3. Anya
Chapter 3
E ver since my landlord left, I can't help but feel on edge, waiting for new people to show up and disrupt the quiet I've gotten used to over the last few months. All I can hope is that they're single and either won't be home a lot or will also be quiet.
It's been hard to focus on my commission, but I have to get at least the background done today so that it has time to dry, and I can work on a different painting tomorrow. The client knows it will take me at least two months to finish it, but that doesn't mean I can just not do the work and put it off until the last minute.
After a decade of doing this professionally, I've gotten my schedule down to a science, and if I don't follow it, everything goes to crap. And I can't do that when people are paying me to do this work. I have to plan it all around my heat. Even with suppressants, it will still put me down for a week. It's so hard to focus on anything, and I have to fight the urge to download an app for Omegas who want the aid of Alphas without the commitment of a bond.
But I've never given in. With me being unable to talk, and the majority of people not knowing how to handle that, it would just be awkward. I don't want to have to deal with that while feeling like I'm going to crawl out of my skin from being so horny.
The beeping of a truck backing up meets my ears, and I put down my brush to go to the window that faces the front of the building where the small parking lot is. I want to know who is moving in. All I know is that they're Alphas. Are they men, or women? Even if they're female Alphas, I would feel no safer. They can be just as aggressive as their male counterparts during a rut, so it wouldn't make a difference. But at least I'll know what the threat is now during my heat.
A couple of men in uniforms get out of the truck. Movers, clearly. They head to the back and open it up, revealing a massive truck full of things. A lot more than what would fit in my apartment.
I guess upstairs is a two-bedroom, so it's slightly bigger, but not by much, a hundred square feet at most. Maybe that means they're not going to live here long, and they're just waiting for their house to be built or something.
That's how it was for the people that lived there before. It was just a transition place. That would be perfect because it wouldn't be long-term, and then I'll have another chance to buy the units from my landlord and have it all for myself.
As they pull down the ramp, two more cars pull up beside it. One, a large black truck, screams that they're overcompensating for something, but maybe they're in construction or a job where they need to haul around a lot of large equipment. A silver Porsche pulls up alongside it.
In sync, three men get out of the two cars, and my heart races. They're massive, tall, and even from a distance, I can see their muscles. If they decide they want to hurt me, they could rip me apart.
The one wearing paint-covered ripped jeans goes over to the movers, and they talk. His brown hair is swept back in a lazy pompadour, and a dark five o'clock shadow covers his jaw.
My gaze goes to the guy who got out of the Porsche. He has short brown hair, a clean-shaven, angled jaw, and a sharp nose. He looks like a model, maybe he is, with the car he's driving. But if that's true, why would they move into a place like this? It's not a bad apartment, but it's also not luxury. If I were a model, I would be living in a high-rise in the city with a lot of windows for natural light. That's the dream for my painting and the main reason I want the upstairs unit for my studio. I bet it gets a ton of light in the morning.
Mr. Porsche's gaze turns my direction, and I step back from the window so he can't see me. He has brilliant green eyes as he stares up at the balcony on the second floor.
Why do they have to be good-looking? I force myself to go back to my painting. It doesn't matter. With luck, we'll never have to interact, and I'll have to pray the new vents hold up with my heat, and they don't smell me. I don't have another option. Going to the Omega Hospital to wait it out is a nightmare and worse than just going it alone in my nest.
I can't get a good look at the blond, and I'd rather they not catch me trying to get a peek at them and think I'm a lurker.
After a couple of minutes of getting back into my painting—adding the shadows in the far background—thuds of heavy footsteps go up the stairs outside my door and then echo in the apartment above me as they walk around on the vinyl flooring of the kitchen that serves as the entrance.
I know once they have stuff in the place, their footsteps won't be as loud, but damn does it set my nerves on edge in an instant. Living in an apartment is often like having a roommate you'll never see or interact with, but you'll always hear them.
