Eleven
ELEVEN
Luca
“LUCA?” THE VOICE—Zalen, I identified—sounded like this might not be the first attempt to get my attention.
I surfaced from the multi-page form I’d been filling out, blinking as the familiar dim lighting of my office swam into focus.
“Sorry,” I said, the obsessive need to apologize coming helpfully to the fore.
For a big chunk of my life, getting so involved in something that I lost touch with my surroundings had been physically dangerous. That wasn’t so much of an issue these days, but it was still disconcerting to realize that someone had been standing outside my office door calling my name, and I’d had no idea.
Two someones, and not the sort of someones it was easy to miss.
Emiel and Zalen stood patiently, just outside the defined boundary of my space, waiting for me to get my shit together enough to interact with them.
“You’re back,” I said stupidly. “Sorry, come in. I was working on the Johnston-Park Foundation grant. How’d things go with the Chicago people?”
Zalen smiled as he and Emiel came inside and closed the door. Immediately, the air sharpened with the scent of lime and vanilla, covering up the blank space where Emiel’s pheromones should have been.
“I think we’re in with a chance,” Zalen said. “They seemed impressed, and they’re cognizant of the unmet need for services in this area.”
East St. Louis was an ‘area’ where Zalen would stand out like a sore thumb for using words like ‘cognizant’ and ‘unmet needs’ in casual conversation. He was St. Louis born and bred, but unlike the rest of us, he and his family had gotten out when he was young. His corporate-speak vocabulary was a holdover from the high-powered career he’d had in New York finance, before he’d chucked it all in to move back to his home city.
He'd given up a life of penthouse suites and exclusive cocktail parties in favor of trying to rescue kids like me from their own self-destructive life choices.
He still knew how to wear the uniform, though—even if a well-cut business suit hit a bit different when paired with long dreadlocks. Not, I reflected, that it was a bad kind of different.
Nope, not at all.
Nor was Emiel’s dangerous, ‘barely leashed crime family bodyguard’ vibe... although that one tweaked a few more alarm buttons in my fucked-up psyche.
“Where’d you end up taking them?” I asked, knowing Zalen had planned to pull out all the stops.
Grants like the one I was currently working on helped cover the Hope Project’s operating expenses, but accreditation and support from non-profits like Jason’s Lighthouse in Chicago could pay for expansion and help launch programs like the college initiative Zalen and Emiel had been scheming for months now.
“We ended up at that place across the river with the Michelin star—the Elderflower Inn,” Zalen said, looking at me with interest.
“It was good,” Emiel said, surprising me by offering unprompted conversation. “Did you know your friend worked there?”
“She doesn’t just work there. She’s the owner,” I replied, correcting him automatically. “Well, the co-owner, anyway.”
It wasn’t a big deal, sure... but something about the assumption that an omega couldn’t own a highly successful business rankled.
“She’s clearly living the dream,” Zalen said. “The place was packed, and the food lived up to the hype.”
There was something wistful behind his earthy brown gaze when he mentioned her, and it made a complicated knot twist tighter in my stomach. It wasn’t jealousy... at least, not quite. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it, though.
Emiel wrinkled his nose. “He had tofu . Who has tofu when there’s steak on the menu?”
The moment broke.
“Vegetarians?” I offered, amused despite myself. “Hmm. Maybe I should hoard my pennies for a few weeks and go try out this place for myself.”
“If Kettlewell cuts us a check for the new addition, I’ll treat everyone to a celebration dinner there,” Zalen said.
Wait, he wanted to go back? Did that mean he wanted to see her again?
I shook off the intrusive thoughts.
“What, you’re going to ask Emiel to do social, people-y stuff twice in one month?” I teased, shooting the larger man a wink to make sure he knew I was kidding. “He’ll need a cage match or two first, just to recover from today.”
“Got one in a couple of days,” Emiel said serenely. “Didn’t want to risk showing up to lunch today with a black eye.”
“Probably wise,” Zalen agreed wryly.
“Want me to come cheer you on?” I asked Emiel, quashing my disquiet over the prospect of him going back to the fights. It was something we joked about, but not something any of us were really all that happy about.
Byron, in particular, seemed to hate the idea.
I’d seen a handful of Emiel’s matches over the years. On the one hand, I liked watching him do something he was undeniably good at, especially since he was so self-conscious so much of the time. On the other hand, the unrestrained violence brought back some memories that were better left buried.
