20. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
Mavren
I ended up getting back to my room sometime in the wee hours of the morning after my rounds of the three different pack lounges I was granted access to last night.
I’m certain that I’ll turn my key cards in to my other pack lounges before dinner tonight—the first official meal I’ll be taking with my new prospective packmates. Jesse’s lounge was filled with so many dick-measuring-alphas it felt like you could have cut the air with a knife between the musk and the aura.
No. Thank you.
Lana’s pack lounge had been just as awful but in a different way. All of her matches looking visibly disgusted after listing their academic provenances—Ivy Leagues, Oxford, athletic scholarships to historic American universities…I dare to have barely scraped by with a GED and a lifetime of apprenticeship at the elbow of my father; a Haitian immigrant, owner of a four table restaurant, and single-dad.
I couldn’t stand another second of them looking down their noses at me. Sure, I failed to mention that I’m the executive chef and owner of a hot, Michelin starred restaurant, but I don’t want guys like that to smile and play nice just because I have the money to be accepted into their club on a provisional basis.
Fuck that.
Ursula’s pack lounge ended up being a surprise in so many more ways than one.
For starters, I had not expected anyone from my outside life—my real life—to be here. Much less Ronan O’Neill, of all people.
I met Ronan through Kal and the boys at InkKink Inc.
He was getting a really wild piece, the most stunning cover up job of its kind I’d ever seen.
We got to talking, and before I knew it—I was standing in the middle of Calyx, his shop, as he stacked peonies, hydrangea, and snapdragons in shades of blue, purple, and snowy white in my open arms as I blurted my vision for Pomme Verte excitedly to him without hardly taking a breath.
The weeks leading up to the opening of the restaurant had been intense but rewarding, and Ronan had been there almost around the clock making preparations with Delia, Bert, Coral, and I. We ate three meals a day together, we hung out late at night—smoking weed and drinking expensive wine on the floor of his jungle-like apartment over Calyx.
Though we’d gotten so close, so fast—as soon as the restaurant opened and I began the practice of being crushed by Pomme Verte’s steadily mounting success—our newfound friendship found itself snuffed out just as quickly.
The pair of us, busy business owners and professionals in our own rights, seemed never able to find the time to connect—the seams of our close knit ease unraveling slowly at first—then all at once. Until silence was the only thing strung between us—our lives moving steadfastly in different directions.
After I got over the initial shock of seeing Ronan, there was the matter of the rest of the guys in Ursula’s potential pack. Ash, aka KR3OSOTE— a surprisingly down-to-earth EDM star who seemed easygoing and charismatic. I wasn’t entirely surprised when I caught his scent; piney, bright with citrus, thick with sweet smoky resin, and unmistakably ‘delta’. Steady, powerful, smooth.
Lysander; compact, keen eyed, obscenely dexterous and graceful. Like some kind of painting of idyllic youth, until he opens his mouth and spouts some impenetrable specialized jargon to do with one of his special interests, or some insensitive comment about money that shows you just how much he’s never wanted for a material thing in his entire pampered existence. Once he’s committed one of those ‘blunders’ he seems much more like the silver spoon prince turned something of the infant-terrible he actually is. Talking late into the small hours of the morning, Lysander won more and more of my respect and my sympathies upon the recollection of his childhood. As someone who loved and cherished his dad, it was hard to listen to sometimes—to hear it so plainly spoken by Lysander, his ultra-calming theta scent; chamomile, lavender, and spearmint like a steaming cup of sleepy tea.
Then there’s Teddy. Teddy Wong, himbo with a heart of gold? Or, heartless hustler looking for his fifteen seconds of fame, which he could foreseeably spin off into a ‘professional reality show contestant’ career—were he so inclined.
The cynical part of me wants to write him off as the latter. When I first scented him, he practically stank of alpha. Sharp but juicy Satsuma, fresh cut grass, surprisingly soft orange blossom, and sweet smoky clove. Main character energy, wannabe pack lead shit.
Then I saw him with Lysander.
