Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Despite getting through the suite unnoticed, I still find myself tiptoeing down the hallway—completely unsuspicious, wearing my ordinary black rock star wig and disgusting khaki trench coat.
My pack mates are usually the ones who wear combat boots, so I stole a pair of Lennon’s today since we wear the same size.
I traded out my sneakers for hard leather, hoping I don’t ruin the expensive material with what I have planned today.
Because of my own silly disguise, I don’t expect to see Josie looking the way she does when I walk outside.
My vision was to go for something borderline ridiculous, but she actually pulls it all off extremely well.
The long pink wig fits her perfectly, and—I must admit—the expensive long-sleeved jacket completes the look as she stands there with her hands in her pockets, her red lips curved into a small smile.
My heart pumps as I get closer to her. It’s so good to see her face full of joy.
I’ve seen her mood take a dive too much lately, and it feels even worse that I’m not in a position where I can help.
I wish I could make it all better; take all her worries and stresses and sadness and bundle it in a ball so I can throw it in a furnace, but it’s not my job. Not until she lets me.
And today, she’s giving me that.
When she sees me, her smile grows. “You really go all out, Blakely.”
She looks down at my outfit and bursts out laughing. “So, your idea of going incognito is looking like an ordinary serial killer?”
I gasp. “I do not look like a serial killer.”
She can’t contain her joy as she points at me. “You do. Only weirdos wear those kinds of trench coats.”
“No! People in cities wear them. A lot of people in Seattle wore them.”
“But they weren’t trying to cover up their blue mullets.”
My hands go to my wig playfully. “Is it that noticeable? Can you see any of it?”
She shakes her head. “You are a menace, Malaki Blakely.”
My cheeks hurt from smiling, her presence a huge light. My alpha is already starting to feel better in my chest, his awareness peeking over the edges as he hears his omega’s laughter.
“I like to have fun,” I counter just as our van pulls up. “We have a special day planned. I hope you have room for average date activities, considering we’re a couple of nobodies for the day.”
Josie rolls on the balls of her feet, her expression beaming. “You have no fucking idea how amazing that sounds right now.”
“We’re hopping out right here. Everything I have planned is on this block.”
We step out and go into the coffee shop. The place is cute, all chestnut wood with plants covering the walls for a cohesive greenery. Soft folk music plays on the speaker as we walk up to the counter and greet the barista.
“I’d like a lavender refresher, please.” I turn to Josie. “What do you want, Bubbles?”
Her cheeks pinken at the nickname as she looks over the options. “Can I get the dark chocolate mocha with two pumps of marshmallow syrup?”
I hide my smirk behind my hand, my alpha jumping with excitement in my chest.
The lady behind the counter picks up an empty cup and a Sharpie, the nib pausing over the Styrofoam. “And who are they for?”
“I’m Fred,” I say, then point to Josie. “And this is Fizzabelle Jones.”
The barista blinks at me, then turns to Josie. “Fizzabelle?”
My omega doesn’t miss a beat as she raises her chin, proud and confident. “Yes, Fizzabelle. Better than my auntie who got stuck with Yabberina.”
“Huh,” she responds, still skeptical. “Are you two from around here?”
“Just got in from Utah.”
The barista’s mouth parts in an “o” before she says, “Yeah, that explains it.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but Josie has completely turned around, her composure slipping.
We stand to the side as we wait for our drinks, unable to look at each other without laughing. When the barista comes back a moment later, we hurry to get our drinks.
“Come on, Fizzy.”
She snorts loudly as we move outside in a quick getaway.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says when we start walking down the block.
“What? We have such amazing costumes. We had to sell them.”
“Fizzabelle Jones is a wonder,” she agrees, but then points at me. “Were you my husband in that scenario? Because then you’d be Fred Jones.”
“Yes, Fred Jones.”
She snickers as she looks at me. “Like, from Scooby-Doo.”
“Oh fuck.” I wince. “But I would never wear an ascot.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Your style is too alternative chic for that,” she agrees. “I like your style. It’s comfy and simple, but also really showcases your fun personality.”
Something about that recognition causes my heart to skip a beat.
“And it complements your tattoo well.” She takes another sip of her drink and then points to where it is beneath my thin flannel shirt. I can feel the slight brush of her finger on my skin, goosebumps erupting from the softest touch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but they’re orchids, right?”
