Chapter 2
My phone's ping drags me from my dream.
Prick.
I grunt in annoyance as I scrub the sleep from my eyes and stare at my email inbox, mentally berating past me for forgetting to put my phone on silent.
Past me is a lazy asshole.
I frown angrily at the sunlight that peeps through my shutters, then scrub my hand through my hair. I sigh and grab my phone off my bedside table.
Clarke
We've got a booking on the third Tuesday in April in LA. Big one.
5.18am
I think we should head over early. Thinking 2 Saturdays in advance?
The day after the Sandrington gig finishes?
5.21am
I exhale slowly and crack my neck. It would be good to go home for a bit. Tension that I didn't know I was holding ebbs out of my chest.
I send a thumbs-up, and flop back into my bed.
Mornings used to be easy. As demanding as rowing was, it made mornings weirdly comfortable.
The cool glide along the river, with only the sound of the oars clunking and whispering of the water against the hull of the boat for company.
The quiet purr of my coach's motorboat a respectful distance behind.
The meditative rhythm—blades and core and legs and arms and back, everything humming together as the scull slips across the glass-like surface of the river—square, in, drive two three four, up two flat four, legs two three four.
Nothing to second-guess. Nothing to read into.
The perfect feeling of peace when it all just… worked.
I throw off my comforter, wincing as my lower back twinges—our last client really did a number on it. The sharp tugging is my body's not-so-gentle reminder that I haven't done my stretches yet. I shove on a pair of shorts, and grunt as I stiffly force myself down the hall to the gym.
Clarke is on the treadmill already, loping in easy, even strides, his earbuds in, his singlet and shorts clinging to his muscular form.
His fair skin is flushed pink with exertion and his short dark brown curls cling to his head with perspiration.
He's in the zone. His normally crisp scent of tangy mint is laced with musky sweat.
Shit, that reminds me. I gotta remember to pick up descenter and order some more of that extra-strength scent-neutralizing laundry liquid. And we need a new bottle of Phero-block each, even if I have to bully Sebastian into using the damn nasal spray.
I shudder at the memory of the last time we let Seb get away without it when we were with a client.
The aftertaste is disgusting, but it's never once failed us—I have no idea why they insist on covering the bottle in disclaimers, because I've never heard of it working less than perfectly, other than with pre-existing bonds or for impossibly perfect scent matches.
And we need to stay clear-headed around our clients.
We need to stay focused when they're lost in the fog of heat.
We need to be able to pick up on any little signs that there might be an issue when they can't verbalize their needs, or are so caught up with the pain of heat they ignore everything else.
Clarke doesn't seem to have even registered me coming into the room.
Thank fuck. It's way too early to talk. But at least it isn't James.
If James were in here, he'd be running his hand through his strawberry blond hair, his face all ruddy with concern as he nagged me about my form.
It's way too early for a lecture on how I can't aggravate my injury before a booking.
I ease myself down onto my yoga mat, the combined scents of our pack wafting towards me from around the gym like a Mediterranean herb garden, and lie on my back with my knees in the air, groaning involuntarily as I start to limber up.
Fuck.
I'm so fucking tired of everything.
My back is just starting to get on speaking terms with the rest of my body when something flicks me on the forehead.
"Hey, man. What the fuck—" I scrabble up onto my elbows.
Sebastian's smug face looms over me, his white teeth gleaming in contrast against his burnished bronze skin as his deep petrichor scent wafts through the room.
"You were completely out of it. Clarke's been calling you to come into the kitchen for the last ten minutes."
Along with his scent, Sebastian's usually faint Aussie accent always thickens when he is excited. And right now, he sounds like he's fresh off the plane from Bondi Beach. I scowl, muttering to myself under my breath about pushy, impatient betas and cheeky alpha fuckers as I push myself up.
"Trust me, you want to know what this is." Sebastian throws me a sassy wink, slaps my butt, and saunters off down the hall in front of me, pulling the top half of his brown and gold waves into a compact man-bun.
I pause. There was a twinge in his lip that hints at something he's not saying. But I can feel tension radiating off him as he walks away. He won't open up if I press him.
When I stomp into the kitchen, the barstools are occupied by James and Allen, although James hops off the stool with feigned nonchalance when I enter the room and starts packing away the dishes drying in the rack.
Allen's warm brown eyes crinkle as he snorts and mutters something under his breath, rubbing his thumb over his strong, golden-brown forehead.
