Chapter 4
By the time I make it to the end of the arcade bar’s block, I’m ready to punch someone just to feel their nose break. My phone vibrates again in my pocket, and I snarl, switching it off without looking at it. As if my father didn’t make it perfectly clear in his office two hours ago what is expected of me before I turn thirty.
Form a pack. Get matched. Have children. Just like my brothers. Unlike my brothers, though, he’s held my goddamn trust fund over my head. Not that I overly need it at the moment. But if I want out of the family business? That trust fund is my golden ticket.
I run my hands over my head and through my hair, pulling on the ends just enough that it hurts. The pain helps clear my head.
The first one—forming a pack—isn’t the worst expectation. It’s all but assumed that I’ll find a group of people and register with the Council just like any other Alpha in my family’s business. Getting matched isn’t nearly as appealing. Allowing someone else to decide my sexual and romantic partner? No, thank you. And having children? Absolutely not. I’d get a vasectomy yesterday if my designation didn’t make it impossible.
“Accidenti,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets and heading up the street.
I try to put the whole mess out of my mind, focusing instead on the profile picture of the man I’m meeting tonight: blond hair, blue eyes, a smile that probably gets him laid without trying. The definition of carefree surfer man, really, though there was no indication in any of our conversations that he actually surfs. He’s a musician, which is something I can appreciate. Any artist managing to survive in this city without generational wealth to keep them afloat has my respect.
There’s a decent crowd milling around despite it being the middle of the week. I take a deep breath to steady myself, noting both bouncers standing near the doors as well as the security guard situated near the bar at the back of the building, visible from where I walk outside. A small group of men chat just outside the door, cigarettes lit and dangling from their loose holds. My fingers twitch, but I ignore the sudden urge to ask them for one. A blond man in a dark gray polo and jeans looks up as I cross the street in front of the arcade bar we’d agreed on last week, and I’m met with those same blue eyes. Somehow, they manage to be even more striking in person. He tucks his phone into his pocket and heads toward me, keeping his hands loose at his sides, a half-smile tilting his lips.
“Dominic?” he asks.
He stands the same height as me, his build lithe but sturdy, the cotton of his shirt stretching taut across his chest and biceps. His voice is smooth as silk, a lightness to it that has me thinking most people find him comfortable to be around. Charismatic in its purest form, that’s what Jasper is. And he is positive he’s a Beta? I focus on his breathing, his small movements, waiting to see if any of my instincts roar to the forefront, but they remain strangely—blissfully—quiet. Definitely not an Omega, then. I offer my hand, and he takes it easily enough, the callouses from his playing catching on my own—though mine developed from less-than-upright means.
“Nice to finally see you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair and loosing a pent-up breath. “Sorry for having to reschedule.”
I wave off the apology and urge him inside with a subtle touch on his waist. He leans into the brush of my fingers, and my breath hitches for a heartbeat.
“How is everything with the apartment, then?” I ask to distract myself.
It’s poor form to take a date straight back to my place—or even my car—so early on. But the subtle cedar scent of his cologne has me thinking of reenacting the occasional hookups I’ve had with women: lock the bathroom and see how many people are pissed when we walk out twenty minutes later disheveled to all hell.
He shrugs, the light dimming in his eyes for a moment.
“It’s managed,” he says.
The need to fix the problem so that his eyes don’t dim again roars through me, but I tamp it back as we cross the threshold.
The bar is bustling, the lights of the pinball machines flashing in the low lighting, the colors distorted from the orange glow of the sunset. The security guard near the bar adjusts his stance, his hands dropping from his pockets, his eyes growing keen as Jasper and I take up seats beside each other at the bar top. The music isn’t overbearing, and the chatter is a manageable volume so far, so the bartender leaning that far into Jasper’s space instantly sets me off.
I lean into him, too, trailing my hand down his leg, and smirk when he presses into my touch.
“Double whiskey on the rocks,” Jasper says in response to what the blonde woman asked. It shames me that I was too focused on making sure he liked me more that I didn’t hear the question. She glances at me, her eyes catching on where my hand is clearly not on my own body under the table, then purses her lips.