Grabbing my headphones, I put them on for the first time in months. Blessed silence descends before the soft notes of Debussy transfer to the headphones, a welcome barrier against the intrusive noises of my new neighbors.
Well, the headphones are great for blocking out noise during the day, but they aren't comfortable to sleep in. I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling as bass thumps down from the apartment above. It sounds like they're having a housewarming party. Several more people came a few hours ago, and I thought it would be over by ten, but it's nearly midnight and still going.
Rolling over, I place one of my many pillows over my head, but since my brain knows the noise is still happening, I can't block it out. I could go up there and ask them to be quiet, but I'd rather not have to go through the rigmarole of explaining that I'm mute and not deaf. Then they'd want to know why, since being mute is less common than deafness, and I'd rather not have to dance around that story because it's not a comfortable one to tell. But people don't seem to know how to mind their own business when they're curious.
Tossing the pillow off, I sigh. Perhaps if I go out to my little balcony and smoke some weed, it will make me tired enough to not give a shit how much noise they're making. Getting up from bed, I go over to the dresser and grab two of my pre-rolls and my cyan blue lighter. The plastic crinkles softly as I pull the pre-rolls from their container.
I don't smoke while I'm painting. I've tried, but I feel like it interferes with the creative process, and it's not an everyday thing anymore. It used to be, to the point I had to make a break from it because I was using it to numb myself out.
I don't like to drink, and this helps me fall asleep on nights I'm struggling to block things out, even if this time it's not my brain, but my neighbors. Speaking of them, I make a stop in my bathroom to spray my pheromone suppressant spray all over me. The fine mist settles on my skin with a faint, almost metallic scent. It will hide my scent for up to two hours. I doubt I'll have to interact with them, but if I do, I don't want them to have a clue I'm an Omega.
A billionaire created the spray years ago so his Omega daughters could shop in public without being accosted by knotless Alpha-holes who just want to get their knots wet and nothing more. I have no desire to go through the awkwardness of dealing with other people. I did a lifetime of that as a kid and teenager. Let them believe I'm a Beta. I just won't leave my house for anything once my heat gets here, and they'll never know an Omega lives below them.
I pull a soft, black turtleneck sweater over my head, the fabric a comforting shield against the cool night air. It's an old habit, a need to keep my neck covered, to hide the faint silvery scars that trace the delicate skin there.
Slipping outside, I hop the cement wall, the rough texture scraping against my palms. I turn so that my legs hang off the other side, facing the parking lot and the line of trees across it that lead to a ditch. Most of them have lost their leaves by now, but when they're in full color-changing mode, they show a variety of oranges and yellows down the line. It almost makes this area scenic, but I still wouldn't call it home. It's been the only solid one I've known since eighteen though, I can't complain.
Rolling the joint between my fingers, I get an even light on it and take a large pull, allowing the warmth of the smoke to fill my lungs. I take a second inhale to pull in more before blowing it out my nose.
I close my eyes, savoring the citrus flavor this one has. With any luck, I'll want to pass out in the next fifteen minutes.
"Yeah, yeah. I know where it is."
The door that leads into the building opens on its squeaking hinges, and it makes me jump. My heart leaps into my throat as I see a blond man, with hair pulled back in a ponytail, walking out. Oh, shit. It's one of the Alphas that moved in.
He's the one I couldn't get a good look at earlier. He has broad shoulders like the other two. His facial features remind me of a young Brad Pitt; boyish, and yet there's a smolder that could make any woman want his attention. Not this woman. I try to shrink back into the shadows, hoping he doesn't notice me perched on the wall, but it's too late.
His gaze flits in my direction as he jogs to the truck and grabs a box off the bed. He saw me. He saw me. My pulse quickens. I blow out smoke from the corner of my mouth, trying to look nonchalant, but inside, I'm freaking out. I hate this; I hate that I'm so scared of Alphas.
