Chapter 5 Lorenzo
Lorenzo
I watch Wilson cut off a handsy Alpha at table nine without raising his voice. I’m perched at the bar, reviewing the week’s invoices, my pen pausing against the clipboard as Wilson crosses the floor with a posture I’ve learned makes people part like the Red Sea.
The Alpha’s been nursing his fourth bourbon and running his mouth at one of our waitresses for twenty minutes.
Wilson stops at the edge of the table, says something I can’t catch over the music, and the guy’s face flickers through irritation, challenge, reassessment before he settles his tab and slinks out.
The waitress mouths “thank you” at Wilson’s back. He doesn’t see it. He’s already moving to the next crisis, a spilled drink inching toward the dance floor, which he flags for cleanup with a gesture so efficient I would have thought he’s been here forever.
Four days. He’s been here four days.
Oliver materializes at my elbow, smelling like vanilla syrup, the same stuff he always manages to spill on himself when he’s making specialty cocktails.
“Did you see that? He didn’t even have to flex.
The Alpha just left.” He drops his voice so only I can hear, his hip nudging mine behind the bar. “Lorenzo, he’s incredible.”
“I’m calling him competent,” I say.
“He’s incredible and you know it. Stop being so clinical.”
My pen glides across the invoice again. Column three is off by forty dollars; I’ll cross-check it against the register later. Oliver hovers, radiating warmth and impatience in equal measure, waiting for me to say what he wants to hear.
“He’s settling in well,” I offer.
Oliver throws his head back in an exaggerated gesture as he groans and snags my pen. “You’re impossible.”
He’s not wrong, but giving in would only encourage him.
I shoot him a look as I reclaim the pen but he just grins and bounces off to greet a cluster of new arrivals at the door.
A trail of glitter shimmers on the bar top, and I know I’ll be wiping it up all night and finding specks in the register keys for days.
My gaze drifts back to Wilson. He’s stationed near the hallway that leads to the restrooms, arms crossed, scanning the room.
His eyes move in a silent loop—entrance, bar, dance floor, back exit—over and over since he started.
It’s the sweep of someone who’s already memorized every exit before committing to being inside.
However, the part that always draws my attention is how his collar always sits high and flush against his neck. He still hasn’t explained what that’s about and I won’t push but he’s constantly adjusting and readjusting as if there’s something beneath it he doesn’t want the world to see.
A group near the dance floor erupts, three Alphas arguing, voices climbing over each other and the music.
One slams his glass on a table so hard the sound carries across the room.
Wilson’s shoulders hitch toward his ears, a tiny, lightning-fast motion smoothed out before anyone looking casually would catch it.
His jaw tightens as his hand drifts back to his collar but I see it because I’m not looking casually.
The Alphas settle down on their own, and Wilson’s posture loosens by degrees, his shoulders dropping back to their usual line. He turns away from the group and presses the heel of his palm against his chest, like he’s pushing something back down into his subconscious where he keeps it.
By 1 AM the floor is thinning out. Oliver’s migrated from behind the bar to a booth, charming a group of regulars whose laughter he coaxes into another round.
His laugh cuts through the diminishing crowd with that warmth that makes people stay for one more drink.
He’s good at that, which is why I let him work the front even though he can’t pour a clean whiskey to save his life.
Leaving the front to Oliver, I migrate into the back, unsurprised to find Wilson already there. He’s not just good at his job. He’s perfect but I can’t tell if that’s in an effort to please Oliver and I or that he’s just truly that hard of a worker.
As I approach, I find him with the copy of printouts from what I was working on, matching the night’s receipts against the totals.
I’d told him I’d handle it, that he could go home at the end of the night, but he gave me a look that said he’d rather have something to occupy his hands than stand in an emptying club with nothing to occupy his thoughts. Fair enough.
Wilson has the receipts fanned out before him, his pen moving across a tally sheet with a focus that borders on mechanical.
The lamp overhead throws his face into sharp relief, the shadows under his eyes darker here than they ever look on the floor.
