Chapter Eighteen #2
“What size shoes?”
“Oh, a nine,” he answered, and the Alpha, Ricky, gazed over at me.
My unenthusiastic expression must have answered his question.
“Right.” He tapped the desktop. “I’ll grab the nines.”
He hurried off, returning a minute later, dropping the red and white shoes on the counter. “There ye are. Have fun.”
“We will,” Dylan assured him with a small, unnecessary smile. I rested my hand on the small of his back as we walked toward lane eight, to show the Alpha he was taken.
It was quieter around here, less bright and pungent. There were shiny booth seats curved around a touch-screen console, and a conveyor belt of bowling balls behind it. The monitor hanging above the lane had a virtual scoresheet already set up, “Alpha D” and “omega D” taking places one and two.
Dylan snorted.
“That was a choice,” he quipped as he plonked himself on one of the seats, removing his clean shoes to put on the other ones. “Feel less like shit that we didn’t pay him.”
“He’ll be compensated.” I stared back up at the screen. There would be ten rounds, apparently. I slightly regretted my request for two games now. “Though it might be in the form of a bullet to the head.”
“Caine!” Dylan barked, and I glanced down at him. He was glaring authoritatively. It stirred me. “No shooting. He was nice. Leave him alone.”
I sniffed.
Now who was no fun?
With his shoes velcroed, he stood and wandered over to the balls. He spun several with his fingers, reading the imprints above the three holes. “I don’t know what these numbers mean. Is this their weight?”
Raegan stepped forward. “Yes,” she confirmed. “I’d recommend a ten for you. The finger holes are smaller.”
“Ah.” Dylan nodded at her, smiling. He was doing a lot of that. “Thanks, Rae.”
She inclined her head before retreating back to her position. “Twelve and up for you, boss,” she tacked on.
“Yes, thank you, Rae.” I gritted my teeth. She lowered her head to hide her smug grin.
“You’re up first,” Dylan announced, clapping his hands together as he whirled to face me. “Don’t be too disappointed if you miss, alright? You can’t be an expert at everything.”
I didn’t acknowledge his condescension, just advanced and slipped the fingers of my left hand into a thirteen weight ball.
I strode over to the platform, positioning myself on the white dot behind the yellow warning line.
I bent my arm toward my chest, my eye on the centre pin, before sweeping it back and forcing my controlled power into the swing forward.
I released the ball. It landed on the laminate with a jarring thud, rolling straight down the middle of the lane before colliding with the pins.
All ten fell.
The screen above my head played a victory chime.
I turned, my gaze finding Dylan—whose lips were pursed with a noticeably unimpressed expression. “Are you fucking serious?”
I huffed, feeling more than a little conceited. “Is that not the aim of this? A strike?”
“Beginner’s luck,” he grumbled, snatching a purple ball from the conveyor belt. “It’s not as if it’s hard. You just stand to the side and throw the ball in a straight line.”
I moved aside, giving him room. “By all means.”
He attempted to mimic my actions, though his arm twisted at an awkward angle on the drift through. The ball slammed onto the lane and swerved into the gutter with a clatter. The pin setter ascended, dusting at an empty floor as if to mock him, preparing for his second shot.
All pins still intact.
“I don’t believe you get any points for leaving them all standing,” I remarked, and he pivoted, glaring.
“No fucking shit.” He stormed over to the belt, foot tapping the ground as he waited for his ball to return. He shoved his fingers inside unceremoniously, and with a frown of avid determination on his face, he attempted it again.
The ball clipped the far right pin, making it wobble. It didn’t collapse.
I wandered over to claim my ball as he flung himself onto one of the seats, his arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t tell me you’re a sore loser?” I said. It was a rhetorical question; his sour face was the answer.
“I haven’t lost yet, you arrogant prick. It’s my first go. I can still beat you.”
I hummed, and stepped up to take my second shot, using the same technique as before. The ball landed, it bowled, it crashed into the pins.
Strike two.
“Nah, fuck this,” Dylan griped, hurling his hands into the air and leaping to his feet. “Should’ve just done karaoke.”
“Grab your ball,” I instructed, and his eyes narrowed at me. “Do it.”
He obeyed indignantly before stomping to where I stood. I used his shoulders to steer him into a better position, my foot kicking at both of his to pry them further apart. “What are you—”
“It’s all in the arm,” I interrupted, plastering myself to his back.
