I put the bowl down on the edge of my desk. Before I do, I grab a sheet of computer paper to serve as a coaster. I hate it when there’s anything sticky, especially in my office.
The right monitor is more concerning. All I have is a first name, a phone number, and a picture, but she has no social media profiles. Not that I can find. I’m not a black hat hacker or anything, but I’m damn good at shit like this. I cannot believe an omega in this day and age has no social media footprint. Her image doesn’t come up anywhere. No name or phone number seems to be associated with any account on any site. There’s nothing.
Maybe she’s mastered anonymity and has effectively hidden her footprint. Possible. I’ve done it. Well, mostly. A few articles of Pierce’s short-lived MMA career will still surface. But that’s it. We all have sock puppet accounts designed specifically so that Pierce and I can’t be found and Beckett can have a relatively normal social media experience, leaving his official profiles to his agents to manage. I don’t think she’s good enough to accomplish that. And she doesn’t strike me as the anti-tech “go analogue or go home” type either.
I spin in a circle with my head back. None of these are red flags by themselves. An omega could have no social footprint. An omega could have desperate, cheesy dating profiles. An omega could have a Mint Mobile phone because she’s broke, and they were offering a good deal.
So who is Ash? Is she an omega down on her luck? A puck bunny? A gold digger?
That’s probably my biggest concern. We’ve all been pretty ruthless in choosing who we date, looking out for people who want to get close to one of us to get close to Beckett and his stardom. That’s not the vibe I’m picking up here. Not entirely.
There’s something I just can’t put my finger on yet. There’s something else about Ash, despite her beauty and her fucking delicious scent. Despite the fact that I’m suddenly jealous of Beckett. He didn’t tell me, but I know they had sex after that date.
And that’s why I’m up at three o’clock in the morning, scarfing Lucky Charms and creeping on a poor little omega.
The second I let myself close my eyes, I’ll be picturing them. Us. Watching her part her lips for Beckett. Holding her as she comes again and again and again. And then the best part. Putting her in the bath. Washing her hair. Massaging her shoulders. Soothing her. And then carrying her to her nest with all the pillows and blankets I picked out. Everything soft on her skin. Warm, even though heat gets too hot. Wrapping her up. Feeling her against me. Safe where nothing bad ever happens.
Pierce decided a long time ago our life was too uncertain and complicated for an omega. He’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave me feeling empty and washed out.
I close all my tabs, clear the cache, and reboot. I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. The house is dead silent, but I pause in the hallway anyway, staring at Beckett’s closed door. He’s still mad at us. He probably will be for a long time, until Pierce gets his head out of his ass and we figure out what the fuck we’re supposed to do now.
I could crawl in next to Beckett, anyway. He wouldn’t kick me out. But I don’t want to push it. Not tonight. So I go back to my own room, dig under my own blankets, and try to suffocate the ache in my chest.
Chapter twenty-one
LIAM
WhythefuckdidI fall in love with a hockey player?
I hate the goddamn cold. I hated Florida too, but I’d take that swamp-ass heat over bone-deep cold any day. Nashville’s not that bad, not like Detroit. I thought I was going to die during Beckett’s rookie season.
It’s forty-eight degrees. I know it’s not objectively cold. But that doesn’t keep me from cursing myself over choosing the wool peacoat instead of my Canada Goose parka.
I pull up the collar of the coat as the blacked-out SUV pulls into the gym’s parking lot. I feel like a cartoon character, lurking in the back alley where all crime in the city is done.
He slides in next to me, leaving one empty space between us. The passenger window rolls down, and Enzo steps out with a cigarette already between his lips. He pinches it between thumb and index finger.
“How you doing?” he asks, taking another drag. “Didn’t think we’d hear back from you. Good to know you’re considering our opportunity.”
This has bad life choices written all over it. “Let’s call it a trial run.”
“You come highly recommended.”
“I don’t know about that.”
I really don’t. I have no idea who’s been talking to Enzo Conti, one of the most mobbed-up guys in Nashville. You wouldn’t think Nashville has a mob presence, what with country music and rednecks running the show. I guess the mob is everywhere, like a pizza franchise. I have no idea how the fuck they figured out who I was.
“You said you’d give more details face to face.”
“Right, right. So, we got a little situation, you see.” Enzo is just shy of the New York gangster stereotype. “We got a laundromat and a car wash. They’re important assets. But the nature of the business is changing. Moving more towards digital, away from cash.”
I raise my eyebrow.
“We want to modernize. Credit cards, customer service chatbots, membership clubs. I like my gadgets. But it’s harder to massage the numbers when the machines keep all the receipts.”
“Whoa, dude.” I throw my hands up. “If you’re looking for someone to commit credit card fraud, that’s not me. I know I can get numbers off the dark web, but I am not an expert in that.”
Enzo waves off the concern. “We know. That’s not your lane. If we wanted it, we got people for that.”
