13. Plena and Brass Bands
Plena and Brass Bands
Tony
Iwatch on the camera feed when the agents discover Kelya tied up in the closet. The audio is crisp as she cries and wails. They look stunned and horrified. She plays the part well, just as I assumed she would. Their operation is a bust.
Penelope is a real person who they put in danger, not their elusive international omega thief.
Or so I made happen.
They figured it out: Kelya chooses her next city based on the Heat Map app.
I would bet a lot of money that they rigged the map to show this exact location in Puerto Rico as white hot.
That being said, I don’t think Dave was supposed to be the man on the boat.
There was a young agent, Spike Wolfhart—real name—who was supposed to lure her on the app and get her to steal the boat.
She got Dave’s attention instead and threw them off.
They were fighting a lot on if that meant she was or was not their notorious omega thief. She’s lucky as hell.
I haven’t slept since yesterday.
I followed Dave and quickly learned about the scheme, tried to get out of this job, ended up agreeing to bring the girl to the States, and then I had to plan and do everything I could to save her skin.
There’s no way I was letting the FBI take my girl right from underneath me.
It’s not that I didn’t think she could steal the boat or get away with it. I did think there was a high probability of that happening, but then I would lose her. I wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not before I got her scent…no, wait. I’m tired. I meant, not before I finished this job.
I sigh and cringe, pausing the recorded video feed.
My inner alpha completely took over when she was tied up in the closet.
He loved seeing her like that. At his mercy.
Her eyes glistened in the dark as she looked up at me for direction.
She was pissed, yes, but she was also submissive.
Every time I have her body locked up, she relaxes and waits for me to tell her what to do next.
When she is free, she’s not willing to do a damned thing I say. But in my arms…tied up in my cords…
Stop, Tony.
You can’t tame the wild omega.
With my eyes closed, I wonder if I should just keep them this way and maybe sleep a few hours. I slink off to bed, and everything slips away.
When I wake up, it’s dark outside; I’ve sweated through my clothes, and my dick is hard.
“Fuck,” I mutter and check the feed. No activity on the boat, and she’s in her room next door.
I’m still wearing my shoes and socks, having slept in them. My beard is even longer today. I need to take time to shave. I need a haircut, too. And I need to masturbate.
I take off my clothes and get into the shower.
When I close my eyes, I see her face gleaming in the dark of that closet, waiting for me.
I relive kneeling over her and seeking her scent that wasn’t there.
Even before then, I could smell her arousal, but there was no specific scent tying that arousal to Kelya.
It makes me fucking angry. I tried to leave it alone, but there was no way I was leaving without trying to taste her pheromones through her skin, over her scent glands.
Trying, being the optimal word.
In the shower, in my imagination, I can fill in the gap. I hold my dick to the point of pain, pumping it as I imagine the scent I caught in Casablanca. The scent I read on her profile when I took the job.
Roses.
It said roses, but I’ve never known roses like that. Sweetness was the main note. Sweet roses…and maybe watermelon? I’ve never smelled a rose like that. Fuck, I’m close.
I felt her soft curls between my fingers, like passing my hand through warm water. I can hear her sighs as I held her tighter. She already trusted I wouldn’t leave marks on her or inflict pain. Fuck me.
She called me Cypress.
I can’t help but wonder if she likes my scent. I need to know if she does.
I come over the shower wall with a groan. It shakes me to my core, and my vision goes spotty.
“Fuck me.”
Fucking omegas.
I clean up the shower, step out, and then finally shave before getting into clean clothes.
Kelya is in her room, listening to her music. Still don’t have visuals, but the audio is fine for now. I’m going to cut the video from the boat. I don’t have any more need for it, and it takes up a lot of server space.
I open up a can of Coke. I’d left the other five in her room.
I worry about her.
I hardly see her eat. There’s nothing in her trash. Does she drink enough water? Omegas should have lots of blankets and pillows. Soft things. Her bed has never looked slept in. Her hat she wore the other day wasn’t in her room either.
There’s a thought there. There’s a worry. Omegas…omegas don’t act like that.
Not because of cultural expectations, but biological behaviors and needs. I can’t help but imagine that there’s something deeply wrong.
The music cuts off, and she’s out the door. I scramble for my shoes and wallet, then follow her out into the street.