I had been getting frustrated. The somewhat awkward Lysander—stuck in another lengthy information dump about some anime series as he anxiously bounced back and forth from foot to foot—a thin sheen of perspiration beading at his hairline in the steamy summer night air.
His uncontrollable energy, his never-ending stream of nervous speech about ‘breaking the conventions of shounen and giant-robot anime’—all of it was making my skin start to crawl. A consummate control freak. I just wanted to reach out and grab his shoulders and tell him to at least stay still if he’s going to keep blathering on.
I was about to lose it when Teddy magically interceded, exploding from his chair with a loud and unexpected proclamation.
“Alright little bro—it is your shovel that will break the very surface of the grounds of our despair!” Teddy carries on dramatically—stripping off his shirt to reveal his shredded physique—less gracefully stumbling out of his jeans before he shouts, “INTO THE POOL!”
I had watched dumbfounded as Teddy, à propos of seemingly nothing, had taken a few long strides to the edge of the pool and cannon-balled in.
When I turned to face Lysander, wondering how he would react to such an outburst during his expository spiel, I was shocked to see Lysander’s eyes twinkling with delight and affection—his posture loaded—as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
Teddy’s head, sleek and wet explodes from the surface of the water and exclaims with heightened fanfare, “Save me, I save you—that’s how it works!”
As soon as the words are out of his lips, Lysander begins to shed his clothes, pressed trousers, Burberry button down, sweater vest and all—taking two bounding steps toward the edge of the pool before he doubled back to carefully fold his spectacles and place them atop his small pile of abandoned clothes.
I had looked to Ronan, more than a little bewildered as the two began splashing and roughhousing in the pool—the pair of them talking hurriedly about different martial arts and wrestling practices a mile a minute while taking turns dunking one another in the shallow water.
“Both fans of the show, I guess?” He had shrugged it off before the pair of us busied ourselves with catching up and putting together an appropriately over-the-top midnight snack for the group I had already begun to think of affectionately as ‘the boys’.
It was more than a little jarring when Teddy initially tried to slither out of saying what he liked about Ursula. If he hadn’t opened up about his worries, however eye-roll-worthy they might feel; that he might not have enough to offer a woman like Ursula beyond his looks.
Self-involved still, no doubt—but it felt honest.
Plus, I really have a hard time believing his time with us in the lounge last night was an act. A guy here for all the wrong reasons wouldn’t bother to make time for the awkward, somewhat out of touch rich boy—would he?
As soon as I have the thought, I remind myself that I am on this show—with all these strangers, to ostensibly find my mate and my pack…and I realize that I have long passed the point of things being ‘normal’ or ‘making sense’. Maybe I don’t know what anyone would do, least of all myself.
“So, how did it go meeting everyone last night?” Ursula asks tentatively after we’ve settled into our respective couches and gotten past our initial hellos.
“It went really well, honestly,” I rush to clarify, “Meeting the other guys in our—y’know our…” I trail off, realizing I was about to say ‘our pack’.
“Oh yeah?” she prompts a more elaborate response, her tone hopeful.
“Yeah, I mean—obviously I’m not going to tell you what anyone looks like and stuff, but you certainly can’t be accused of having a ‘type’ as far as your taste in men goes,” I laugh, doing my best to play coy without being obnoxiously vague.
“No posturing or fighting?” she asks cautiously.
“Nah, not at all. Actually—of all of the groups I mixed with last night; I think our little quintet got along the best.” I say without pretense.
“Hmmm, that’s good to hear,” Ursula purrs approvingly before adding with a touch of scandal in her tone, “You’re all getting along so harmoniously…none of you are going to run off without me before we get to the reveal, are you?” she titters nervously.
“I think we’re all too eager to get our eyes and our hands on you, truth be told.”
I’m gratified to hear the little hitch in her breath before she answers, doing her best to play it cool.
“Good, good.”
After my date with Ursula, I drop the key cards for Jesse and Lana’s rooms with Timmy.
“Uh, Mavren?” He looks at me with mild confusion and surprise. “You do remember you still have dates with both of them this afternoon, don’t you want to—“
But I cut him off before he can continue, a gentle hand on his shoulder and a smile on my face.
