Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Brooks
My disposition for the next couple of weeks can best be described as ornery with just a sprinkling of sullen.
I blame the doctor. I don't usually carry my emotions with me when I leave his office, but whenever Laz comes up, I broadcast every feeling I have on the matter loud and clear.
It usually takes several weeks for me to get back to myself.
The only saving grace right now is the distraction of my fighter.
His name is Shane, and he is a pescatarian.
I thought it was one of the new religions when he said it, and we had a good laugh over my mistake.
Now he wants to incorporate some kind of fish with holy symbolism into his ring name, and he wants my opinion on that.
He wants my opinion about so many things that I just don't have an opinion of.
What color should this be?
What about this song?
Should he invite his family to see him fight?
The only question I had a real answer for was that one. I think his mother would be completely horrified if she were to come watch him fight. And if he's not as great a fighter as his manager insists he is? No mother wants to see that.
I'm heading up there at the end of this week to have a dinner meeting with Shane and Grady. I've done one long phone call with them, and Grady has sent me several videos of Shane in action. He's fast, that's for sure. And focused. I can see why Grady is so invested in him. He's a good kid.
I'm flying up. I'm secure enough in myself that I can admit I'm not looking forward to it.
Sure, I'm looking forward to meeting Grady and Shane, but actually, physically being up there?
Not at all. There might be four dry days inside of any calendar year.
The rest of the time it's either soggy or cold or both.
I'm not as young as I once was, and I've lived a harder life than I care to discuss.
The dank weather up there is hell on my bones, and the dreary color of it keeps my overall mood muted or flat-out depressed.
I hope I can kick my current funk before I go up. It's been a while since I fell into a true depression, but if anything can do it, it will be the combination of my current mood and the mood of the weather that awaits me in that corner of the country.
The next few days drag on in a series of tasks and requirements that seem to move at a snail's pace, but by the time I'm buckling into my seat on the plane, it feels like I blinked and opened my eyes when I was boarding the plane.
Maybe I'm wrong. As much as I hate leaving my home, maybe a change of scenery and background noise will do me good.
I can usually be optimistic if I try hard enough.
I booked an overnight flight with the intention of sleeping through the ten-hour trip.
I didn't book a private jet, but I did pay for the comfort and seclusion of an elite first-class seat.
I should have just booked the jet. Despite the best efforts of the airline to ensure that my compartment is scent-neutral, I know exactly how many Omegas are on this flight and how close a few of them are to going into heat. Uncomfortable is an understatement.
I can't sleep. It's been a little over six hours.
I have done everything imaginable to make myself comfortable enough to sleep.
I've reclined the seat and raised the footrest. I've stretched.
I've walked around. I've had chamomile tea.
Nothing has lessened the restless buggy vibration causing me to continuously jiggle my knee and push my toes against the confines of my shoes.
The rest of the trip is almost unbearable, but I survive.
An hour after I land, I've showered away the collection of scents clinging to me, and I'm a better person for it.
I'm supposed to meet Grady and Shane for a late dinner at a diner around the corner from the gym where they train.
I'm going to take a nap and head over to the gym early.
Sponsors are supposed to drop in for surprise observations, after all.
It wasn't my intention to do that today, but I'm not in the mood to walk around in the rain looking for something to fill my time.
I'm not in the mood to sit in this hotel room and bounce my knee all afternoon, either. Maybe I'll even learn something.
*
After four hours, the only thing I've learned is that I could never subject myself to this kind of fighting.
It's too structured, and I have never been able to sit comfortably under the weight of someone's thumb, even if it's a damn good trainer.
And that's what Grady is. He guides Shane through exercises and drills and stretches, barking orders and corrections at the young Alpha like no Beta has any right to.
That's not even the bit that bothers me.
What bothers me is the expectation of following rules.
Visible and invisible codes of conduct. I could never.
I never underwent any sort of training to fight. I'm Valla. I breathe violence. My heart beats with it. There is no form to it; it just is. People either bend to my will or they break on it. There has only ever been one exception, and that had nothing to do with fighting.
I make the appropriate nods, smiling, encouraging my fighter.
He thinks I'm invested in whether or not he wins his fights.
I am, in a way, I suppose. I hope he will win his fights because it means a lot to him, and because winning the fights is the success he needs to become more than he is.
