16. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Ronan
“Ronan O’Neill?” Timmy, the production assistant for the men, calls my name from the open archway of the waiting room and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I greatly underestimated how anxious I would be while waiting for the results of this whole scent matching business. I started the evening with a total of three scent cards, though there was only really one I cared about.
The first two envelopes, which I had entertained only as a courtesy to the women who sent them along—not wanting to seem like an unfeeling asshole—did nothing for me.
Calmly, I scooted the ‘no’ pouch with the first two cards to the far end of the box while I pulled the last scent card from its envelope.
Immediately, I can tell it’s her. Sweet, floral rose—refined, exotic saffron, and warm nutty pistachio wrap me like a swath of luxurious cashmere—soft, delicate, and feminine.
Ursula Goldblum-Laskaris, omega. As if there could have been any doubt.
All the other women I’ve spoken to throughout this experience have had the depth of a puddle after a sun shower on a hot day.
Not Ursula. She was ready to go toe-to-toe with me on trauma bonding right out of the gate. I felt like I knew her better inside of the first ten minutes of our conversation than I did with any of my other dates in the rest of the two days worth of dates we had.
“Ronan, good to see you,” Timmy beams as I shuffle my way over to him from my place on the waiting room couch.
“And you, Timmy,” I offer him a curt nod—my eyes already fixed on the tiny plastic room card in his hand.
I want to jump for joy—to snatch the little bit of plastic from his hands and dance down the hall like Gene Kelley in Singin’ in the Rain , because it means that she chose me too. Instead, I stand and wait patiently—my heart thumping loudly in my chest.
“Alright, I’m here to bring you down to the common room for Ursula’s prospective pack,” Timmy announces.
“After you.” I gesture to the open archway, doing my best not to seem overeager.
We walk down the hall and take an elevator to one of the upper floors. No crooning or bell kicks—much to my chagrin. Within seconds, we arrive at a door with an automated hotel lock and a big brass “U” affixed above what appears to be a covered-over peephole lens.
“You’re the first one in, but I’m sure more gentlemen will be filtering in as I make the rounds handing out these keycards and stuff.” Timmy taps the plastic card against the lock mechanism and the motorized tumblers chitter as the door to the pack lounge opens.
“Woah,” I mutter under my breath as Timmy leads me into the space.
A large projector shines an eight player racing game on the bare far wall, a huge leather sectional piled high with cushions and fully charged wireless controllers takes up most of the center of the room, a line of computers blinking in every shade of the RGB rainbow on a long glass table.
“You’ll have 24 hour access to this space along with the other scent matches selected by Ursula, your omega.” Timmy passes me the plastic key card and points toward the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows at the end of the room that lead out to a large paved patio; a small pool and a jacuzzi with a swim-up bar glowing pale blue with night lights, against the multicolored LA skyline—the stars blotted out by the brightness of the city.
“There’s a swimming area and bar out there. The bar won’t be tended, but y’all are welcome to do the honors yourselves.” He grins, turning his hand to gesture to the doors at the far end of the computer area.
“Bathrooms and stuff if you gotta change from the pool, are through there, and on the opposite wall.” He sweeps his open hand to a door just visible outside the bounds of the video game projection. “There’s a little eat-in kitchen with a fridge and snacks and stuff in there. All three meals will be served in there, so you can start eating with your prospective packmates—if you like.” He wraps up his spiel by stepping back and giving me a little salute. “Any questions, feel free to grab me or another member of the team. Good luck!” He shakes a little wave, and then he’s off—leaving me to explore the cavernous common space on my own.
It takes so long for me to be joined by anyone else that before the next visitor arrives I have managed to scour the fridge, peruse the video game selection, peep the specs on the gaming PC's, squirrel a nut brown ale out of the mini fridge behind the swim-up bar, and set myself up on the steps of the swimming pool—the legs of my worn jeans rolled all the way past my calves, my feet soaking in the lukewarm water in the shimmering underwater lights.
“Hey, welcome to the party.” I call to the new arrival as Timmy drops him off a few paces away from me.
“Uh, hi—I’m Lysander.” He reaches a hand out to shake.
Both of us take a heartbeat to size one another up—literally and figuratively.
Right away, I’m forced to grapple with how short he is. I’m not an ent or anything—I barely scrape by at six foot flat, but I have to look down at him, lowering my hand from its initial trajectory so that I’m not reaching so close to his damn face. He’s 5’5” at the absolute most.
“Lysander,” I repeat his name, trying out the three elegant syllables on my tongue as we shake hands, his grip firm—a gold signet ring filled with filigree and a shield of suns, stars, and crescent moons winking in the dreamy light of the pool area.
Despite being short, he’s athletically built—like a jockey or a gymnast, and his face is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Full, plush lips and fine, high cheekbones and a delicate celestial nose the color of pale marble—cold and beautiful. The effect is only amplified by his chestnut waves, swept back from his face like a prince from an animated family film. It’s like shaking hands with a Caravaggio painting.
“Well, that sounds fancy, more fancy than ‘Ronan’ anyhow.” I raise my bottle to him. “Can I get you a beer? Something else? This thing’s stocked —and I’m not bad at mixing a drink,” I offer.
“Ronan,” he repeats, laughing quietly to himself as his eyes drop to the wet pavement beneath my feet.
I’m not sure what’s so funny, but before I can ask his big brown eyes fix on me with startling intensity.
“I think I might like a drink…but I wouldn’t know what to ask for,” he levels with me, squirming a little under the weight of his own honesty.