“I know, Timmy—I’m going to tell both of them that it’s just not going to work out. Last night was…illuminating.” I give his shoulder a gentle pat, before heading to Ursula’s pack lounge to grab some lunch in the communal dining room.
By the time I make my way into the ample dine-in kitchen; Ash, Ronan, and Lysander are already assembled on either side of the long, farmhouse table beset with sandwiches, soups, cold salads and two kinds of cookies; spiritedly talking in half-hushed whispers while the camera crews creep closer and closer to the action.
The near omnipresence of production crew has lent itself to a kind of camera blindness in my case. I’ve started not to see the people following my every move so closely and with such care to every damning detail. I had entirely blotted out the two-person camera/audio duo that followed me down the hall and into the kitchen—only now as I see the others in their carefully captured frame do I remember my own personal documentarians, a breath away from my heels.
With renewed self-consciousness—I grab myself a plate from the kitchen island and slip into an open space at the end of one bench seat.
“We haven’t talked about it much,” I hear Ronan say casually before he crunches down on a cucumber spear loudly.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, et cetera,” Lysander grumbles under his breath—clearly wishing to change the subject.
“Nah dude, it’s important to talk about,” Teddy argues— forking himself several large wads of grilled chicken caesar salad—piling his plate high with halves of boiled eggs and scoops of tuna salad as he barrels on, “How are you supposed to know about sex stuff if you don’t talk about it with your girl—with your pack?”
I'm struck by the one-two punch of Teddy, one—stressing the importance of communication in any arena, much less where sex is concerned; and two—he's talking pretty casually as if we're all already pack. I barely know these guys, but still—I would not have expected this kind of level-headed and emotionally mature attitude from Teddy.
Lysander squirms in his seat and a curious glance passes between him and Ronan—gone just as quickly as it flashes by. I wonder what that’s all about…
“So, presumably she’s mentioned the whole business about the trial heat to…everyone?” Ash ventures cautiously, opening with a vague enough statement as not to spoil what Ursula may or may not have had a chance to share with everyone; slowly gesturing to all of us gathered around the breakfast table.
I give Ash a nod and a meaningful look to let him know I understand what he’s getting at without giving anything away.
Ronan bobs a nod, as does Teddy—a surprisingly strong blush spreading over his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose.
Lysander, fork suspended over his breakfast plate as if frozen in time, looks down into nothingness—his brown eyes like over-steeped cups of assam—near black, endless pools.
“Hey, Sandy.” Teddy gently shoulder checks Lysander—using the playful nickname he’d bestowed upon him the night before. “Did…she not tell you?”
Lysander seems to pale further, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow.
We all wait in silence—hanging on Lysander’s next words.
After what feels like an eternity—Lysander sets his fork down and clutches at the cloth napkin in his lap, his eyes still downcast in shame.
“She told me she’s never been through a heat with anyone else before,” Lysander murmurs, barely above a whisper, before adding—even quieter, “And then I told her I’m a virgin.”
Teddy’s lips part in a tiny ‘o’ of surprise—his ebony brows raised nearly to his hairline.
I have to fix my face—making sure my own mouth isn’t ajar.
Ash keeps blinking as if he hasn’t fully processed what Lysander’s said.
Ronan chokes on his mouthful of lunch—coughing loudly as he tries to catch his breath.
“Oh shit dude, I didn’t mean to like—be a jerk or anything.” Teddy has the sense to feel badly, his eyes trained on his empty glass of protein shake.
There’s a long silence before anyone speaks again. I’m relieved when Lysander finally lifts the quiet with his low, steady voice.
“Since we might end up being pack anyway.” He shifts in his seat—his eyes darting around the room, falling everywhere but on each of our faces; myself, Ash, Teddy, and Ronan. “Might as well just spill the fucking beans,” he sighs, preparing to bare his soul.
After lunch and Lysander’s confession, I’m newly unmoored.