She’s wearing a skirt that flows around her, stopping at her knees. Red. She has a matching red top that looks like a band around her breasts. Her tan skin is beautiful against the color.
She’s wearing sunglasses, even though the sun is setting. I’m wearing my regular glasses. I have poor eyesight, unfortunately, which is common among bloodhounds. If there were a fire in a building, I’d probably need to grab my glasses before running out of it, otherwise I might not make it.
They are transition lenses, though.
She checks her phone a few times, obviously with a destination in mind. Where are we going tonight, Sweet Rosette?
It’s probably not good to be out after the FBI found her in a closet on their boat earlier today, but she’s gonna do what she’s gonna do. Even if it’s frustrating as hell.
We wind through the active, crowded streets, and just before the sun finally falls, we come to a large courtyard. It was a parking lot, but the cars have been moved, and it’s been blocked off for all the people who are dancing.
It’s a big salsa dance street party. There’s a $10 charge to enter, and inside are food trucks, but for the most part, people are dancing underneath cafe lights strung overhead. They’re packed inside, sweating in the June heat, and the music overtakes everything. Their energy fogs my senses.
A brass band performs on a large stage absolutely crowded with drummers, musicians, and plena dancers. I’m trying not to get distracted by them, but it’s so engaging, so loud.
Just how she likes.
I pay my cover and then find a nice spot against one of the buildings to watch her.
I pull out my lighter to flip it around and turn it on, fidgeting with the thing.
It’s just your standard zippo, but my partner Matty had a pattern laser etched on it.
Cypress leaves. It was a gift when we started Bloodhound Investigations.
Opening the lid makes a metallic whoosh, followed by a satisfying cling that’s pleasant to hear. Fiddling with it helps me focus.
Kelya makes friends easily. She’s joined a small group of tourists as they stand in line for mofongo. Their bright tropical patterned shirts and sunburnt noses give them away.
Thank god the girl will get some carbs, I think as she looks over the menu.
There are three men and two women, and now Kelya.
The spare man looks very pleased that he may have a partner.
He’s shy, and she looks happy about it. She gets her food, and they snag a picnic table as people leave.
She has a small plate of rice. This fucking girl.
I go to a food truck no one is at and buy a can of Coke; then, as I pass by her, I set it next to her plate without anyone realizing.
She laughs when she sees it, then stops when she smells the air.
That’s right, Sweet Rosette, it’s your friend Cypress.
She shakes her head and, still smiling, opens the can, then scans the area.
Her eyes go right past me twice. I watch her like a fucking hawk as she eats only small bites of her rice.
If she were mine, I would make sure she ate.
Maybe she only likes to eat in private. Maybe she prefers cold food.
I haven’t been following her long enough to know.
She finishes her Coke, and they clean up, then head into the crowd to dance. It’s completely dark now. She’s short, and the crowd is riotous, so I have to get closer to keep my eyes on her.
I spin the lighter about, press the striker, then close the top, snuffing out the flame, and pocket it.
It’s Latin dancing, and everyone seems very horny, undulating and gyrating.
The screaming trumpets sound, and Afro drums beat over the crowd.
As I move around the dance floor, it’s impossible not to stand out if I’m not dancing.
The problem is I don’t actually know how.
A woman takes my arms, sliding her hands down to mine, and moves her body in and out of my hold.
She moves my hands to tell me to do something, but I don’t know what.
She gives up and dances away from me, and when I look back up, I’ve lost sight of my wily omega.
Fuck.
I maneuver through the crowd, the drum beats growing louder and faster, my heart pumping along with them, increasing in speed as I desperately seek my omega. Another woman grabs at me. I pull back, not wanting to dance with a stranger again, until I realize it’s Kelya who’s touching me.
“Kelya.”
“You say my name so reverently, did you know that?” I’m not sure I hear her right. She smiles with her entire face, pink shining from under freckles, colored by the dancing and the humid heat. There’s a sheen of sweat on her long neck that becomes very distracting.
“What’re you doing?”
She’s touching my forearms and picking at my waist. I slap her hands away, and she just does it again. Everything is happening at once, making it nearly impossible to hear, so she stands on her tippy toes to talk into my ear. I bend down to help her close the distance.
“I’m trying to dance with you! We are at a dance party!”