I slump onto the now-empty stool. Allen has the news pulled up on his phone, even though his eyes are fixed on Clarke.
Sebastian is dawdling around the kitchen bench, fidgeting with his sun-streaked man-bun, doing a terrible impression of indifference as he tries to listen to Clarke's call.
Clarke is on the phone, still in his damp workout gear, his mint scent crisp with excitement.
He can barely seem to keep the smile off his face.
The longer the call goes on, the more Sebastian vibrates like a kid on Christmas morning who has to wait to open his presents, moving on from retying his hair to fidgeting with a yoghurt pot but not actually eating anything.
James has that overly disinterested expression that he gets when he's pretending he doesn't care about something, while his fingers betray his impatience as they tap on the dishrack as he takes out the clean mugs and his cheeks flush.
Allen looks thoughtful as he sips his espresso and pretends to read the news, his dark brown eyes glaring at his phone screen, but his leg is jiggling, sending wafting plumes of tangy lemon verbena my way.
I raise my eyebrows at Clarke, who holds a finger to his lips.
"… Uh huh… yep, we can make that work… okay. So, you'll send the contract and the NDA through?"
Ah. Whoever's booked us for our April LA gig must be reasonably well known.
"No, that all sounds fine. I'll get our lawyers to review the documentation and get everything squared away today, barring any major issues… yep, we can make that work."
I can feel his excitement vibrating through the bond. We all do; James can barely hide his grin, and even Allen is still a little restless. I can't recall the last client who made any of our pack react like this.
"Yep. That's right, fresh springtime garden, but we always carry descenting spray and deodorizers just in case…
Alright. Thanks so much for your help—Adeline, was it?
Awesome. Yeah, you can call me Clarke. That's all good.
And don't worry about the usual transport fee…
Fantastic. Okay. Looking forward to meeting you on the fifteenth. "
He hangs up the phone and grins.
"Lauren. Fucking. Treloar."
I feel my jaw slacken.
"Are you… are you kidding? Like, actually Lauren Treloar? She booked us?"
He nods like his head is on a spring.
"She really did. That was her PA. I thought it was some weird glitch on the app and Heatseekers had let a false name through, but look at her profile. She's verified. It's really her."
He proudly pulls up the booking request on his phone screen, and presents it to us on the benchtop.
I snatch it up and navigate to the client profile.
I scroll down, and take in the raft of five-star customer ratings.
There's only one that's anything less than perfect—great client but can get a bit nippy, make sure she wears her bite guard—and that's from years ago.
Although there is a gap over the last three years or so.
I scroll back to the top of her client profile.
I blink. The woman—no, the goddess—whose poster hung on my wall next to the rows of medals in my teenage bedroom grins at me.
"Holy shit." I run my hand over my face in disbelief, and pass Clarke back his phone. There was a time, not that long ago, when I would have been over the fucking moon at the prospect.
James' hand darts out and grabs the phone. "Hmmm. Good excuse to go home, I guess. Maybe have some time off first."
I nod. Maybe a break will help me get my head back in the game.
Allen frowns, resting his chin in his hands. "This could make our reputation. If we give her the heat she deserves, a recommendation from her would put us into the realms of the elite packs. But if we get it wrong…"
Clarke leans his elbows on the benchtop and exhales slowly. "Better not fuck it up, then."
My lips pull tight. "Yeah. Did her PA give any specifics?"
Clarke shrugs. "Uh, she can't stand people who aren't forthright.
And we aren't to comment on her accent. And…
um, apparently, we need to be really strict about the bite guard when she's in the thick of things?
But other than that—well, she's had a tough year and needs a pack that will make her feel protected and safe.
Apparently, the last heat support pack she used—and she'd used them for the last three years running—sold… photos…"
Allen looks like he's going to hurl. The man is a walking, talking ethics guide for heat support workers. Even the idea of betraying a client's trust like that is enough to make him puke. James' jaw is set, and his nostrils are flaring. It sits wrong in my chest, too.
Clarke rubs the back of his neck, unconsciously trying to wipe away the discomfort.
"We fly out on the fifth. She's booked the full package—nesting, aftercare, the works.
We need to spend a bit of time back home anyway, and having some R and even if it is another Heatseekers gig, three weeks helping the world's most glamorous omega through her heat—maybe things are looking up.