn't the one destined for him. Regardless, he struggles while watching the car motor away, red taillights glowing, its unknown driver taking her from him.
What a fiasco. In the distance, the silhouettes of grain elevators dot the darkling skyline like massive chess pieces on a giant's board. From this perspective, it's impossible to suss out the overall strategy of whatever game God is playing with them.
He stands firm against the wind. Back in middle school, to his intense mortification, his societies and cultures teacher subjected his class to the events of the Omega Rights Movement, also known as Winchester v. United States, and spent three days playing snippets from the news coverage of the pivotal trials for their edification. In one of the early trials, Castiel, using his knowledge as a medical professional to testify against the men who attacked Dean, explained that mating pheromones between alphas and omegas are conveyed through the skin—in other words, through touch. According to him, this is why so many fairy tales depict true love's first kiss. He said that he knew, from the moment Dean shook his hand while introducing himself, that Dean was his mate.
Sex pheromones, on the other hand, which are purely scent-based, only indicate arousal, fertility, and create excitement in potential sexual partners. They have nothing to do with the mating bond.
He held her hand. He breathed her in. It's clear which set of pheromones got to him. It's clear that Rylie Hayes is not his mate.
His relief hurts. Even though he is undeniably attracted to her, and even though it took tremendous strength to not take what was offered back there, intentionally or not, it isn't her. She isn't the one who will break his heart, smash it into so many unrecognizable pieces that he follows suit, forever alone, forever unhappy, more than half dead inside. Like Granddad was, for many years after he lost his mate, his wife Karen, before Castiel, Mary, Jimmy, and Hunter came along and bombarded him with noise and laughter and love.
Drained, Hunter flops into the driver's seat of the old Ford. He leans back, throwing an arm over his eyes, and whimpers. He can smell her in the small space, like the seats and the floor mats and the liner soaked up her essence to make sure he festers in his very own shoebox hell. Before the longing can completely incapacitate him, he sits up and switches off the heater, prepares to drive the truck back to its parking spot, prepares to face the questions his dad and that busybody Benny are sure to have. He considers the tape deck, the cassette Rylie pushed in far enough that it wouldn't fall, but not so far that it would begin playing, just the way he left it.
He spits out a curse, shifts clumsily into first to the grinding of the gears. He's not stupid. Kelly Kline was considerate like that, too. It doesn't mean anything.
He closes his eyes, which sting and prickle from the cold. This whole mate nonsense. He's not sure he buys it. As far as he's concerned, his parents are the exception, not the rule. The fairy tale, not the reality.
The pickup's engine roars. The tires spin before catching in the snow. It doesn't matter, does it? He's already lost. He likes the pretty, pink-haired omega, who runs her mouth but isn't afraid to admit when she's wrong. Already he hopes to see her again.
And he really doesn't know what to do with that.
xXx
"Bruh." Eileen Leahy doesn't usually sign when she speaks, but there are times, like now, when she wants to add the emphasis by spelling things out with her hands. "You made a move and then bounced?"
"Thank you so much for summing up the dumbest decision of my life in so few words, Eileen." Corbett casts a baleful eye at her over his shot of Tuaca, then downs it. He flips the glass and sets it down so she can see his face when he talks. "It was a little more than that."
"Yeah, it was," she says, grinning like she's his proud mom or something.
For crying out loud. He shouldn't have told her. He groans and lays his head on the bar, then signs for "another one" by holding up his right hand and crooking the index finger.
He hears her comply, the splash of flavored brandy liqueur into a clean glass, the slide of the glass over the bar top. "Hey, kiddo, you know I'm not going to refuse serving you because that's kind of the whole point of me being here, but isn't this sort of thing what got you in trouble in the first place?"
As though answering for him, his phone lights up with an incoming call. Joseph. Again. Corbett swipes to decline the call. Again. His lock screen then presents him with the fifteen unread text messages that have been trickling in all day long, tiled like cards. Without unlocking his phone, he swipes through them.
Hey.
Corbett.
You there?
Hey.
Call me.
Corbett.
Answer me Please?
CORBETT
Pick up your phone!
Asshole.
