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A cup of coffee appears before me, and I take it, mumbling a thanks. Cass joins us, eyes narrowing on me. He smells like fresh laundry, pulling on a clean t-shirt, his long hair still wet from the shower, strands soaking his shoulders.
"Anything new?" Red asks, oblivious to my silent conversation with Cass. It's strange, we haven't talked about her, but somehow, I know that's exactly what's got us both tied up. We're pack, you can sense these things. And the boy's got a woman on his mind.
"Dude," Red nudges my shoulder, pulling my attention from Cass.
"What?"
He laughs, "Anything new? All good at the club?"
"It's fine. Queenie's is fine." I sip the black coffee in my hands, letting the hot bitter liquid refocus my attention. I slap my cheek a few times for good measure. "It's good," I mumble, thinking again of the Angel of Death.
Red shakes his head. "What's with you two lately, anyway? It's usually a chore putting in the hours at Queenie's." He's not wrong. Much as we love the club, sometimes we want to do other things, too. We've floated the idea of selling to Roxy and her mates, but we're still young, barely thirty. We have time to do other things.
"Got nothin' else to do with all these hours," I deflect.
Cass folds himself into the seat next to me, clasping his hands in front of him on the table, and turns to me, feigning casual interest. He smiles wide, the happy-go-lucky motherfucker. "Nothing going on at the club you want to talk about? Anything, anyone new?"
He's baiting me. The urge to hit him is strong.
But the fact that he's noticed me noticing Imogen… that's a problem.
"Nah. Nothin' new. Why don't you pick your shifts back up? Maybe I'll hit a club downtown tonight." That's a better idea. As long as I jack off a few times beforehand, there's no risk of me picturing Imogen and accidentally banging a beta with my knot. Biologically, an alpha's knot isn't supposed to swell for anyone but an omega—sometimes, only for your bonded—so I'm a little concerned I've been walking around with my knot half-inflated all fucking week.
"No can do, I need Cass later. Sorry bro," Red turns to Cass apologetically. Cass's shoulders slump.
I finish my coffee and head back upstairs to shower.
Imogen's an omega, I remind myself. Not delicate, like the OFA would have you believe, but vulnerable all the same. Phe's vulnerability always lingered beneath the surface, no matter how hard she tried to pretend she had a hard shell. It wasn't because of her past or her apprehension with alphas. She was just… vulnerable. Omegas all have it, and as an alpha, I feel a strong urge to nurture that shit. But Imogen needs someone else to fill that role, it can't be me. It can never be me.
I finish in the shower with cold water, so my dick doesn't get any ideas. Afterward, I get dressed, find a white t-shirt on the floor, sniff it, decide it's clean enough, then find my motorcycle gear where I left it in the kitchen. Red and Cass are already gone, so I head down to the garage, walk my bike out onto the street, and take off.
I make the rounds through the neighborhood, stopping for an early lunch at May's Diner. She sees me coming, puts my order in before I even walk in. I've got a soft spot for that old bat. I leave cash, and, when I've stalled enough, not wanting to admit I've been counting down the minutes, I head to Queenie's.
Normally, one of the three of us will stroll in closer to closing time just to help with whatever's needed and to make our presence known to the clientele.
If we need to take time off for whatever reason, our staff can handle shit themselves.
Lately, though, between me and Cass, we're all up in everybody's fucking business. Made all the more obvious when I slip in through the backdoor and find a surprised Roxy walking into the breakroom. She narrows her eyes, but since I don't offer any reason why I'm here early again, she shrugs and heads into the women's break room.
I don't see black angel wings, and I can't scent her—though I haven't been close enough to, only watching her like a fucking creep from afar, and she's likely wearing scent-blockers like all the other omegas at Queenie's.
I pull off my motorcycle gloves and toss them on the desk, staring at the computer, wondering why in the hell I volunteered to come in tonight.
I'm tired, not enough to crash, but enough that the harsh blue light from the computer screen zaps my energy. I sift through pages of paperwork, filling in the spreadsheet for taxes in the way Cass likes, though I type like an octogenarian, one finger at a time. Computers were never really my thing.
Eventually, when I can't see straight, I stumble away from the desk and make my way to the bar out front of the club.
Disappointment gives way to relief when I don't see those giant black wings draping gracefully off her slender shoulder blades while she does a spin with her legs wrapped around the pole.
Zach dips around me while he makes drinks. The club is hopping, loud and rowdy. I crack my knuckles. Maybe I'll get to release this energy another way.
If I could scent her, or if she was wearing the black wings, I'd have spotted her immediately, and I might have responded less like an asshole. Instead, when she enters my line of sight, my gaze immediately drops to the black lace bra, and I'm fucking distracted, wondering what color her nipples are, how big they are, if they're fat or hard, or if the light dusting of sun-kissed freckles on her neck and chest trails beneath the material.
My first instinct is to grab each cup and rip the material in half, bury myself between her tits, and sink my teeth into her neck.
I give in to my second instinct, which is to grip the tequila in my hand, nearly shattering the glass.
"Iggy, right?" She asks, coming closer, voice lilting like she'd been waiting for me. Her eyes are blue, like a bright, shiny gemstone. The contrast is stark against the black make-up and black feathered mask that hides her face, except for the plump red lips, which are parted, and the slight flare of her nostrils as she breathes me in.