I swallow roughly, my throat suddenly dry by her rapt attention. “Yeah, they’re black orchids. For Jamie.”
The second the words are out, a smile blossoms over Josie’s face and her eyes light up. “I thought so.”
Just like always, speaking about Jamie makes me beam, my heart swelling in my chest. “Jamie is okay with the bond being temporary and having to re-bond every couple of years, but I wanted something permanent. Something to show him that I’m serious about forever.
No matter how many times the bond marks fade, this will be here to stamp me as his. ”
Josie’s eyes soften as her hand goes to my bicep where the flowers are painted. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Jamie’s rose tattoo on his hip flashes behind my eyelids and I smile to myself.
“I’d like to get more,” I say. “I feel like I’m the type of person that would get more, but I want them to all be meaningful.”
“I know what you mean.”
My eyes trail over her arms, where I know all of her own ink is hiding. “Tell me about yours. Which one is your favorite?”
“Oh gosh, I don’t know where to start.” She bites her lip, looking ahead with a distant look before coming back. “Probably my ‘vicious’ tattoo. We all have them. You’ve probably seen Nicola’s on her neck.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it kind of stares you right in the face. I bet it hurt like a bitch.”
She shrugs, beaming. “She said it was fine. But my other favorite is probably my butterfly. It’s the first one I got.”
“When did you start? Eighteen?”
She nods. “I started getting them because my parents were really traditional. To them, people with tattoos don’t have respectable jobs or the ability to get anywhere in life.
After I started getting them, my parents’ expectations became significantly less of a weight to carry.
I loved feeling free, so I kept getting them.
Now, they have to accept my career because they don’t think I’ll be able to do anything else. ”
My stomach sinks. “Shit. That doesn’t sound like a fun time, Bubbles. I’m sorry they’re like that.”
She waves it off. “It’s okay. They’re my parents.
I was dealt a weird hand, but I never wanted for anything growing up.
The affection they showed me was through giving me stuff, opportunities.
I played tennis, tried competitive swimming, had every tutor in the book.
When they discovered I was good at the piano, everything stopped. That became my focus.”
Despite the nonchalance, there still seems to be a heaviness connected to her relationship with her parents. I scrunch my nose, trying not to poke at it. “You’re better suited for guitar, anyway.”
She looks up at me, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, you think so?”
“I know so.” I take her hand in mine and fiddle over the calluses I find on her fingertips. “And you work hard at it. Only people who are meant for it would go through this much work to get to where you are.”
She feels over my own fingers, feeling the indentions that match hers. “You’re left-handed?”
“I’m ambidextrous, but I prefer my left hand.”
“Oh, that must come in hand-y.”
“You did not just make that pun,” I say with a smile.
She shrugs as she laughs. “It’s true though.”
“It does come in handy. A lot more than you think.”
With my implication hanging in the air, Josie inhales sharply, her face flushing pink once more. “You’re naughty.”
“I’m a gentleman,” I toss back before turning to the door of the building we’ve come up to. “Now, are you ready to have some fun?”
“Bring it on, Fred Jones.”
For the better part of an hour, Josie and I discover that we have something in common.
We are both very competitive.
There’s barely any conversation, just taunts and attempts at psyching each other out as we do the rounds around the arcade.
Air hockey, racecar driving, Pac-Man, Skee-Ball.
For every win I secure, she’s right there behind me, catching up on our tally.
At some point, we stop keeping score and just accept every win and defeat.
It’s the most carefree I’ve felt in a long time.
After we exhaust our options, we order nachos and cheesy chips—pub food that makes me feel at home—and we sit at a high-top, belly laughing as we tell each other stories.
“One time, Lark and I went to this dark hole in a wall in downtown L.A. We thought it was a locally owned arcade, but it was actually a gambling ring with arcade games.”
“No fucking way,” I say, exasperated.
“I know. But we were nineteen. We were dumb.”
“And they let you in? That wasn’t your first clue that something shady was going on?”
She exaggerates her shrug, her shoulder moving high with her hands held high. “No, apparently not! Luckily, we were terrible gamblers. We only owed a few hundred bucks, but we got out of there asap.”
“It’s only funny because it didn’t turn out terrible,” I point out.
She laughs. “It’s even funnier because we had to dissuade Cleo and Nicola from going a few weeks later. They also thought it was a normal arcade.”
I choke on my beer, and she cackles at my reaction. “Wow, you all fell for it.”