You dead?
Hey Asshole!
PICK UP YOUR PHONE.
Cmon man. I'm sorry.
Please
He knows he deserves all that and more, but it's that last one Corbett doesn't want to see. That one unembellished word, filled with so much confusion and pain. He did that, he caused that, because he's not willing to deal with the fallout of last night. This morning. Whatever. It hasn't even been a full day and he feels like he's been running from it forever. He scoops up the shot and then throws it back like he's a broken-hearted Roger Rabbit.
Eileen makes a face at him, half sympathetic and half a grimace. However, there are other customers who need her attention, and from across the room, Mildred's hands fly, telling her to get back to it. Reluctantly, she leaves him alone.
The Banshee bustles with people out to have a good time, but he sits with his back to it all; there hasn't been enough of a lull for Mildred's signature flirting, not that he minds. He prefers picking at his totchos with the vague idea of giving his stomach something to soak up the shame.
Naturally, just as he's decided that this self-imposed exile is fine, a male body claims the next stool over by straddling it, the exaggerated motion highlighting slender legs and a dress shirt left unbuttoned far enough to hint at sharp collarbones and a smooth chest. "Hi. Are those nachos with tater tots instead of chips? They look tasty. Would you recommend them?"
Sucking warm cheese sauce and cool sour cream off his fingers, obnoxious and unapologetic about it, Corbett takes his time to assess the youthful face of his sudden new acquaintance, the styled hair, the diamond stud earrings, the gold chain iWatch band, the long column of bare throat, before replying. Yep, this is familiar. This is how he managed to keep that dumbass at arm's length for so many years. "Yeah. I mean, it's kinda hard to bomb nachos."
He can't identify the expression that flits across the other's face—Surprise? Doubt? Curiosity?—before he recovers his smile, a bit less affected this time around. "Fair point. I'm Helix."
"Corbett."
Helix offers his hand. "My bad, I didn't mean to intrude. I'm going to guess you aren't looking for a companion tonight."
Corbett snorts but accepts the handshake anyway. "You're not wrong, but what makes you say that?"
Working on his answer, Helix takes a long, thoughtful sip of his beer, but then apparently he decides to bite the bullet. "It's normally not done to actually, y'know, talk about this, but since you aren't one of us, I feel like I should. Did you know you're covered in pheromones? I seriously thought you were alpha for a hot minute."
Joseph Kadoka! That dumbass. Corbett coughs, searching in vain for something to wash down his discomfort. "Please tell me you're kidding."
"Yeah, no. They're strong." Lush lashes lowered, glossed lips parted, Helix leans close. He tugs at Corbett's collar with one fingertip to sniff his neck, humming at a tender spot near his jumping pulse point, a mark Joseph sleepily sucked into his skin, after. "Mmm. Stronger here. Smells good too. I don't suppose you'd be open to trying something different tonight."
Whoa. Corbett freezes. This isn't so familiar. The other man feels like a great cat on his arm, warmly melting into a scent that isn't his. He catches a glimpse of the pair of them in the mirror above the shelves of alcohol behind the bar. Anyone would think they had hooked up already, their heads so close together their hair blends, brown and blond. What is it about the submissive gender that makes society fantasize about them so much? Is it this total inhibition, this willing enthusiasm, this raw sexuality that drips from every pore? Well, not him. It's creeping him out. He stiffly says, "Something different, as in bagging myself an omega? Sorry. Not my thing."
Helix purrs in his ear, "If it helps, I also make an excellent top."
"Got me pegged, have you?" Corbett murmurs.
"Hmm. Not yet."
He sounds cocky for an omega, and a twink at that. So much better than the Toucan Sam follow-your-nose routine with which he opened. Corbett gives in and laughs aloud. Takes one to know one, he supposes.
Grinning, Helix straightens, raising his hands to show he's unarmed. "There, that's better. Face like yours, it's a crying shame to see it so troubled."
Gee. Wonder why he'd seem troubled. And there goes the phone again. Corbett stabs the screen to decline the call, then stares at it like he could set the unread texts on fire with his laser eyes. Dumbass. Take a hint already!
