Chapter 9 Bentley
Bentley
He loves my singing. There’s not a soul in the world that can tell me he doesn’t, not even him.
…which will be happening in three…two…one.
“Why the fuck are you in front of my store?” Tav snarls.
I’ve made it my business to find out his name, not that the grumpy fucker has bothered to give it to me. Every day, I learn something new about my grumpy omega. Scent matching never lies, and he’s meant to be mine.
He comes out and yells at me, while I struggle not to adjust my cock that’s punching against my zipper. I’m a stalker, not a pervert.
Octavian Jones is one fine omega specimen. His hair is always wild, his lips snarl as I ignore his yelling and continue to play a country song. Variety is the spice of life, and my internal playlist is a bop, y’all.
There are a few things that are already concerning me from my time spent watching him. Tav often walks with a small limp, his temper is sometimes worse than others as if he’s having a hard day, and he’s hiding his scent from the world.
Even while having a full blown temper tantrum, there’s a very little hint of his scent on the light breeze blowing on Bright Street today.
The street name his record store is on always makes me snort with mild amusement since his disposition is less than sunny, but goddamn are the yellow flecks in his dark brown eyes mesmerizing.
I’m obviously obsessed with him, and I make it a habit of making sure he thinks about me often, even if it’s simply to yell at me.
“I can’t hear you,” I belt out, smirking as he growls at me from outside his record store. Aw, it’s adorable. My song transitions into one about being grumpy that’s originally sung by Buck 65, and his nostrils flare in annoyance.
He’s so much fun to play with. My guitar case is full of crumpled dollar bills, which I plan to donate to Hands Over Pine City on my way home.
My life is much fuller than when I first moved here a month ago.
I’ve been singing for Tav for at least three of those weeks, and when I’m not here or working, I volunteer.
I like to think that I’m pretty well rounded, despite the stalking.
“You’re panhandling!” Tav yells. “Could you stop fucking playing?”
“Why?” I ask. “As you can see, people enjoy it.”
All the while, I continue to strum my guitar, though I’m now conversing with the omega whose head might just pop off from frustration. He’s so easy to fuck with. I’m actually considering suggesting that he try yoga or some shit.
“Your voice is too sharp,” Tav complains. “I have perfectly good music inside.”
“Great, an invitation. I accept.” I wink, squatting down to pick up the money so that my guitar will fit. My scar is prominent on my hand nearest to Tav, and I note the way that his eyes drag over it.
I had a disagreement with the edge of a knife while I was cleaning some fish I caught and the knife won.
I’ve spent time looking into his finances, checking to see if he has any friends, and I’m still working through what I’ve found. Tav doesn’t have friends, but his record store does pretty well for itself.
He’s definitely no slouch in pinching pennies and making his dreams come true. I dig it.
“Excuse me?” he seethes, pulling me out of my chaotic thoughts. “I did no such thing. I want you gone… or I’m calling the police.”
“That’s adorable. I’ll just move to the other side of the street and sing even louder,” I say, standing with my guitar case. “Or… you could go on a date with me and I’ll pack it in for the day.”
An adorable blush climbs the bridge of his nose. His glasses would hide it if I wasn’t so attune to everything about him right now. I have it real bad.
“I don’t even know your name,” he grumbles. “No. You know what? You’re not my type.”
Barking out a laugh, I shrug. “Have it your way. I guess I’m going to go shopping for some new music. You can be as grumpy as you want. Please, don’t change on my account. The blue in your shirt looks really good on you.”
He gives me a slow blink at my flirting, as if he doesn’t know what to make of me. That’s really good, because I like keeping him unbalanced. He’s less likely to throw something at me if he can’t calculate my next move.
He’s too damn distrustful for his own good.
Closing up my guitar case, I stand with its weight in my right hand. Tav snarls at me angrily while I keep the case between us for a bit of distance. He’s mad enough to swing at me and I’d hate for him to hurt himself.
He winces as he shifts his weight, and I make a displeased sound under my breath as I walk past him.
“Did you hurt your leg?” I ask, swinging open the door to walk through.
“No,” he grunts, following me in. “Be careful where you swing that thing. I don’t want you to trash my store.”
Brow raised in question, I put my case down where it’s far enough away from the door and harder for someone to run off with it.
My grandfather bought me the guitar, and it’s one of the last things I have of his after he passed away.
I will chase a dickweed down for it and then shove my size fifteen shoe up their ass.
I’d hate to have to ruin my already dubious reputation by killing someone in front of Tav.
Blowing out a breath to calm my blood pressure at the thought, I begin walking down an aisle and immediately notice how organized the vinyls are.
There are four aisles total, each essentially a long table with dozens of organizers on top, all labeled and so damn meticulous.
I stop between the first two, fingering a few albums when his system becomes clear.
