Chapter 10 Octavian
Octavian
I stare at the guitar case like I’m waiting for the damn thing to sprout horns and claws before it charges at me like a wild animal.
I bet he did that on purpose.
He’s almost too careful with it most of the time, treating it like a piece of fine china or even his baby.
That big brute would sooner cut off a finger than leave it somewhere, I’d bet money on that.
It feels intentional, the way Bentley left it here.
Especially since he acted like he didn’t hear me call after him.
Not that I noticed.
It’s not like I was paying attention.
I don’t pay any attention to Bentley, not until I have to kick him off my stoop.
Unfortunately, those brief exchanges have had me paying way too much attention to the absolutely enormous alpha who smells like chopped wood straight out of the forest.
Which reminds me, I need to figure out a way of getting stronger blockers because I feel like I could practically see Bentley’s pheromones shooting out of his body and that is not good at all.
I’m not about defective medications. Blockers that don’t work create problems, and I know firsthand how bad those can be. So I have to get on top of that in order to avoid any unwanted behavior from myself, or literally anyone else with alpha genes.
I push my glasses up my nose then scrub a hand over my hair and sigh.
Regardless of who it belongs to, I can’t let an instrument go unprotected.
First my dog guilt trips me into bringing him down here after lunch, then a giant meathead alpha cons me into taking care of his guitar.
Why is this happening to me?
“Ridiculous,” I grumble as I stomp over and pick it up. “I should just slap a price tag on it and put it out with the rest of the ones I have for sale.”
Maybe he’d stop coming by if I sold his shit.
I pause as a strange feeling swirls in my chest briefly, something I’m not entirely familiar with and can’t really name, but I felt it as soon as that thought ran through my head. Thankfully, the pang disappears just as quickly and I go back to plotting how to rid myself of the farm boy himbo.
I could always wind one of his strings too tight so the next time he plays, it snaps. It’s not like he’d feel it, not with how calloused his hands are. I mean, if they’re that calloused. I definitely didn’t notice that when he paid for the Angelic Demons album.
I roll my eyes, because I am annoying the hell out of myself, then go to slide the guitar case under the register but stop.
I couldn’t really see what kind this was through the window, and anytime we’re face to face he holds it weird or I’m not paying attention to anything except getting him off the sidewalk.
His voice is nice despite what I told him, and I hate to admit it, but he can play the guitar very well, too. Also something I’ll never admit. It has me curious about his instrument, though.
Lifting the case to the counter, I confirm what I thought when I picked it up; this isn’t a chipwood case. It’s solid wood, probably hand made, and covered with real leather. It looks old.
I won’t know until I look at the guitar, but I’d date it pre-1970’s.
The hinges are dark with aging, all the hardware on the outside is, but not rusted, just from regular handling and use. The leather is sturdy, it’s held up well but the seams have started to split over the wood in some places, one in particular by the center latch that’s starting to fray.
The handle has seen better days. I can tell it’s been repaired multiple times, which is strange when it could be easily replaced, but maybe that’s just my line of thinking.
I run my fingers over the dark leather, the texture still soft and smooth save for where it’s distressed and when I push up the neck to unhook that latch, I pause at a small octagonal plaque sitting just above it.
IRW
Those initials are engraved on it in pretty clean and simple lettering.
They might not mean anything to Bentley.
I can’t remember, have no idea what his last name is and obviously his name doesn’t start with I or R, so maybe he lifted it from someone just so he could use it to come torture me.
Then again… He has been protective of the case and contents.
For all I know, IRW is a dead relative or ex-partner.
That makes me frown.
Not that Bentley would have an ex, the fact that I care he has exes. The idea is irritating, and so is thinking about it.
I am losing my mind.
Shaking my head harder than I probably needed to, I pop all three latches and lift the lid, my breath hitching when I look down into the case.
It’s definitely handmade. I can see the individual marks around the edges where someone’s fingers pressed the velvet securely over the plush cushion.
I can see where scissors or sheers were taken to the overlapping and extra fabric.
But I’m finding it hard to breathe because of what’s sitting safely inside that.
It’s a Gibson Hummingbird.
A custom 1962 or 1963 Gibson Hummingbird acoustic guitar.
And it’s blue.
The staining over the wood is a deep blue, not quite navy but some variant, and the scratchplate has all of the trademark flowers and butterflies along with the hummingbird itself, but it’s black.
An almost, iridescent black and the design looks like it’s overlaid in opal, pearl, and silver.
The flowers and ivy up the neck are made the same, and so is the color behind it.
Something like this would go for eight to ten thousand dollars today, easy, especially when you can tell it’s been cared for and loved most likely since IRW slapped his initials on it.
This is hands down the most beautiful guitar I have ever seen and Bentley just earned my respect because of it.
I’m completely ignoring how many times I may have seen him out in front of my store with it, because I never really let myself see it before. I could make an entire career out of being oblivious to the world.