"So who is he?" Helix picks ups Corbett's fork and helps himself to a soggy totcho, dripping cheesy ground beef and picante sauce into his palm. "Boyfriend? Friend with benefits? Neighbor? Coworker? That hot guy from the club you had your heart set on?"
My best friend in the whole world who knows everything about me and is one of the most decent human beings I know but now I've gone and screwed him over. Oh, and I slept with him too. Corbett turns the screen off, flips the phone onto its front. Ready for another drink, he tries to signal Eileen, but she has her hands full with a rowdy bunch by the register who don't seem to realize she's a lip reader, not a mind reader. "Nah. Nothing like that."
"Huh. I'm not buying it."
"Hey." Corbett stops Helix from filching another tot. "You seem nice and all, but I don't know you. I'm not alpha. We've established that I'm not here for a pickup. My business is none of yours."
"Like I said, fair point." Helix drops his charm like it's a gum wrapper. He chugs what's left of his beer, but then, instead of huffily taking his game elsewhere, he hesitates, sighs, and then sits back down. His visible earring sparkles in the low light. "Listen, Corbett. You're right, this isn't any of my business, but there might be something you're misunderstanding here."
"Like what?" Corbett frowns at him.
"Don't you think it's strange that this alpha of yours doused you in his pheromones like that? Alphas only do that to omegas, to warn off other alphas. It's a way to mark us as their territory, and it's rude to do it without consent. You're a beta, and it's clear he did it without your permission. You should ask yourself why. Or better yet, ask him."
Right on cue, another call from Joseph sends his phone into fits. It buzzes like a trapped wasp. Corbett is as reluctant to touch it as though it were one. Therefore, the shock of Eileen of all people breezing up and answering it makes him yell and try to snatch it away from her, but she fends him off as she fills a glass with water. "Hello, you've reached the offices of Alan J. Corbett, one moment please."
It's so weird to see her talking on the phone. Corbett sinks back onto his stool as she offers him the small device, but when he does nothing but gape at her in horror, she shrugs. "I caught a bit of what you two were saying. You might as well take it. Otherwise, it's only going to get worse."
"Tell me something I don't know." He's aware that he droops, as lifeless as a fallen leaf.
"Two people who have slept with each other can't be friends," Eileen says gently. She sets the glass of water in front of him, a signal that she's done serving him alcohol for the moment. "Not without some serious communication. He's taken the first step. It's your turn now."
Right. She's right. So why does his phone feel like a brick, dragging him down? Is Joseph, still on the line, the source of the extra weight, or is it his own guilt?
Only one way to lighten the burden. Corbett lifts the phone to his ear. "Yeah, what?"
"What do you mean, what? Dude, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you all day."
"I know."
His inflectionless tone gives Joseph pause. "Hey. What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Corbett runs his free hand through his hair, closes his fingers on it, closes his eyes on everything else.
"Don't give me that. You're at the Banshee, right? If you were smashed, Eileen would have told me to come get you. What gives?"
"I said it's nothing. What do you want?"
" . . . Is it about last night?"
Corbett clenches his teeth so tightly that a tendon in his jaw twinges. God, he hates it when Joseph, obstinate alpha male that he is, backs him into a corner. Joseph's logic tends to be yes or no, on or off, good or bad, which is endearing when it's on Corbett's side but hard to refute when it isn't. In this instance especially, when the only way out is going to be straight through the heart. "Yeah, it is. I mean, my bad, right? I was so far out of line—"
"Jesus, Corbett. You didn't come at me throwing punches." Joseph's losing volume with every word, and Corbett strains to hear him over the jollity of the crowd behind him. "What we did, it's—y'know—special—and it meant a lot to me—"
"Ope!" Is this how it feels to have feathers yanked out by the roots, leaving gooseflesh behind? He casts a nervous glance around, but Helix and Eileen have abandoned him. "Dude. Stop. Do you really want to have this conversation now? Over the phone?"
"It's not like you've given me options." Joseph huffs, and that tiny part of Corbett, the piece of himself that holds Joseph's name deep inside, glows at the mental image of the big, tough alpha pouting. "Hang up then, asshole. I'm coming to get you."