A throat clearing meets my ears, and I can't help but glance his direction, making brief eye contact. He smiles and shifts the box in his arm. "Hey, didn't mean to startle you. I'm sure you know already, but I'm one of your upstairs neighbors. I'm Leonardo Capello, but everyone calls me Leo."
Fuck. Now he's going to expect me to introduce myself, but my board is inside, and so is my phone, so I can't even use my text-to-speech app. If I sign, will he get that I can't speak and run away? He'll probably think I'm deaf, like most people do.
Putting the joint between my lips, I sign at him, "Nice to meet you."
His eyes widen for a moment, and I wait for him to offer me an awkward smile and walk back into the building. Instead, he comes over and puts the box on the corner of the concrete wall. My stomach flips with nervousness as he approaches, but I school my features into a neutral expression.
His hands fly as he signs, "I know ASL. My name is—"
The surprise of him knowing what I'm saying without having to write it out makes me cut him off before he can go through the process of signing his name. "I can hear. I can't speak, but it's nice you know ASL. My name is Anya." I leave out my last name.
He chuckles, a warm, rumbling sound that seems to reverberate through the cool night air. "I see. My younger sister can't hear, so I learned ASL for her."
I pull the joint from my lips and blow the smoke out through my nose and away from him.
Leo glances around and then grins at me, a playful glint in his eyes. "Could I get a drag?"
I arch a brow and pick up my other joint, offering it to him. It's been a long time since I smoked with someone, and it's nice not to have to write everything out to have a conversation.
He steps closer to take the joint, and that's when his scent hits me full force. It's like a Christmas tree; that familiar, fresh scent wraps around me. But woven through that is a thread of something warm and spicy, like cinnamon and cloves. It's an appealing combination that makes my senses sharpen, and my inner Omega, usually dormant, stirs to life. I freeze for a split second, surprised by the unexpected calmness that washes over me. Usually, the presence of an Alpha sends me into a tailspin, but with Leo, it's different. Alarmingly different.
He takes the offered joint from between my fingers. Most Alphas smell like sweat and sourness to me, but I've never met one I've wanted to pull closer and bury my face in their neck.
He's not reacting to me, but then I remember the spray I used just in case. I guess it was good foresight on my part. The last thing I need is him reacting, too, and us losing all sense of control as my Omega takes over. I literally just met the guy, and beyond thinking it's nice that he knows ASL, I don't know a single thing about him. That just sounds dangerous to trust after all the true crime I've watched. Being scent-matched doesn't mean you're safe from crazy people.
Lighting the joint, he takes a drag from it and turns his gaze back to me and then up to his apartment on the second floor. "Boy, I didn't think we were being that loud, but I guess we're used to living in a house and not sharing walls or a floor with someone. I'm sorry. I'll have them turn it down. You could've come banged on our door, and we would've turned it down."
I take another drag before I stamp out the joint, letting the body high this weed gives me roll through my torso. It relaxes relax me, that's for sure. "I didn't feel like holding up a sign asking you all to turn it down. So, I decided to smoke instead and pass out."
He shrugs a shoulder. "I get it. Just know there's someone upstairs that can translate for you now if you don't feel like writing everything out." His eyes widen, and he reaches into his pocket. "I'll do you one better, actually. Let's swap numbers, and you can just text whenever we're being assholes. Then you don't have to come upstairs at all."
I shake my head. "I didn't bring my phone out with me, or I would let it do the talking for me."
He then sticks the joint between his lips as he goes back to the box and digs through it, using his phone as a light. "No problem, we can do this old school. Plus, you don't have to feel obligated to give me your number right now."
After a moment of digging through it, he pulls out a pen and comes back over. "Can I see your arm for a second?"
A purr wants to rise in my throat at the thought of him touching me, and I force it down. Not only does my purr sound weird to me, but he doesn't need to know I'm an Omega, at least not until I know how I want him to know.
The door squeaks in the night as it opens again.
"Leo, man, you good?"
