"El… Elwin." I almost let my real name slip.
The stocky alpha disappears for a moment, then comes back.
"All right, you can stay. Come on, let’s unload the boxes together."
Okay. I am honestly surprised. It went shockingly fast. I walk with him toward the semi truck, where all kinds of product packages are being unloaded with a forklift.
Bush handles the forklift, obviously, but then it is time to sort everything onto the warehouse shelves, and that is where I help.
I spend close to two hours working with this guy. The job is pretty hard, but with my physical conditioning I manage just fine. What I do notice, though, are Bush’s very attentive looks, the way his eyes keep tracking me.
At some point, we end up alone behind a large container, and suddenly Bush speaks.
"You know, it’s interesting that a guy like you is looking for warehouse work. With your face and body, you could make a lot more money somewhere else," he says, narrowing his eyes slightly.
I swallow, because I immediately suspect what he is implying, but just to be sure, I ask, "What exactly do you mean?"
"That depends on how open you’d be to some additional services," he says, and suddenly I feel his hand drop onto my bicep, as if he is about to pull me into some kind of side hug. I yank myself out of his grip instantly.
"What the fuck—"
"Hey! Don’t be so sensitive. I’m serious. You’re really pretty. And those abs of yours, I saw the washboard you’re rocking when you were stacking boxes on the higher shelves. I know people who like fit guys like you."
"I’m not interested," I growl, taking a step back. This is getting bad, fast. "Actually, I’d like to get paid for those two hours of work now," I add, gritting my teeth.
Bush bursts out laughing.
"Are you out of your mind? You really think I went to the manager about you? I just waited behind the truck for a bit. We don’t hire people off the books here. This is a major hardware chain. But…" he grins, "I could give you some cash in exchange for a nice blowjob."
"You bastard! You said I’d get paid for helping in the warehouse—"
"And you still can help the warehouse… worker with a few minutes of pleasure."
A violent wave of rage surges through me. I am already lifting my hand, ready to knock this asshole out, when it hits me that I have to stay low key. There are cameras everywhere. I do not need the cops on my back or any extra trouble.
So that’s it. The bastard straight up played me and got himself a free laborer.
Swearing at him in Sicilian, "Minchia! Chi porcu schifusu!"(Fuck, that filthy pig!)I storm out of the warehouse, furious, exhausted, and starving.
I reach the neighboring lot and sit down on the curb of a nearby parking area. Still fuming, I eat the rest of the food I bought yesterday. The work burned through everything I had in my stomach, and I am painfully hungry.
Yeah, no point pretending otherwise. I do not know life on the outside, and I got played by this jerk. Watching TV shows isn’t a good source of knowledge.
My entire life, I lived with Anzo, except for one short period that changed a lot for me, because it showed me a different family dynamic.
When I was sixteen, I was sent to my great-uncle Alberto because I was at risk forMusth, an unstable state teen alphas can develop without the steadying presence of an adult alpha. Anzo was a beta, so I ended up with Alberto.
That year is the one I remember as the best. Alberto and his husband, Darien, were amazing, kind, and caring. I received more love from them than from anyone else, especially since I barely remember my parents anyway.
Still, even that year was sheltered in a closed estate with staff and private tutors. No social life, no friends my age, no real contact with the outside world.
So here I am now, completely green, and it sinks in, leaving me low.
Yet something about that asshole Bush’s words sticks with me.
Maybe I could try finding a job that at least partially relies on looks, because that is one thing I do have. I had to live through being called a ‘pretty boy’ enough; it is time to put it to use.
Could my looks help if I worked at a bar? But I don’t know anything about that. I’d never be able to handle a register without proper training.
