SUN #2
Unexpectedly, I don't want to be fake, trapped in pretense. I need some truth in my life. So I push it out, not thinking what Jared will make of it, whether he’ll laugh, I don’t care. I just need to be free for a second from all these plastic masks.
"You know, I’m not really into modeling. Music’s cool, but I don’t know if I want to make it a job. I think I’d rather travel. See what’s out there."
Then, to my surprise, something changes on his face. The fakeness drops for a second. He furrows his brows and peers into his glass. Then he mutters, so quietly I barely hear it, "I love being a dad. I’d love to have more kids, live in the country…"
Wow, that’s surprising. So under his glossy model persona there’s more?
Then, like on cue, Jared straightens up, swallows another sip, and glances nervously toward Mark as if he’s afraid he might’ve heard him.
Clearing his throat, he adds, "Travel blogs are super trendy. Go for it, if you like the idea."
He finishes his drink and does everything he can to avoid my eyes, like he already regrets letting it slip.
But I have a kind of revelation. Are we all playing a part? Are we all someone else underneath? Or is it just me and Jared?
The wind shifts. His hair flutters. As he pushes it back, I catch another bruise, this time on the outer part of his other elbow. Matching the first.
Huh.
"Everything all right?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "You’ve got bruises on both elbows."
His smile stiffens just a bit. "Oh, that? I slipped on the stairs. Banged both sides."
Lie. The bruises aren’t where they’d normally be if you caught yourself in a fall. They’re off-center. Like someone grabbed Jared, hard.
"Secrets, secrets," I murmur, more to myself than to him. Jared pretends not to hear, but I catch the flicker in his eye.
Then he turns his head toward the entrance. "Oh, look who Dante dragged in," he says, voice curdling with disdain. "Anzo Ferro and his entourage out of a horror show."
I follow his gaze, and feel my pulse skip.
Anzo walks in like he owns the air. Heads turn, conversations stall, a ripple goes through the room. He’s one of the biggest donors behind the Beta Empowerment movement.
Dante Moll, the guy who organized this whole thing, immediately throws himself into a handshake. Probably wishes he could kiss the man’s feet.
Jared lets out a sharp exhale. I catch the flash of reluctance in his eyes just as they shift to Anzo. I don’t think he’s a fan. But before anything more can show on his face, Mark’s eyes flick away from Martin and lock straight onto Anzo too.
"We’re going to say hello," Mark says, voice low and firm. He grabs Jared’s elbow, and they both head straight toward Anzo.
My gaze drops to Mark’s hand. The way his fingers clamp around Jared’s elbow, it matches the bruises I saw earlier.
Well, well. Like I said, under all the gloss, there’s stink.
Should I be judging how Jared’s life is going? Who am I to do that? Am I making better decisions? I like to think mine are at least more strategic, but maybe that’s just ego talking. Time will tell.
I watch Mark Ferguson bowing deeply as he greets Anzo. Of course. Having someone like that on your side, someone with that kind of money? I can imagine what a power move that is for an up-and-coming politician.
I sigh. Martin snatches a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I want to do the same, but I’m eighteen. He’s twenty-one. Not worth the risk of getting weird looks or snide comments under my posts.
Martin’s watching the group by the entrance now too, eyes fixed on Anzo. Then he growls under his breath.
"Don’t tell me you dragged me to this party just so you could stare at Anzo fucking Ferro."
I lie like it’s nothing. "Didn’t even know he’d be here. I don’t keep up with the social calendar for mafia families."
Martin doesn’t buy it.
"Liar. Disgusting little liar," he hisses.
"Whatever. Don’t fucking care." I shrug.
His dark eyes drill into my face with something that looks a lot like hate.
It’s clear to me there’s no future for Martin and me.
So to shake off all the venom, I glance back at Anzo. He’s maybe thirty feet away.
He’s talking to Mark, but at some point, his eyes shift slightly right, and I just happen to be right in his line of sight.
His expression doesn’t change, but I know he sees me. His black eyes settle on my face for a brief moment before sliding back toward Dante.
And I wonder once more, what do I even want from him? What could he possibly give me? I’m not exactly turned on by the idea of sleeping with a beta. So what is it, then? The thrill? The danger?
The fucking death wish I secretly harbor?
He’s a criminal, like Dogger. Only this one chose it. That alone should give me pause.
Nah. I scratch my chin, still watching him. Not worth it. I shouldn’t have come here. Men like that could destroy me before I’d learn a damn thing.
