Conflict Of Interest
~NASH~
"I'm gonna meet you at the bar later," I say into my phone, my voice echoing slightly in the empty parking garage. "Picked up a quick inquiry for my lawyer services at some media group place, so I'm checking in with the head first."
Theo's response is immediate, his tone flat in that way that means he's having a rough day. "Cool. I'll head there first."
I can't help but smirk, leaning against my truck—a '67 Chevy C10 that I restored myself, all matte black and chrome with an engine that purrs like a goddamn dream. The metal is cold against my hip even through my jeans. "Don't go getting pulled into some random shit like last time. You know, when you ended up bull riding half drunk and actually won the whole fucking competition?"
There's a pause, then Theo's dry-as-desert response: "And had the biggest migraine ever. Never fucking again."
I chuckle, the sound rough in my throat. "At least try to be a bit cheery. I know this season is rough on us."
That's an understatement. November through January is hell for all three of us. Grayson gets lost in his head, his seasonal depression hitting like a freight train. He'll spend days on the ranch, avoiding everyone, just him and the horses and the weight of his own thoughts. Claims he's working, but I know he's just hiding from the darkness that creeps in when the days get short.
Theo's nightmares get worse. The lack of sunlight makes the PTSD harder to manage. I'll find him at three in the morning, baking bread with his jaw clenched tight and his hands shaking. He never talks about it. Just kneads dough until his knuckles are white and the sun finally comes up.
And me? I just get mean. Meaner than usual, anyway. Short-tempered and restless and looking for fights that don't exist. I throw myself into work—the harder and more physical, the better. Anything to burn off the restless energy that makes me want to punch walls and drive too fast on empty roads.
Theo huffs out a breath. "That's why alcohol exists. But I'll go to the range and get some shots in beforehand. Let some steam out."
"Sounds good," I say, already pushing off the truck and heading toward the building entrance. "Don't shoot anything you'll regret."
"No promises."
I hang up before he can elaborate on that concerning statement, sliding my phone into my jacket pocket as I approach the glass doors of the building.
This better be quick. I've got a '59 Aston Martin DB4 sitting in my garage that needs my attention more than whatever legal bullshit this media company needs sorted out.
The building lobby is exactly what I expected—sterile, professional, smelling like expensive carpet cleaner and that weird air freshener they use in corporate spaces. Everythingis glass and chrome and uncomfortable-looking furniture that nobody actually sits on. There's a receptionist who barely glances up when I walk past, too focused on her computer screen to care about another suit walking through.
Not that I'm wearing a suit. Black jeans, black boots, leather jacket over a dark grey henley. The closest I get to professional is making sure there's no motor oil visible on my hands.
I've been focused on restoration work lately. Got a commission from some collector three states over who heard about my "unique skill with antique models" from a viral video. Some influencer I restored a '63 McLaren M6GT for couldn't shut up about it, posted the whole process to his four million followers, claiming he was on "cloud eleven instead of nine" because of my work.
Divine. That's what he called it. Divine restoration work. Like I'm some kind of artist instead of a mechanic with steady hands and an obsessive attention to detail.
But the video brought in business. Good business. The kind that pays well enough that I can pick and choose projects instead of taking every oil change and brake job that walks through the garage door.
The Aston Martin is a beauty—needed a full engine rebuild, custom fabrication for parts that don't exist anymore, paint correction that's more art than mechanics. I was in the middle of sourcing a replacement distributor cap when the call came in about this lawyer consultation.
Quick inquiry, they said. Won't take long, they said. Better fucking not.
I jab the elevator button harder than necessary, watching the numbers tick down. My reflection stares back at me from the polished steel doors—dark hair that's too long because I keep forgetting to get it cut, the scar through my eyebrow from abar fight three years ago, the perpetual scowl that Grayson says makes me look "unapproachable."
Good. Unapproachable means people leave me alone.
The elevator dings. Second floor. The doors slide open, and I step forward, already pulling out my phone to check the time?—
Someone crashes into me.
Hard.
Papers go flying. A purse slips off a shoulder. And the person—small, soft, definitely an Omega based on the scent alone—starts to fall.
My arm moves on instinct, hooking around a slim waist and pulling her against my chest before she can hit the ground. The momentum carries us both backward until my shoulders hit the elevator wall, and suddenly I'm holding an armful of Omega who smells like?—
Fuck.