Mr. Porsche sticks his head out of the door as we both turn to look at him. My heart beats faster. If three Alphas moved in upstairs together, that means they're more than likely a pack, which means I could be compatible with all of them. There is a chance I wouldn't be. That can happen, but it's rarer than winning the lottery. Most packs will share an Omega. That's just how it's always been. More of them than there are of us.
Leo motions with his hand. "Come here and meet our neighbor."
He shoves the door open more and walks over, his eyes landing on the joint in Leo's hand. "Mav is going to kick your ass for smoking the week of a game." As he says it, he reaches over and snatches the joint from Leo to take a pull from it. The scent of cedarwood and something subtly sweet, like warm honey, wafts from him as he exhales a cloud of smoke.
Leo laughs, a deep, throaty sound. "I'm sure he'll want some, too. It's not like we can get in trouble for it. It's legal and not on the performance-enhancing drug list."
He then turns back to me. "Anya, this is Jenson Marks. One of my pack members. Our leader, Maverick, is upstairs with our friends, who are on our hockey team with us."
I wave hello, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens at the sight of another Alpha. Jenson is just as striking as Leo, with the same broad shoulders and confident aura.
Jenson waves back as he pulls the joint from his lip and offers it to me. Mine is out, and I wouldn't mind more. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and a jolt, like static electricity, zings up my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. I try to hide my surprise, taking a long drag from the joint to steady my nerves.
The aromatic scent of cedar comes from them both, but something else underlines Jenson's scent that's different from Leo's. I distract myself with the joint to keep my Omega from impulsively inviting them into my place. They would no doubt make my heat come early if things got intimate, and if they were to find out we were scent-matched, who knows what would happen.
I have enough logic left in my brain to know that isn't a good idea. Who would want a mute Omega? One of them may know ASL, but I doubt the other two do. There's a reason I like being alone; there's no heartbreak because no one can abandon me when they decide that I'm not worth the effort to learn how to communicate easier.
Besides, I'm mute because someone thought I wasn't good enough to have around when I was normal.
Leo hums as he holds up the pen again. "He distracted us, but I still want to give you my number, at least. Can I see your arm?"
Will his touch shock me like Jenson did? I hold out my arm to him, and he gently pushes the sleeve of my sweater up my forearm, his fingers brushing against my skin. A shiver runs through me, and I suppress a gasp. He doesn't seem to notice my reaction as he lowers the pen to my skin. There's no shock at his touch this time, but the warmth from his fingers radiates through me like an inferno. It takes everything inside me not to snatch my arm back before he's done, or pull him closer and do something stupid.
"There, done. Add that to your phone when you get a chance, and then you can text whenever you need to tell us we're being too loud."
In the dim light from the street lamp that overlooks the parking lot, I make out the dark numbers on my arm. I glance back at him and sign, "Thank you."
I pass the joint to him and turn my body to swing my legs over my balcony and drop into it. My muscles protest with a satisfying ache as I land lightly on the concrete. I pick up my discarded joint and toss it into my coffee can that I keep out here for this reason. Turning to them, I give a nod and say, "Good night. Nice to meet you."
Leo grins as Jenson glances between us.
"Good to meet you, too, Anya. Have a good night. We'll head up and make the asses shut up."
I nod again as I step into my place, close and lock the sliding door behind me, and then shut the blinds as well. My heart hasn't stopped racing, and my inner Omega whines and begs for me to open the door and ask them to come in. It would be so simple, and for once in my life, I would be satisfied because my Alphas—the people I thought I would never meet being a hermit artist—are living right above me.
How is it possible that they moved in right above me? It's the equivalent of asking the universe for a partner, and it drops them through the roof since I'll never be one to try the dating scene. Not after what happened. I would rather become a nun than ever risk letting anyone in.
But these are our mates. They won't be like them.
Shaking my head, I walk back to my room and nest as the upstairs becomes quiet. I flop into my fluffy goodness and give over to the floating tingles that want to take over my body. I lift my arm and stare at the dark marks of his phone number. Them being scent-matched with me is a problem for the future sober me to decide on.