From where does this confidence come? "No need. I can get myself home. It's not like we're dating or anything."
"Is that a hint, Corbett? I'm happy to change our status. Just say the word."
Abort, abort! That's not what he meant! Corbett swallows against a dry throat, hating himself. He has to do this properly if he's going to do it at all. He can't keep dancing around or Joseph is never going to get it. Which means, he has to get a little dirty. "Nah, man. I don't think of you that way, but you've been antsy around me for a while. You didn't even try to hide it. So, I got curious." Corbett smiles to get the correct teasing tone across in his voice, to show that he isn't troubled by what he's saying or what happened. "Can you blame me? I was looking for it, and you were right there, and maybe there is something to you alpha males. If I'd known before what you were packing, I'd have—"
"Slept with me sooner?" By that frigid tone, Joseph is having none of it. "Are you saying that what we did had no meaning for you?"
"Just say it, dumbass. Sex. We had sex. Good sex, if you're that desperate for critical acclaim." Corbett scrubs at his hair as though dislodging fleas, but it does nothing to assuage the itchy discomfort of this entire situation. "Look, I admit it. Drunk or not, I started it. It was my mistake. I can take responsibility and pretend it didn't happen, so I want you to do the same. You said something to that effect yourself last night."
Joseph splutters, indignant. "That was before!"
Yeah, before. Before he couldn't deny that what he wanted wasn't the friend close as a brother anymore. They've been together for so long that the next step seemed logical, but it couldn't have felt more wrong. "Let me ask you something, then. Why did you mark me?"
Joseph sounds baffled by the question. "Who told you that?"
"Some omega. He thought that your scent was mine. He was all over me, didn't seem to care that I'd been with you, or wasn't you."
"Oh. Shit. Yeah, s'pose I did, then. Sorry."
"You s'pose? Wait, are you telling me you weren't going to bring it up if you weren't busted by someone who can smell you?"
Joseph snorts. "Calm down. Scent marking isn't voluntary. I can't control it. Pheromones are like the ash—they get on everything. My clothes, my bed, my truck, whatever I handle. We're friends. We hang out. You've always had a bit of my scent on you. So when we . . . I didn't think it was anything to mention."
Joseph's answer doesn't match what Helix said, but it doesn't sound like a deflection, either. Corbett grumbles under his breath. Which is true? Probably both. This issue must be another one of those things that shuts the boring beta drones out of the bizarre, tumultuous lives of alphas and omegas.
Case in point. Beer in hand, the omega Helix moves through one end of the barroom like he's shopping for the perfect accessory. At the other, Eileen, also omega, buses vacated tables, collecting dishes in a tub she hugs to her hip. Every once in a while, a head swivels in either of their directions, chin lifting and gaze fixing like a hunting dog's at the scent of prey. But where Helix, his bare throat on display, receives eager offers to pull up a chair or share a drink, Eileen passes unmolested thanks to the choker she wears, the heart-shaped locket dangling from it like a tag from a collar. Everyone with eyes to see knows that Helix is unclaimed, whereas Eileen proudly is, and is therefore off-limits.
Twenty-some years ago, Eileen Leahy wouldn't have been able to take this job. Not because she was incompetent, but because of her gender. Above all else, people want to have sex with omegas, and when in heat, omegas want to have sex with them. Nobody viewed omegas as workforce material, with the days off they require each month and the high possibility of multiple pregnancies, or wanted to pay for all the down time. Omegas belonged in the home, under the care or the mistreatment of their alphas, making and raising babies. Back then, Eileen couldn't legally own anything in her own name, not even her paycheck—it all would have been in her alpha guardian's name, whether a family member or spouse or someone who paid to claim her. Mildred, who treats people for who they are rather than what they are, could have hired her anyway, but it wouldn't have been safe for either of them, and they would have had to falsify records.
Nowadays, omegas are no longer property, not by law, but twenty years has not been enough time to rewire the human psyche. Thus, the collar, or claiming scars, or scent marking. An alpha will not touch what rightfully belongs to another alpha. The alpha-omega bond is so strong and irreversible that it prevents a mated alpha from loving another, either physically or emotionally. Conversely, an alpha who loses his or her mate, through death or rejection, breaks. They live out their lives miserable and alone and incapable of getting over their loss.
