Oliver drums his fingers against his mug. He downs what was in there and pours himself another cup, his gaze darting down the hallway before he pours half the sugar container into the porcelain. “You know we need someone at the club, right?”
I frown. “What?”
“Vice & Virtue. We need a floor manager. Someone who can run the room, deal with drunk Alphas, and keep the staff in line without being an asshole about it.” His grin spreads. “Lorenzo’s been doing it on top of everything else, and it’s grinding him into dust. We’ve been searching for months, but every candidate is either too soft to handle the crowd or too aggressive for our regulars.”
None of this makes sense. We fucked yesterday. Well, they took me apart and now… “You’re offering me a job.”
“I’m telling you a job exists. The offering part is Lorenzo’s department.” Oliver glances toward the bedroom again where the shower just kicked on. “But I’m also telling you I watched you handle the energy in that booth last night without flinching,and you’ve got experience managing rooms full of volatile people in high-stress environments.”
“That’s a creative way to describe working at an abusive Omega center.”
“Creative is my middle name. Hendrix is my last. You’ve already got the first one memorized.” He winks, and despite the phone call, the firing, the shame sitting like a stone in my gut, something inside me loosens.
Lorenzo appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing dark slacks and nothing else, a towel draped over his shoulders.
“He got fired,” Oliver says, jerking his thumb at me. “Background check. I told him about the floor manager position.”
Lorenzo’s expression doesn’t shift as he crosses to Oliver, planting a soft kiss on his head before stealing his mug. The Omega lets out a soft grumble, painfully watching Lorenzo dump it into the sink but he doesn’t protest otherwise. A few moments later, Lorenzo is seated beside his Omega, his own mug in hand, his gaze rising to me. “I’m sure Oliver here was on his second cup. What he failed to mention to you is that too much caffeine and someone ends up a little too over the top.”
A chuckle rumbles through my chest. “You mean more than yesterday?” The shift in the conversation gives me a moment to breathe. Oliver just shoots me an impossibly wide smile before leaning into his Beta.
The comfort with which they touch and hold each other makes me jealous but I keep reminding myself last night was fun but that’s all it was. Lorenzo watches me for another beat, sipping from his mug before speaking again. “Can you work nights?”
I blink. “You don’t even know my qualifications.”
“I know you spent last night in a room with two strangers, submitted control of your body to someone you’d just met, and handled a trauma response mid-scene without shutting down.That tells me more about your composure under pressure than a resume.” He takes another sip. “Can you work nights?”
The smart answer would be no. I could finish my coffee, thank them for the hospitality and the orgasm and walk out to my empty apartment, and continue disappearing without inconveniencing anyone. The smart answer is to keep my distance. Distance has kept me alive for two years.
But I find myself saying, “Yeah. I can work nights.”
Oliver’s grin breaks across his face, his eyes nearly disappearing as his cheeks take over. Lorenzo nods once, sets down his mug, and extends a hand. I hesitate for a moment before taking it, the Beta’s thumb running softly across my knuckles.
“Trial period,” he says. “Two weeks. If it works, we talk terms.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Lorenzo’s mouth twitches. “Then Oliver will find another wounded bird, and I’ll go back to managing the floor myself.”
Oliver flicks the glitter towel at him.
5
Lorenzo
I watch Wilson cut off a handsy Alpha at table nine without raising his voice. I’m perched at the bar, reviewing the week’s invoices, my pen pausing against the clipboard as Wilson crosses the floor with a posture I’ve learned makes people part like the Red Sea.
The Alpha’s been nursing his fourth bourbon and running his mouth at one of our waitresses for twenty minutes. Wilson stops at the edge of the table, says something I can’t catch over the music, and the guy’s face flickers through irritation, challenge, reassessment before he settles his tab and slinks out.
The waitress mouths “thank you” at Wilson’s back. He doesn’t see it. He’s already moving to the next crisis, a spilled drink inching toward the dance floor, which he flags for cleanup with a gesture so efficient I would have thought he’s been here forever.
Four days. He’s been here four days.
Oliver materializes at my elbow, smelling like vanilla syrup, the same stuff he always manages to spill on himself when he’s making specialty cocktails. “Did you see that? He didn’t even have to flex. The Alpha just left.” He drops his voice so only I can hear, his hip nudging mine behind the bar. “Lorenzo, he’s incredible.”
“I’m calling him competent,” I say.
“He’s incredible and you know it. Stop being so clinical.”