I rested one hand on his lower belly, feeling the muscles skip, while I braced his opposite arm with mine, demonstrating the movement.
His scent was prevalent in my nose. “Steadiness and control. Even when you squat to release the ball, don’t lose that discipline until you let it go. ”
“I thought you’d never done this before,” he rasped, his voice barely a wisp of breath.
“I haven’t, but I can aim at a target and shoot.” I tilted my head. “Similar principle.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course. Silly me.”
“Focus.”
With a decisive nod, and a deep inhale that sunk under my palm, he straightened, tucking the ball close to his chest. I didn’t move from my place behind him, my arm mirroring his motion as guidance but not touching.
The ball launched from his grip, spinning at velocity toward the second pin from the centre.
Eight fell.
He gasped and swivelled in my arms, a wide grin splitting his face as he looked up at me. “It worked!”
“Of course it did.” I studied his triumphant smile, how his cheeks bunched and his dark eyes crinkled at the edges.
His gaze bored into me, and for a moment, he seemed to forgo breathing, absent in thought.
His chest expanded, brushing up against mine, his scent spiking with a mix of anticipation and simmering arousal.
The tip of his tongue peeked out to trace his lower lip, and I tracked the action. A subvocal rumble vibrated in my chest.
Almost witlessly.
The sound jolted him from his reverie. He blinked, and stepped away. The loss of his body heat was noticeable. “I get another go,” he asserted, turning to wait on his ball, while scrubbing at his nape with his palm as he went.
Leaving me standing there, pondering what was reeling through his head.
I won both games, though Dylan had fared better in his second round.
He’d needed to “warm up,” he expressed, and by the time we were done, he was no longer vexed by how naturally skilled I was.
He was now determined to find an activity he could beat me at, though—he decided dodgeball was the only possible contender.
He’d smiled again, laughed, and it was common sense to assume he’d enjoyed himself. It made me consider what else might draw out those reactions. For curiosity’s sake.
The day wasn’t over.
“Where are you going?” I asked, and he stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Back to the car?”
“You’re in need of baking equipment,” I reminded him. “I’m sure there is a store somewhere in this area. Though it may not have what you’re looking for.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Enough of that,” I said, twisting away. “Come along.”
I started walking in the direction of the row of shops up ahead, and after a brief pause, I heard a petulant huff. Feet scuffed the pavement behind me. “You’re such a stubborn arsehole.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
“There’s a place down Prover’s Street,” he grumbled, pointing vaguely into the distance. “It’ll have what I need.”
I swept out my hand. “Lead the way.”
The streets were bustling, the sounds and scents loud and offensive.
I’d only visited this district once, several years ago, to resolve a dispute in one of our businesses in the area.
I’d never returned. I had vaguely observed it on the CCTV while I’d trailed Dylan, but nothing had ever been worth noting.
It was similar to the district where the Den stood, albeit slightly more congested with the general public.
Eyes widened as I passed, recognition dawning, then with a glance at Raegan, they would scurry ahead, heads bowed.
A few didn’t react at all, just walked past without a care, and it was an amusing contrast. It was satisfying to know my image preceded me, though it was unsurprising the younger generation were oblivious.
“We’ll cut through here,” Dylan remarked, aiming for the alleyway between a newsagents and a butchers. “It looks a little less crowded.”
I hummed.
I suspected he was aware of my scent dysfunction.
How, I didn’t know the details. Had he snooped through my personal affairs?
Or was he just that perceptive? He hadn’t mentioned it, no hint or indication of an eagerness to pry, but as we wandered, I noticed how he would offer a subtle breeze of his pheromones whenever an omega walked by.
It could be a territorial gesture, claiming me in public, though it felt more protective. As if he was shielding me.
He was an entertaining little creature.
Over the course of the past few months, I’d noticed my symptoms becoming less and less during exposure.
I’d detected it at our mating—my first time in a room full of omegas since I was younger and I’d had to vacate before shaming my father in public.
I’d been so sure it would happen again, but Dylan had suppressed the worst of it.
It had been uncomfortable but not immobilising.
From then on, while I hadn’t interacted with many omegas to such an extent, it had been easier to bear—at the hospital, for example.
It was as if his pheromones acted as a tonic, and the more I absorbed them, the more effective they became.