Not that Corbett really gets it. He is not part of their world.
But Joseph is. And that is what he can't accept.
"No, you're right, it's not worth mentioning," he says. He slaps his card on the counter. Eileen was right too. He shouldn't be here. "It's not going to happen again. I'm out of here."
"Corbett, wait. Don't go yet. Please let me come get you."
Does he hear the muted roar of Joseph's battered pickup in the background? Could he really be on the way? A day ago, that would have made Corbett happy. Tonight, a nasty thought intrudes, preventing him from agreeing to wait. If Joseph were here, Helix would be hitting on him. It's not even a question. Their pheromones would draw them together. The thought makes his insides burn. "No."
"Yes," Joseph says stubbornly. "Stay there."
"What do you expect is going to happen if you show up here?" Corbett hisses, struggling not to shout. "That we'll have some tearful reunion? That I'll agree to date you? Be your lover? Your fiancé? Your doting, childless husband? I'm beta, Joseph! We don't belong together!"
"I don't care!" Joseph explodes.
"I do!"
The sudden hush is a mortifying sound. Mildred, biting her lip and looking anywhere but at him, passes him his card and receipt without a word. While a handful of people surreptitiously watch, he shoves them in his pocket and shrugs on his coat one-armed.
Yes, pathetically, he's already thought that far ahead. It was only recently, however, that he began to realize that Joseph Kadoka isn't a dirty-faced kindergarten brat anymore, or a stretched-out, deep-voiced middle-schooler, or an alpha coming into his own in high school, with the proud, sculpted features and long hair that hearken back to his ancestors. It's not like Corbett can't see himself on Joseph's arm, and it's painfully obvious that it's what Joseph wants, but he won't do it. He can't. The second Joseph meets his omega mate, that's it. It would be all over for them. He wouldn't have a choice. No matter how much they love each other, how happy they are together, how many years pass by, Corbett would have to make way for someone else. Someone cherished, who can't be lived without.
"I do, okay? I do mind. I don't want this." He can't reach for that kind of happiness when its end is inevitable.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying? That just because we had sex, we can't be friends?"
He can't fix what wasn't working from the start. "I am."
"Why did you sleep with me if you were going to do this?" Joseph asks, his voice breaking. "Why didn't you ignore me like you always do? Why did you come over!"
"What the heck!" Corbett cries. "Why did you ask me over? You can't put all the responsibility on me. That's not fair!"
It sounds like Joseph is gasping. Or . . . are those tears? "This isn't just about you. Don't my feelings matter?"
"What feelings?" Corbett's fist thuds into the bar, jostling his water glass, sloshing some down the sides. "What feelings exactly, Joseph?"
Say it. I want to hear you say it. The little puddle of water glistens in the overhead lighting, the droplets sparkle like diamond stud earrings. When no answer is forthcoming from the other end of the line, he curses quietly, emphatically. Of course Joseph won't say it, because he can't give any kind of guarantee. He can deny the truth all he wants, but they both know this is hopeless. "I need time. Don't call me again."
xXx
Oh, boy. Corbett's the one who looks like he's about to cry, hurrying alone out of the bar and into the frosty night, so why is Eileen the one who feels bad?
She twists her hair into a ponytail, tugs the end out of her shirt collar, thinking over their conversation. Maybe she took that whole "wise bartender" trope too far—it's not her job to provide life advice to kids like him. Her job is to fetch two Blue Moon and one 90 Shilling for the threesome prowling around the Deer Hunter standup arcade, then to jam out a quick load of dishwashing. Mildred multitasks like a queen by dispensing beer into two different glasses with one hand and closing a tab with the other while talking on the phone clamped between her ear and her shoulder; Eileen crouches at her feet to restock the cocktail ingredient minifridge behind her legs. Then she strides off to wipe down tables and chairs and menus, to trade out low condiment bottles for full, to refill napkin dispensers.