“Column three is off by forty,” he says without looking up.
“I noticed.”
He continues, “It’s the card reader at station two. The batch didn’t close properly on Tuesday and it’s been rolling the discrepancy forward.” He circles a number and draws an arrow to the corresponding entry. “I reset it tonight. Should clear by tomorrow’s close.”
I lean against the doorframe and study the sheet. He’s right. He found in four days what I’ve been chasing for two weeks, juggling the floor, the books, and making sure Oliver doesn’t run himself into the ground.
“Good catch.”
His pen pauses. He lifts his eyes to mine, surprise flickering across his face before he hides it behind his usual flat expression. “It’s basic accounting.”
“It’s basic accounting that I missed.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer than necessary, then turns back to the receipts and resumes writing. I watch his hands, the faint tremor in his left when he’s tired starting to act up.
A possessive flare runs through me but I refuse to lean into that. Not yet. Instead, I throw my Omega under the bus. “Oliver wants to keep you,” I say.
His pen hovers, then stops again. “Oliver wants to keep a lot of things. He told me about the cats.”
“Three in one semester. We had Carlita for nearly six years before she passed. The other two went to his mother before she stopped speaking to him.” I don’t even think before I say it. Wilson has that effect, his silence on me creating a space that my own words rush to fill.
I expect Wilson to just nod and brush it off but tonight, he seems a little more interested than in just the numbers.
“Why did she stop speaking to him?”
“He chose me.”
I watch Wilson’s expression shift. That flat surface cracks for a moment, something raw peeking out, then he smooths it over. “He chose well.”
His words land in a part of my chest I don’t usually leave unguarded.
An Omega choosing a Beta lover isn’t just unheard of, biologically it’s impossible.
Few understand our way of life or that I’m happy to watch an Alpha work my Omega over during his heat and give him what he needs.
I don’t need an Alpha but I’m more than happy to provide Oliver with whatever he needs, wants, and desires.
Like Wilson. Granted, I wanted him, too.
“We both want to keep you, Wilson. You’re good at this job and you fit here.
” I push off the doorframe and cross to the desk, pulling the stack of receipts closer to check his work.
Everything lines up. “But I need to know if you’re staying because you want to be here or because you don’t have anywhere else to go.
There’s a difference, and it matters to me. ”
Wilson’s jaw works. He adjusts his collar again, pressing the fabric down over whatever’s underneath. “Does it change the quality of my work either way?”
“No. It changes how I build the schedule.”
He frowns, confused, and I let the silence stretch until he figures it out on his own. When it finally clicks, confusion melts into caution. “You’d build around me?”
“I build around my people. If you’re staying, you’re my people.”
Right then, Oliver storms through the office door with two glasses of water and a plate of leftover bruschetta from the kitchen.
“The regulars finally left and I am starving and someone needs to eat because I watched you skip dinner, Wilson, don’t think I didn’t notice—” He halts, reading the room with that infuriating accuracy.
His eyes flick from my face to Wilson’s and back. “Am I interrupting a moment?”
“No,” Wilson says.
“Yes,” I say.
Oliver grins and sets the plate between us. “Perfect. Eat your bruschetta and have your moment. I’m going to go count the tips.” He drops a quick kiss on my jaw as he passes and squeezes Wilson’s shoulder on the way out.
Wilson freezes under the touch. His eyes close for a fraction of a second, his breath catching in a way Oliver never sees because Oliver’s already out the door.
But I see how Wilson’s body leans into that contact before his brain can override the impulse, his shoulder lifting toward the ghost of Oliver’s hand after it’s gone.
He opens his eyes and catches me staring. The walls go back up so fast I nearly hear them click into place.
“Eat,” I say, pushing the plate closer to him.
He doesn’t fight me on that as we work through the rest of the receipts in a silence that feels more comfortable than it has any right to, given I’ve known him less than a week.
From the front, Oliver’s voice drifts over the speakers, singing along to something bass-heavy and melody-poor.
Wilson’s lips twitch at the sound, and I file that away, too.