Chapter 4 Wilson
Wilson
I step from the bedroom into the hallway that links it to the kitchen the next morning after getting dressed, noting the single window, the lock, and the front door’s deadbolt I could pick in under four seconds.
A second door near the kitchen hides the staircase back down to the club, and if the main exits are blocked, I can slip out a fire escape through the bathroom window.
I catalogue all of this in the seconds it takes to cross from the bathroom to the kitchen counter, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
Oliver and Lorenzo lie tangled together in the space I just vacated.
Oliver let out a soft grunt when I slid free from under his arm but didn’t wake.
Lorenzo didn’t shift at all, though I know he sensed the mattress move and chose to let me go.
The kitchen is small and immaculate, which screams pure Lorenzo.
Mugs are hung on hooks by size, a knife block with every handle facing the same way.
The only sign of Oliver is a glitter-speckled hand towel draped over the faucet and a sticky note on the fridge, slanting aggressively to the right: buy more eggs you animal.
Morning light presses through the window above the sink. I stand in it, letting the warmth hit my face while my brain runs through the standard post-sleep inventory. Neck scar: covered, shirt on, collar high. Body: sore in places that feel earned. Hands: steady for once. Head: quiet.
That last one is the problem because my head is never quiet.
Avoiding that thought process, I turn my attention to my phone, tapping it awake and scrolling past three spam emails and a weather alert until the voicemail icon blinks.
Though, there’s one message, received at 7:48 AM—from that 212 number that’s been my employer for the last four months that catches my attention.
Former employer, apparently.
I press play and hold the phone to my ear.
The voice on the other end is clipped, reading from the same script she’s delivered a dozen times this week: “Mr. Ashford, this message is to confirm the termination of your employment effective immediately. Following a routine background review, concerns have been raised regarding your prior affiliation with the Hearthstone Omega Center, which is currently the subject of an ongoing federal investigation. Your final paycheck will be mailed to the address on file. If you have questions regarding your benefits—”
I pull the phone away and dial back. It rings twice.
“Human Resources, this is Dana.”
“This is Wilson Ashford. I just got your voicemail.”
There’s a pause and then a soft clatter of keyboard keys. “Yes, Mr. Ashford. As stated in the message, your employment has been—”
“I heard what the message said. I’m calling because there’s context you’re missing. I worked at Hearthstone in their care program, yes, but I was—”
“Mr. Ashford, the decision has been finalized by—”
“If you’d let me finish a sentence, I can explain that I was working against the organization from the inside. I helped an Omega escape an abusive—”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand as the screen fades to black and my reflection stares back at me from the glass, dark circles, messy curls, and a mouth pressed into a line so tight it might as well be stitched shut.
Four months of showing up on time, doing good work, keeping my head down, and one database search erases all of it. A low growl tears from my lips as I grip the edge of the counter.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, my knuckles starting to ache from how hard I’m gripping the edge and I force my fingers to release, because if I keep holding on I’m going to put a crack in Lorenzo’s immaculate countertop and that feels like a poor way to repay the man who just gave me the best night of sleep I’ve had in two years.
It’s obvious I don’t belong here, though.
No matter how good having Oliver fuck himself on my cock felt or Lorenzo’s whispered words in my ear felt, this isn’t my space.
I head for the door, slipping on one shoe and searching for the other, only to find Oliver peeking out into the hallway before I can find it.
His hair is a disaster, sticking up in at least four different directions, and the glitter on his cheekbones has migrated overnight. There’s a streak of it along his jaw and another one on his shoulder where he slept on his arm, which means if I stare in a mirror, I’ll be a mess of glitter too.
He’s wearing briefs and nothing else, his eyes still half-closed as he leans against the doorframe with the boneless posture of someone who hasn’t fully committed to being vertical.
His gaze moves from my face to the shoe on one of my feet to the phone clutched in my hand.
The sleepy softness in his expression sharpens by a degree. “Coffee?” he asks.
“I should go.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He pushes off the doorframe and pads past me into the kitchen, pulling two mugs from the hooks without waiting for my answer.
The coffee maker lets out a small ding, realization that I would have never slipped out of here without their notice.
Oliver hits the button with the ease of a routine he’s performed a thousand mornings in a row.
“Cream? Sugar? Both? Lorenzo has some fancy oat milk shit if you’re into that. ”
“Black.”
“Boring. Perfect.” He fills both mugs when the pot finishes and slides one across the counter to me, eagerly waiting for me to step up toward it. I hobble over, still only in one shoe, Oliver’s fingers brushing mine during the handoff.
His smile widens a little before he grabs his own mug, pouring a spoonful of cream and an offensive amount of sugar before taking a sip while watching me over the rim.
I do the same, relishing the strength of it.
It’s strong enough to strip paint, which is exactly how I need it right now.
I drink half of it in one pull, the heat of it burning a path down my chest that gives me something to focus on besides the phone call and the shoes and the exit I was calculating thirty seconds ago.
“Bad morning?” Oliver asks. His voice is soft but his expression tells me he actually cares about my answer.
“Got fired.”
“Today? It’s 8 AM.”
I just shrug because it’s not the first time.
“Voicemail. They didn’t even wait for business hours.
” The bitterness in my own voice surprises me as I stare into my mug.
“A background check flagged my old job.” I pause for a moment, wondering if I want to sabotage whatever happened here and realize that it’s for the best. Better to get the disappointment over early. “Hearthstone.”