Genre seems to be first with the biggest label, then sorted by decade, and finally alphabetically.
This had to take a ton of time. I lift my head and look around, noting how the entire store is somewhat the same; CDs and cassettes across from me, sheet music against the wall to my right.
Even the music merch corner is similarly organized.
It’s an interesting quirk, and my lips twitch as I pass an album that I’ve been thinking about picking up.
I am in the process of buying a pretty ranch style house, so I add buying a record player to my mental list for furnishing it.
I’m signing the closing paperwork next week, and can’t wait to move out of the tiny box I call an apartment.
I need a reason to continue coming into 88 Keys if Tav is going to be difficult about my serenading skills. Maybe I’ll ask him for some music recommendations just so I can hear his voice and get to know him better.
There’s only so much that hacking can get you.
“Tav, if you’re fishing for my name, you can ask,” I tease him as I pick up the record. It’s more difficult for him to kick me out if I’m actively shopping, right?
I think that’s a thing, but Tav is grumpy enough to not worry about proper shop keeping etiquette. I may need to tone it down a bit.
“I don’t fucking care,” he grumbles, glaring at me with his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re a pain in my ass and I promised my dog I’d walk him soon.”
“I didn’t think you were someone who would like pets,” I say, smirking. “Let me guess, it’s a little rat chihuahua, isn’t it?”
“Eat a dick,” he growls. “I would never have an ankle biter for a pet.”
“Yeah, that’s not your style, I suppose. I have a golden retriever that’s staying with my family at the moment, a pet bearded dragon, and oh yeah, my favorite horse,” I muse. “It’s crazy, loud, and absolutely terrifying.”
Damn do I miss the chaos of animals. Don’t tell anyone, but I even miss the smelly cattle.
“That sounds awful,” Tav says as he shudders. “Why does it sound like you miss it?”
“Probably because I do, but there are things here in Pine City that are growing on me,” I murmur. My lips twist sardonically as he turns even pinker, and I show him the record I’m currently looking at.
“Do you have any records of their older stuff?” I ask.
“Angelic Demons are a little hard for you, aren't they?” Tav asks. “You know, based on your selection of songs you insisted on singing.”
“Awww, you noticed,” I say, clasping a hand to my chest in my Aunt Molly’s best ‘bless your heart’ impression. “I think I should come back tomorrow and show you some of my love of alternative music. For today, I’m claiming this record. Want to ring me up, sweet cheeks?”
“I’m going to have to kill you, aren’t I?” Tav asks, ignoring my chuckle as he takes the record from me.
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You’d probably throw your back out trying to get rid of my body, and I’m a bleeder,” I confess, enjoying the look of horror on his face. “We aren’t going to talk about how messy it’ll all be.”
Oh yeah, I think I need to lean into the blood and guts of murder so he’ll stop thinking about killing me. Besides, his lips are begging to be kissed, and I can only do that if I’m alive.
He doesn’t seem the type to enjoy necrophilia.
“Gross, please stop,” he begs, shuddering.
I’m beginning to see a pattern to Tav, but I’d never diagnose anyone just on that. I’m not qualified to, and I’m kind of worried about him. He seems more concerned about the mess than the moral liability of killing me.
“Can I buy that?” I prompt. He didn’t tell me not to call him ‘sweet cheeks’ so it’s definitely my new nickname for him.
“Fine,” he sighs violently, walking over to the register. I could pay for this with cash, but hand him a credit card instead because it has my name on it. “I didn’t peg you for a ‘Bentley’.”
“My mom had a thing for classic cars,” I explain. “She was actually a mechanic, and that’s how my dad met her. He broke down on the side of the road.”
“Really?” he asks. “That’s actually really cool.”
“It was. They found out that night they were scent matches and were inseparable while she was alive,” I say.
“She sounds amazing,” Tav says quietly, not making eye contact while running my card before he hands it back to me. “You were lucky to have her.”
Something tells me by his tone that he didn’t have the same experience, causing me to swallow back my growl of displeasure. There seems to be a lot of layers to him, and I want to peel them back.
Everyone should have really good people in their lives, which means I’m even more intent on making sure I’m his.
“Now that you know my name, how about that date?” I ask.
“I don’t date alphas,” he says. “Now get out of my store.”
My record is returned to me in a bag, and I take this as my cue to leave. I will definitely be back until he comes around and agrees to go on a date with me. I can have the patience of a saint when necessary.
Leaving my guitar on purpose despite its importance, I take a leap of faith that he’ll keep it for me.
“Hey, Bentley, you left your guitar!” he yells, but I am coming down with a sudden case of selective hearing.
It’s a shame, huh? I’ll have to continue my stalking from afar until I know he’ll be more tolerant of my affections. I also need to swing by a sex store for a sleeve. If I can’t come soon, I think my dick might fall off.