How old is this kid? He looks fresh, young, green…but I suppose I’m not one to talk about ‘boyish good looks.’
“Well why don’t we start with the basics: wine, beer, or cocktail?” I ask, grabbing a cushion from a nearby pool lounger and tossing it to the tiled edge of the swimming pool steps, motioning for Lysander to take a seat.
Did someone say, ‘acts of service’? Couldn’t be me.
“I’ll have a cocktail.” He clears his throat gently, looking between the pool and the cushion a few times before tentatively kicking off his expensive looking loafers.
“Ok, you want something more spirit forward or something more sweet?” I step down the few poured concrete stairs into the pit behind the swim up bar, already reaching for a large pool-safe plastic tumbler.
“Uh—is it uncool if I ask for something sweet?” he asks too earnestly, popping his head up to eye me cautiously from his awkwardly bent pose, rolling the legs of his perfectly tailored trousers up toward his knees.
“I mean, I think that only assholes make a fuss about what another guy is drinking. Might help root out any douche-bags,” I laugh easily, but I can see Lysander turning over the idea in his mind. His apprehensive expression tells me that he’s not entirely sure how he feels about being the guinea pig in this situation, but that his pride won’t let him fully back down.
“I guess so,” he finally concludes, delicately taking his seat at the water’s edge—slipping his feet beneath the rippling surface with visible trepidation.
“Alright then, a little Hollywood on the Rocks for Mr. Lysander.” I scoop ice into the plastic tumbler and begin building the simple vodka drink in the cup.
I’m about to ask him what he does for a living when Timmy re-appears at the edge of the patio, another participant hot on his heels.
“As you can see, Ronan and Lysander have already started getting settled.” Timmy’s voice carries across the pool area, and both Lysander and I offer an awkward wave.
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it! And don’t forget—you can access any of the lounges you’ve been given access to 24/7.” Timmy hands not one but two plastic room keys to our latest arrival before bailing once more.
The sunny words of welcome dry on my tongue as I realize that I know our newest addition.
“Mavren Renard?” The name leaves my mouth as a question, but I most certainly know this man.
6’3, all lean muscle and glowing dark brown skin, traced with the severe black lines of tattoos that creep up and down his arms, climbing the sinewy cords of his neck; the long cables of his tidily twisted dreadlocks pulled back from his bright, regal face.
“Holy shit—Ronan?” He shakes off the layer of incredulity, stumbling down the few steps into the pit of the bar and reaches for me—pulling me into an unexpected hug.
“Hey man, I had no idea you were here.” I blink, my brain struggling to reconcile seeing part of my outside life in this surreal place.
“Are you kidding, dude? I never in a million years would have thought I’d be in a place like this. I think we’re both allowed to be shocked right now,” he laughs, reaching past me for a bottle of cheap whiskey and a vessel loaded with plenty of ice.
I catch the bob of Lysander’s head—snapping back and forth between Mavren and myself with no small amount of confusion as he tries to follow the conversation.
“Ah shit, sorry—I promise we’re not trying to be assholes—Lysander, Mavren—Mavren, Lysander,” I hurriedly introduce the pair to one another.
“We just fuck up naturally.” Mavren bows dramatically before setting his drink materials on the bar, adding for clarification, “We shared a tattoo artist for years without knowing, then said tattoo artist introduced us to one another when I needed to talk to someone about the plant situation for my restaurant.”
Lysander nods slowly, his mouth drawing closed—but I can see his eyes roving me, looking for my tattoos and momentarily finding none—his brows pinch, the corners of his lips slightly downturn.
“Lysander and I hadn’t even gotten to the whole—‘what do you do for a living?’ thing before Timmy showed up with you on his arm,” I explain to Mavren.
“We had only just cleared the—‘Hello, my name is’ portion of the program,” Lysander confirms, looking slightly less uncomfortable from his place dangling his legs into the pool.
I hustle to finish mixing him that drink.
“Well, sorry to throw off the vibe,” Mavren laughs a little uneasily. “This is one fucking hell of a coincidence.”
What neither of us has bothered to mention out loud—is that there had been some kind of underlying tension building between us; or at least I had thought so, before I had finished the final installations at Mavren’s restaurant Pomme Verte. Though I did get the impression that it would have been a little bit of exploration for good ol’ Mavren.
“And we’re only just getting started.” I beam, sweeping my hands wide. “I didn’t get a good look at his clipboard, but according to Timmy’s list—there’s going to be at least two more dudes showing up before the night is out.” I reach into the bar’s mini fridge for a tiny can of pineapple juice and pour it over the vodka and ice I’ve already got in Lysander’s cup.
“Well then, better hurry and make sure you get Lysander his drink.” Mavren chuckles, kicking off his slip on sneakers and cuffing the legs of his gray skinny jeans to settle his bare feet into the water beside Lysander. “The night is still young, and I just have a feeling that we may handle whatever is to come a little less than sober,” he laughs warmly, raising his whiskey on the rocks to us—then to the stars above before he takes a swig.
“Well, you heard the man!” I stir the pineapple juice, vodka, and ice a few times with a spoon before carefully turning it over, pouring a healthy serving of chambord over its shiny rounded back—a deep rose float of the sweet stuff hovering delicately at the top of the drink as I bring it to where Lysander sits. He takes it from me eagerly, his eyes glittering with delight or crackling with nervous energy—it’s hard to tell.
“Cheers, gentleman!” I raise my own beer bottle to the boys, to the stars—and drink deep.