“There has to be a story behind this,” I say to myself as I ghost my fingers over the six strings. Who walks around with something so expensive all the time? Then plays it on the sidewalk like a bum for any old asshole to steal?
Oh my god that gives me so much anxiety.
Bentley has been playing ten thousand dollars worth of music almost every day for the last few weeks right outside a store that attracts the only other people in this town who might know that.
I would have a goddamn panic attack leaving the house with this thing. I sure as fuck wouldn’t have forgotten it at that same store.
Deciding I’m not about to leave this alone for one second until I can hit Bentley over the head with it, I quickly close and latch the case just as the bell above the door goes off.
Fucking great.
It was bad enough having a persistent alpha who smells nice and sings well asking me on a date, now I have to deal with two alphas who have a combined IQ of 7 and are going to be far less polite.
“There he is,” Kassie says as she walks toward me, trying to swing her non-existent hips with each stomp of her stiletto pump. “Just the man I was looking for.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes as I deadpan, “I’m literally the only other man in here. And I’m always here. Because this is my shop.”
She comes right up to the counter, pushing her fake triple Ds up just to set them down right in front of me. “You’re the only reason we come here, V.”
“Yeah,” her sidekick and twin brother, Kyle, says, nodding his agreement as he strolls down one of the aisles of record albums. “Between the musty smell and weird music, there’s no reason for us to be here aside from your hot ass.”
Gag me with a spoon.
I hate it when these two come in.
They found me when I was working at the coffee shop across the street, saving every penny so I could buy this building, and they have not left me alone for the last two goddamn years. Somehow they got it into their heads that I’m their omega and it’s only a matter of time before I feel our bond.
I will literally run face first into a wood chipper before I ever even consider having a respectful conversation with either one of these two let alone bond with one of them.
I also really hate that they call me V.
There’s nothing wrong with it as a nickname, I’m sure plenty of people go by it but considering my name is Octavian and V isn’t on the list of nicknames that make sense for it, I’d like to floss my brain with piano wire every time they use it.
And hot? Really? Not that it’s surprising they can’t come up with something more flattering or original. I guess I’d like to think if someone wanted to wine and dine me as much as they do, they’d put in more effort.
That’s not their style, though.
No, they’d rather jump me in an alley to get what they wanted.
“When are you going to finally let us have you?” Kassie asks as her chin disappears into her cleavage. “I am dying to lock your big fat omega dick while my brother knots your rock hard bubble butt.”
There is a lot to unpack there. “Let me give you a number.” I reach under the register and pull out a pad of paper and a pen as her eyes light up, scribbling away before I tear it free and slide it toward her. “You should definitely give that a call.”
Kassie licks her lips as she looks it over, glancing back at her brother before leaning toward me. “I’ll call after I go to the gym, that way you can think about me naked and sweaty while we talk.”
I lean away from her and arch a brow as I push my glasses up my nose. “You do that.”
“After you two are done banging on the phone, I’ll sext you until you want us so bad you’ll flag down the first cab and come right to our apartment.” Kyle winks at me as he places his hand on Kassie’s back and they start for the door. “The D pics always have that effect.”
I nod as I watch them leave my shop, quickly rounding the counter to lock the front door while I flip my sign from open to closed and make sure they’re really leaving.
The two blond alphas, who have had so many cosmetic surgeries they might be more like living mannequins or some shit, are mostly harmless these days.
Probably like an eighty-five, fifteen split.
All talk, a lot of talk, and very little thought behind it aside from the train that runs on a loop around their libidos.
It’s been that way for a while now, and I appreciate the hard left their behavior took over the years.
But there is something unsettling about them and I’ve never quite been able to shake how things were in the beginning.
My social anxiety and antisocial tendencies make it harder for me to figure people out, but I’ve seen what these two are capable of and I’ve settled on keeping my guard up as high as possible when they’re around, just as a precaution.
It’s also why I’m waiting for those steel door curtains to come in for the entire main floor of my building, and I had the fire escapes removed from the outside and now the only way to access my loft is from the inside.
I’m confident that if my store was on fire, I’d be able to hang onto Floyd and drop out of a window with minimal damage to either of us. He would be okay, anyway, and that’s all I’m worried about.
That and making sure the alphas who could pass for those creepy twins in The Shining weren’t down there waiting for me if that happens.
Those two are unnerving at best, trauma-inducing at worst, and I doubt I’ve even hit the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how fucked up they really are. Which is saying something for sure.
And that’s exactly why I gave them the phone number for the psychiatrist's office I went to when I first moved out here. A double whammy, if you will.
They’ll probably get a visit from the cops for whatever lewd phone calls they make, and that dillhole can listen to them discussing their various bodily functions for telling me the only way to work through my bullshit was to forgive my mother.
The three of them deserve each other, and maybe one of them will take the fucking hint.