“You?” she asks.
“Whiskey and amaretto, please,” I say, keeping polite despite her disinterest in me as a whole. No one needs me to lose my cool over some bartender that doesn’t even know who my family is, especially when getting out of my family’s business is my top priority. If I’m successful, then it won’t matter when someone doesn’t recognize me. Not to mention, I won’t have a literal get-out-of-jail-free card anymore.
She deposits both drinks in front of us and offers a sultry smile to Jasper. He gives a warm thanks before twisting toward me, his knee brushing my own. That seems to get it through to her that we’re not just friends meeting up for a late nightdrink in the middle of the work week. Her shoulders drop as she walks away, but I focus on Jasper instead of marking her movements anymore. His lips shape around the rim of the glass, his throat moving with the small sip he takes of the alcohol.
I don’t try to play down my scent as it permeates the air around us both. The security guard raises an eyebrow, but Jasper doesn’t seem to notice at all.
Cazzo. Definitely a Beta.
A less confident man—Alpha—might take his lack of response as disinterest. The fluttering of his heartbeat in his throat assures me that it isn’t.
“How long have you been playing with the philharmonic?” I ask after a few minutes.
Jasper’s lips quirk for a moment as he sets his whiskey down.
“This is my third season,” he says, tracing the rim of the tumbler. “Though I’m curious how you know that’s where I play. I intentionally don’t list it in my profile information.”
I smirk and take a sip of my own drink.
“It’s a side effect of working in my family’s business.” My voice is dry, sarcastic even.
Jasper grunts but doesn’t push for more information. He shifts in his seat, leaning closer toward me. Those instincts I detest settle under his subtle movements and his desire for more contact. I shouldn’t be as pleased about that as I am, but I burned “shouldn’t” the first time I saw the life drain from a man’s eyes.
“Do you enjoy it?” Jaspers asks, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Your family’s business?”
The scowl is fast and fierce, and I do nothing to hide it. He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t shy away, so I run my finger along the inside of his knee and luxuriate in the rippling of his throat as he swallows and licks his lips.
“No,” I offer. “It’s something I’ve wanted out of since I understood what it was and what would be expected of me.”
Jasper’s gaze brightens with understanding, and he nods. “I can relate to that.”
The roar of a group of guys celebrating setting a record on one of the pinball machines steals my attention. They clap and cheer and high five each other, and Jasper laughs.
“Do you enjoy playing?” I ask, watching as he takes in the group again.
He offers a shy smile, his cheeks turning rosy. “My friend and I have a monthly date here. Loser pays the drink tab.”
My curiosity piques. Which friend? Are they just friends or something more? Jealousy roars through me, but I force it to heel.
“Which one is your favorite to play?”
His gaze flicks to the back corner, the machines along the back wall mostly shadowed, their neon lights the only illumination.
“The one on the far wall, all the way to the right.”
Tucked behind the wall, then, where I can’t currently see.
It’s like this man wants me to find a dark corner and fuck him until he can’t breathe, can’t walk straight. My body finally overrides my urging, my dick hardening and pressing against the zipper of my slacks. The need to mark him roars up in me, stealing my breath for a heartbeat. I take a sip of the drink still in my hand, using the burn of the alcohol to calm my instincts.
“Want to see who wins?” I ask, squeezing his knee and taking another large sip of the drink.
His eyes light up, and I bask in the simple happiness that making him excited creates in me.
It’s moments like this that make me so resistant to my father’s wishes. How could the Council—full of pretentious, out-of-touch snobs—possibly create by force something as fulfilling as natural attraction?
He starts to grab for his back pocket, presumably to pay for his drink, but I’m quick to shake my head. He relents immediately, sitting back. His eyes are keen, bright, as I pull a larger bill than needed and set it on the bar top. I scoop up my drink and offer my hand to Jasper, forcing the purr to silence at his immediate touch.
“What does the winner get?” he asks, his smile wide. He maneuvers around the growing crowd with ease. I sip the alcohol, marking each small movement he makes—as well as the security guard that subtly follows us across the bar.
“How about a kiss?”