"I see you staring. You getting wet thinking about him fucking you?"
I turn to Martin and let every ounce of hate and disdain show in my eyes.
I’ve never been with a beta. Maybe it’s time to try.
I almost say it out loud. But I don’t. Why pick a fight on the way out? You never know when you might need someone. Push people too far and you lose control of them.
"I’ve heard betas have tiny dicks, so no, he’s not starring in my fantasies."
Martin looks a little thrown. "Isn’t that more of an omega thing?" he mutters, like he’s not sure where I’m going with this.
When I shrug, he adds, "Didn’t know you were such a size queen," biting his lip. Probably because, for an alpha, he’s not exactly packing.
If we’re talking averages, omegas are usually around five to six inches, betas six to seven and a half, alphas seven and a half to nine. Yeah, I looked it up once, like every guy who’s ever measured his dick.
Martin’s on the low end for alphas, around seven and a half. I’ve got him beat at nearly nine. But that never really mattered to me. I’m a bottom anyway.
"I’m not. As long as it hits the prostate, I’m good," I say calmly.
"Then what’s your issue with betas?"
I roll my eyes. "Gee, this whole conversation’s insane. I was joking, okay? I’m not into betas, at least not sexually."
"So in what way then?" he keeps pressing.
"Oh, it’s just about connections. Never know when they might come in handy," I say breezily.
Martin doesn’t look totally convinced, but for now, it’ll have to do.
"Just remember this guy wiped out two families in this state, and now he’s gearing up for war with the Russians, at least that’s what the local news says," Martin mutters.
"I know, okay? Yes, he’s a mobster. Yes, he’s a criminal. Probably a psychopath."
"Everyone says he killed his own brothers. And his father. It’s an open secret."
"Could be a rumor he started himself. To keep people scared. I bet half the mafia game is psychological. It’s all part of the fear factor. That’s branding."
Martin laughs. It’s bitter and dry.
"That’s such a naive take. Maybe in romance novels, scary on the outside, soft for the one perfect omega who turns him from monster to house pet.
You really think that’s how it works in real life?
His first husband was always seen drugged out of his mind.
That scream sweet domestic bliss to you?
Then he disappeared, and nobody asks questions. That’s ‘mafia charm’."
"Wow, someone’s done his homework. Did you study Anzo? Just in case I try to become his next husband?" I grin, but my eyes stay empty.
"I’m just warning you, Sun. I see the way you look at him. I’m not stupid. Guys like that attract naive, all-looks-no-brains guys like you. It’s like moths to a flame. Sooner or later, your pretty wings are gonna get torched."
I show him my middle finger. "Mobsters have husbands too. It’s not like they don’t have other sides, hidden from the world."
"The real question is what that side actually is. Do you want to find out?"
I can’t stop looking at Anzo, still standing with Dante and Mark Ferguson’s group.
Every so often, his eyes flick toward me. Barely noticeable, but I see it. He knows I’m here.
Martin’s mouth twists into a bitter sneer.
Another waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Martin snatches two glasses. I think one’s for me, but no, he downs the first in one go, drops the empty on the tray as the waiter walks off, and keeps the second to sip slower.
I watch him with mild disgust. I’ve had a drink now and then, but I’ve never been a fan. Booze, weed, they don’t fill the void. Sure, I might feel duller, more numb. But the emptiness stays, and feels even more… tangible.
My eyes drift to Martin’s slightly reddened face.
You should slow down, I almost say. But I don’t. Truth is, I don’t care. He can drink all he wants.
"Let’s go out to the patio. This banquet hall’s too stuffy," Martin mutters.
We step out onto a wide, elegant patio, split down the middle by a long pool.
There’s a bar out here too, and a decent crowd.
A young band’s playing onstage, and honestly, they’re not bad.
A few couples sway on the wooden deck strung with white flower garlands.
It kind of looks like a wedding setting.
"Maybe we should dance," I say in a bored voice.
Martin lifts a brow. "Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance."
"I’m decent. And I just need a distraction. Watching you pour another drink into yourself isn’t exactly thrilling."
"You and your need for thrills. Trust me, boring is the best kind of life. At least it’s safe."
"You sound like a stereotypical lawyer’s son," I mutter, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the dance floor.
The music is slow, something mellow with a soft Latin flair. Martin wraps his arm around my waist, and we start to sway.
My eyes keep drifting toward the horizon, past the pergolas laced with colorful roses that frame the edge of the patio. A bird circles the sky just above the hotel.