Oliver’s mug pauses halfway to his mouth. “The Omega center? The one that got shut down?”
“Yes, that one.” I take another drink, bracing myself for the moment Oliver throws me out or worse, Lorenzo demands I leave. “I worked there in their care program. It’s a long story and none of it matters because nobody lets me get past the name before they stop listening.”
“I’m listening.”
The words are simple enough. Four syllables, no dramatic emphasis, no wide-eyed sympathy face. Oliver says it the same way he said coffee, like it’s obvious, like the offer costs him nothing because he’d already decided to make it before he opened his mouth.
“It’s not a fun story.”
“Didn’t ask if it was fun. Do you want more coffee?
Lorenzo never lets me have more than one cup but he’s not up yet so don’t tell him.
” He reaches for the pot and tops off my mug without waiting for confirmation.
“You can tell me or not. Either way, you’re not leaving this kitchen until you’ve eaten something. ”
“I’m not hungry.”
Oliver ignores me but it doesn’t feel rude or like he’s dismissing me.
In fact, it almost seems like he’s easily giving me an out, every time he opens his mouth.
“Lorenzo made frittata last night before his shift. It’s in the fridge.
You’re eating some.” Oliver’s voice carries as he gulps down some of his coffee before opening the refrigerator door and retrieving a glass container.
The next several minutes, I watch the Omega fight with the lid, the plates in the cabinet, and then the microwave as he determines how long to set it.
It feels like an eternity later, my smile loosening at his little grunts and frustration that Oliver places a plate in front of me like he wasn’t just struggling. “Ta-da!”
I snort at the presentation, the slice leaning over to the side but dig in anyway, some part of me wanting to please Oliver. A low groan filters through my lips as I nod, about to lay down the fork when he just growls at me. Guess I’m not done eating.
“So,” Oliver says, dropping onto the stool across from me and folding his legs beneath him, “you’re unemployed.”
“As of twenty minutes ago.”
“And you were working at the Omega place before your most recent job?”
“Before several jobs. I left Hearthstone almost two years ago. Everything since has been temporary because this keeps happening.”
Oliver drums his fingers against his mug. He downs what was in there and pours himself another cup, his gaze darting down the hallway before he pours half the sugar container into the porcelain. “You know we need someone at the club, right?”
I frown. “What?”
“Vice & Virtue. We need a floor manager. Someone who can run the room, deal with drunk Alphas, and keep the staff in line without being an asshole about it.” His grin spreads.
“Lorenzo’s been doing it on top of everything else, and it’s grinding him into dust. We’ve been searching for months, but every candidate is either too soft to handle the crowd or too aggressive for our regulars. ”
None of this makes sense. We fucked yesterday. Well, they took me apart and now… “You’re offering me a job.”
“I’m telling you a job exists. The offering part is Lorenzo’s department.
” Oliver glances toward the bedroom again where the shower just kicked on.
“But I’m also telling you I watched you handle the energy in that booth last night without flinching, and you’ve got experience managing rooms full of volatile people in high-stress environments. ”
“That’s a creative way to describe working at an abusive Omega center.”
“Creative is my middle name. Hendrix is my last. You’ve already got the first one memorized.” He winks, and despite the phone call, the firing, the shame sitting like a stone in my gut, something inside me loosens.
Lorenzo appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing dark slacks and nothing else, a towel draped over his shoulders.
“He got fired,” Oliver says, jerking his thumb at me. “Background check. I told him about the floor manager position.”
Lorenzo’s expression doesn’t shift as he crosses to Oliver, planting a soft kiss on his head before stealing his mug.
The Omega lets out a soft grumble, painfully watching Lorenzo dump it into the sink but he doesn’t protest otherwise.
A few moments later, Lorenzo is seated beside his Omega, his own mug in hand, his gaze rising to me.
“I’m sure Oliver here was on his second cup.
What he failed to mention to you is that too much caffeine and someone ends up a little too over the top. ”
A chuckle rumbles through my chest. “You mean more than yesterday?” The shift in the conversation gives me a moment to breathe. Oliver just shoots me an impossibly wide smile before leaning into his Beta.
The comfort with which they touch and hold each other makes me jealous but I keep reminding myself last night was fun but that’s all it was. Lorenzo watches me for another beat, sipping from his mug before speaking again. “Can you work nights?”
I blink. “You don’t even know my qualifications.”
“I know you spent last night in a room with two strangers, submitted control of your body to someone you’d just met, and handled a trauma response mid-scene without shutting down. That tells me more about your composure under pressure than a resume.” He takes another sip. “Can you work nights?”
The smart answer would be no. I could finish my coffee, thank them for the hospitality and the orgasm and walk out to my empty apartment, and continue disappearing without inconveniencing anyone. The smart answer is to keep my distance. Distance has kept me alive for two years.
But I find myself saying, “Yeah. I can work nights.”
Oliver’s grin breaks across his face, his eyes nearly disappearing as his cheeks take over. Lorenzo nods once, sets down his mug, and extends a hand. I hesitate for a moment before taking it, the Beta’s thumb running softly across my knuckles.
“Trial period,” he says. “Two weeks. If it works, we talk terms.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Lorenzo’s mouth twitches. “Then Oliver will find another wounded bird, and I’ll go back to managing the floor myself.”
Oliver flicks the glitter towel at him.