“You shouldn’t go to those places, Luca,” Emiel said, his heavy brow furrowing. “The people there aren’t good people.”
“ You go there,” I replied mildly.
“Yeah, I do,” he said, as though it was an answer.
Zalen sighed. “He has a point, Em.” Emiel drew breath to say something, but Zalen put a hand up to forestall him. “No, I get it. There’s a reason we teach the kids here boxing and martial arts. I know it helps with... everything.”
“Gotta keep my skills sharp,” Emiel said. “Otherwise, one of these little punks’ll take me down some day during sparring, and then where will we be?”
It was a fair point, even if there objectively wasn’t much danger of that happening. On a daily basis, the alphas dealt with a building full of teenagers who’d grown up with guns, knives, and brass knuckles while other kids were playing with dolls and toy trucks. Not to mention, some of those teenagers were also alphas, and hormonal as hell on top of it.
Zalen, Emiel, and Byron were all capable of whipping out the dominance when it was needed, and it was needed with a fair amount of regularity inside the walls of this place.
“Don’t worry,” Zalen said. “I’ll just keep pretending I don’t know that one of my instructors pummels people in a semi-legal gambling venue for fun.”
I winced. There was nothing remotely legal about the places where Emiel fought.
“You should try it some time,” Emiel muttered. “’S good stress relief.”
I met Mia bright and early the following morning at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop we’d visited a few times before. She came in with heavy bags under her eyes and her hair pulled up in a messy don’t-give-a-shit ponytail. Not for the first time, I wondered if the woman ever slept. Restaurant hours didn’t seem like they’d mesh well with meeting for coffee at six thirty in the morning... and yet, here we were.
The triple espresso she was currently eyeing like she wanted to have its delicious, highly caffeinated babies lent support to the idea that she was surviving more on stimulants than sleep. She took a sip, then closed her eyes and let out a nearly sexual moan before setting the cup down on the table in front of her.
I drank a few swallows of my own caramel macchiato, watching her intently.
“God, I needed this,” she said. “So, how’ve you been doing?”
“Good,” I told her, not untruthfully. Things had been quiet, except for an abused kid Zalen was currently trying to keep out of the court system, and Byron stalking around the place like someone had kicked his pet puppy. “Zalen and Emiel really liked the restaurant, by the way. They don’t usually go on about food like that.”
Instead of looking pleased, she flushed and looked down at her drink, turning it around and around in her hands.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s good.”
I frowned, ducking down a bit to catch her eye. “Um... I’m not really getting ‘proud restauranteur’ vibes here. Were they not supposed to enjoy it?”
She shook her head rapidly and met my gaze with clear reluctance. “No! No , that’s good to hear. Some of the services lately have been a bit rough. I’m glad they had a good meal.”
“Only... you don’t sound glad?” I pressed, unsure why I always seemed to feel the need to push Mia when she obviously didn’t want to talk about a subject.
She appeared to steel herself, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. “Sorry. This is embarrassing. When Nat told me Zalen was in the dining area and asking to speak to me—well, to the head chef—I thought maybe you’d told him where I worked and... sent him there, for some reason?”
I sat there for a moment, trying to untangle the subtext. Before I could speak, Mia barreled on.
“Then I realized it was just a coincidence, and they had no idea I was there until I came out to the table. So, I felt pretty stupid about that part. But, also...”
She trailed off, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
“Also, what?” I asked, because I definitely felt like I was missing something here.
I could tell she didn’t want to answer, and that she was going to do it anyway.
“Like I said, it was Nat who came and told me Zalen wanted to see me. Except... the way he said it, I thought he must be talking about Byron. And I had no idea how Nat could possibly have found out about him so fast, when it was only the previous night when we’d—”
She cut herself off again and broke eye contact, pretending to look at the people standing in line for coffee.
The unpleasant twisty feeling that didn’t quite feel like jealousy reared its ugly head again. For god’s sake—I was the one who’d thrown her at him. Of course she’d had sex with him. Everyone who got a look at Byron wanted to have sex with him. Mailboxes wanted to have sex with him.
“So, how’d things go with him, anyway?” I asked, oh-so-casually. “Did you manage to scratch the itch? And if so, why are you worried if your good-for-nothing husband knows about it? Wasn’t that the point?”
She looked up at me with an expression that could only be called tortured. And I wondered, not for the first time, what kind of Gordian knot I was getting myself tangled up in with this girl.