When Ursula had mentioned her lack of heat experience, it had been intriguing and somewhat exciting.
Seeing Ronan had been surprising, and more thrilling than I had anticipated—but I hadn’t done much examination of my ‘feelings’ about it.
Sitting across the table as Lysander poured out his soul—admitting that after a life of near asexuality paired with crippling hopeless romanticism he now found himself experiencing sexual attraction in all sorts of places he had never before considered possible.
Though he didn’t name any names beyond the obvious Ursula—I got the impression that he’s been developing feelings for other members of the pack. The stolen glances that passed between him and Ronan—laced with surprising heat; were also not lost on me.
I’m both startled and perplexed at the sudden swell of jealousy within me, as I drag myself out to the pool area and drape myself over one of the nearly flattened pool loungers; the sun beating down—bright and broiling hot.
I pull the emerald thread of envy—doing my best to follow it, like Ariadne through the labyrinth—toward the heart of its tangled skein.
No matter how I try to approach it—I keep coming back to the same, somewhat baffling, conclusion.
I am envious of whatever has been secretly blossoming between Ronan and Lysander—in part because I had begun to explore some kind of strange, wonderful something between Ronan and myself before I allowed my work-a-holic nature, and my own preconceptions of what it means to be a man get in my way. While a difficult truth to begin to wrap my brain around—I’m even more baffled by the fact that I’m even more jealous that this kind of organic connection between Lysander and Ronan might also bring them even closer to Ursula—who is not only open to interpack relations, but finds them incredibly romantic and erotic.
I close my eyes and allow myself to soak in the high-sun heat like a lizard basking on a rock.
Part of me wants to just bail. To run away from anything to do with love, sex—the emotions of other people—like I always have; I always do.
Just as I’m fantasizing about packing my suitcase, accepting that this experience has been another failure in my personal life; throwing in the towel and heading home—losing myself in more 80 hour work weeks until I succumb to exhaustion like a mummy; desiccated, wrung dry of all joy a silent husk collecting dust in my office chair at Pomme Verte, when Teddy seems to appear from nowhere—flopping down on the pool lounge beside me, leagues of his bronze skin exposed to the sun, slathered in oil that makes him dazzle like he’s been cut from glittering goldstone glass.
“What’s eatin’ you, Mav?” he sighs, eyeing me skeptically over the top of his mirrored wrap-around sunglasses.
He’s so difficult to take seriously when he looks like this—like such a stereotypical Hollywood fuckboy…not to mention incredibly hot.
I have always admired beauty. Be it a meandering jazz piano solo, a canvas laid with colorful daubs of paint, the perfection of jewel-like pomegranate seeds placed in a too-careful-to-be-random spray across a roguish smear of yogurt sauce wreathed in rainbow microgreens and neon green mint-cucumber coulis.
Hours were spent agonizing over the aesthetic of my restaurant. A huge point of my successes professionally, have hinged upon my deep obsession with the style and composition of each and every plate.
Maybe that’s how it snuck up on me. My admiration, my obsession—somehow transmuted itself into the very fabric of my desire.
Some of my misplaced pride balks at that admission; that I find Teddy incredibly beautiful—incredibly desirable.
It isn’t only beauty though. Perhaps that would make it easier to justify that way. If I’m honest with myself, I know it’s so much more than that.
I've felt more connected to Ursula, more eager than I have in a long time. I want to be around her—because she makes me feel good—more like a whole person rather than just my work. I'm hopeful when I think about a future with her in it—and I've never seen her. I don't have even the slightest clue of what she looks like. No beauty involved—and yet I yearn for her.
While Ronan is certainly beautiful, it was the way I felt when I was with him that made me want to be around. I hadn’t been ready to admit it to myself when Ronan and I had begun to skirt the line of more than friends, but I might just be getting close to admitting now.
I won’t spill my guts to Teddy—at least not quite yet. All of this is too new—too unsure. I need some time—and to talk with Ursula before I’m ready to start this discussion with any of the other guys.
Until then, I’ll have to figure out how to keep my shit cool—especially in front of the cameras.