She has no idea what it's like to be anything other than what she is: a mated omega. Not every person views the world as she does, and she'd do well to remember that. She scrubs hard at a patch of spilled caramel sauce from the salted pretzel brownie, carelessly smeared with a napkin and then left to dry on the shining bar top. So intent is she on the task that she misses a pair of alphas assuming they've started a conversation with her. The first she becomes aware of them, they're snapping their fingers and waving in front of her nose, their faces creased with their laughter.
She knows the type: Too good for this dive and everyone in it, but not too good to flaunt it. The politely impatient look she levels on the pair of them seems to float right under their radar.
The bigger one speaks through a smirk, his gray eyes twinkling with amusement, probably because the smaller one joked about her being deaf, and ha-ha-ha, isn't he clever? "Excuse me, sweetheart, I'm looking for someone. I met her here last night—"
"Sorry," Eileen interrupts, because it's not her job to help people hook up, either. She drops the rag into the bucket under the counter, dries her hands on her jeans, and then deals out a couple of cardboard coasters like she's running a blackjack table. "I wasn't working last night. What can I get you?"
The quality of her voice takes both of them aback. It requires every ounce of willpower she possesses not to burst out laughing. They aren't the first, and they won't be the last. Maybe if people didn't make cracks like that in the first place, she wouldn't feel so justified in throwing it back in their faces, customers or not. She tilts her head and waits for one of them to regain his wits, secure in the fact that she is currently barricaded behind the bar. They want her, they're gonna have to do some mountaineering to get to her, and more than a few of her regulars would put an immediate stop to that, anyway.
The shorter, unshaven one winks a stormy blue eye, strangely appreciative of being sassed by a mere servant. "Guinness, love."
The taller, sleek one checks the knot of his tie. Not to loosen it, but to straighten it, smoothing the silk against his flat stomach. "Make it two."
"You got it," she says, showing there're no hard feelings. Mildred taught her long ago not to get too invested, to stay professional, to keep it all business all the time when the line between service and confrontation gets toed.
Guinness isn't on tap. Bending down, she fetches two cans from the drinks minifridge and comes up to find Mildred with her hand resting over the open tops of the glasses.
"Hello, fellas, nice to see you again," the older woman says. She pulls her wrap a little closer. "I've got to tell you, if you're here to harass anyof my customers like you did last night, then you can go ahead and haul your ashcans to some other dump."
Eileen lifts her eyebrows. Well, non-confrontational was the theory, anyway. What did these two do to put that steel in Mildred's spine?
"Noted." The tall alpha flips a platinum card onto the counter, then stuffs what looks like a twenty in the tip jar. "Not to worry, my associate and I aren't here to cause a scene."
His associate snickers into his fist, but a brief, quelling frown from the other settles him. Mildred doesn't spare the jar a glance, though she does remove her hand.
Once cracked and the nitrogen widget activated, the Guinness takes a while to serve correctly and neatly. Mildred keeps her station at Eileen's side, despite the fact that this brings all business to a halt. Quite a few people stare curiously at the four of them, grouped at the counter, instead of at the TVs hanging around the room.
Eileen sweats into her undershirt the whole time she pours, uncomfortable with the concentrated alpha scents and shooting her beta mother-in-law glances that the older woman ignores. She's watching the alphas, and they're watching her. The tension feels as thick as the heads of the two stouts Eileen finally pushes closer to her still-smiling customers.
The second they turn their backs in a move that feels like a shuttered spotlight has mercifully left her in darkness, she fights against the buckling of her knees and hurriedly signs, "What was all that?"
Mildred sighs, her stern expression morphing into one of worry as she tracks the alphas through the barroom. When they claim one of the pool tables, to all appearances a pair of genial men about to enjoy their drinks and a casual game, she lifts her hands. "Trouble."
A/N: And that's it, we are now caught up! Here is where I could really use some outside thoughts on the story so far. Maybe that'll galvanize me to finish the next chapter and get it all rolling again heh.
Thanks go to St4r Hunter for the beta work, as always, and thanks to you for checking this story out! Reviews are, of course, greatly appreciated. (Don't be shy, please! I'm very nice. Promise)
My love,
~ Anne