He can be great. I can see it in every move he makes, every minute adjustment of form.
He wants to climb, and I want him to soar.
***
The diner is across the street from a high-end socialite club.
I sit across from Shane, sipping mediocre coffee while he talks about the smaller fights that will lead to bigger fights and the other fighters he will potentially go up against. I listen to him, but I watch the valet drivers struggle to keep up with the steady flow of traffic from this city's crowd of elites as they come and go from the club.
It's mostly Alphas. Occasionally a Beta will walk through those doors wearing pride on their sleeve like it's armor, or an Omega will go in, hanging on the arm of an Alpha who wears their pride bright and loud before them.
I've never had a reason to do that, either. Valla are Valla. We are what we are, with or without the pride, and most of us make no apology for that.
There are exceptions, of course.
“And the first will be in about four weeks. I really hope you can make it.” Shane takes a huge bite of his grilled chicken in an attempt to keep me from seeing how much he wants me there.
“I have every intention of being there for your first...” My voice trails off when an Alpha across the street opens the backdoor of a limo and a tall, lanky Omega with an unruly crown of dark hair unfolds himself from the backseat of a car.
I can't see his face, so I can't be sure, but that doesn't stop my breath from seizing in my chest.
It can't be.
Not here. Of all places, not here. Not now.
My pulse thuds, heavy and sluggish.
The Omega tilts his head, and I get a sliver of a glance at a sharp jaw before the Alpha pulls him around the back of the car and into the club.
It wasn't him.
There's no way it was him.
Not even fate is that cruel.
“You okay, man?” Shane asks, his tone soft and attentive.
I blink a few times and turn away from the window. “Yes. Apologies. I thought I saw an old acquaintance.”
“Must have been some acquaintance,” Grady muses.
I nod. “Indeed. Would you hold it against me if I end my evening early?”
“Of course not,” Grady assures.
“I will be back for your first fight, Shane. You are making tremendous progress.”
I leave money on the table for the bill and rush from the diner. It's out of my control. I'm strong enough to admit my weakness. If that was Laz, there's a slight chance that I will still be able to catch a trace of his scent. I want the chance to have his scent again, even if it ruins me.
There's nothing waiting across the street for me but frustration.
I allow myself to linger on the sidewalk in front of the club for exactly two minutes before I turn on my heel abruptly and stalk down the street before I'm tempted to go into the club to see if his scent is inside.
I may be able to admit my weakness, but I can't let it rule me.
Not anymore. I can't allow myself to fall into that level of destruction again.
My flight home isn't until tomorrow morning. I have two choices for the remainder of my evening. One of them involves a bar and taking part in potentially terrible choices; the other involves a lot more alcohol and hopefully ten solid hours of sleep.
I buy a bottle of my favorite whiskey on the way to the hotel.
I order a large pizza covered in everything but ham as soon as I walk through the door, then head to the bathroom to take the hottest shower the hotel's water system will allow. I can't wash away his memory. I've tried. But I can try to scald the stress of it from my muscles.
I'm wearing a towel around my waist when the pizza is delivered. I yank open the door and the poor kid almost falls over, nearly dropping the pizza.
“Sorry,” I say, offering him my hand to help him regain his balance.
He doesn't take it and refuses to meet my eyes. “That's okay. You already paid with a card. Here you go.”
“Hang on.” I turn around to grab some cash from my wallet on the bedside dresser. “Here.” I hand him the bills when I take the food from him.
He scurries off down the hall, muttering a quick thanks.
That's not the first time I've startled a young Beta. It hasn't been intentional for a long time, but it happens nonetheless.
I drop the pizza on the foot of the bed and sit down next to it. I don't know why I ordered it. I had a light meal at the diner just a little while ago. Habit, I guess. Every time I go on a trip, I always have pizza delivered. I'll need it tonight to cushion the whiskey.
The alcohol and greasy carbs do their job, and I fall into a heavy sleep before midnight. I dream about Laz. The old Laz. The Laz who loved me.
I'm still smiling when my phone rings and pulls me from sleep.
I answer the call with my eyes closed. “Brooks here.”
There's a long silence on the other end of the call. Every few seconds I can hear a faint breath but no words.
“Hello?” I say, reaching to turn on the light on the nightstand.
“Hey... I...”
The call ends abruptly, leaving me trembling with a breath stuck in my chest.