Heaven's Ballroom

by Aiden Bates

  I caught him glancing at the suits and ties of the other diners—some male-female couples, but mostly Alphas and Omegas like us. “You could have warned me about the dress code.”

  “Please. They don’t care about that here.” Or at least, they wouldn’t for us—considering I owned the place. “If you’re uncomfortable, I can always let you borrow my jacket.”

  He tugged his t-shirt down a little as a waiter helped him into his chair. “You left it in the car.”

  “Ah, but for you, mi amor—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “—I could always run back out and get it.”

  “No,” Damon said with a sigh, glancing nervously at the cloth napkin on his plate, all the forks and knives. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

  I ordered us two pizzas—a margherita and a quattro formaggi. They arrived with thin, slightly blackened crust from the wood-fire oven and a bottle of white wine.

  “Aren’t you having any?” he asked as I placed my hand over my own wine glass. His had already been poured.

  “You were nervous enough in my car when I was sober,” I pointed out. “I’m hardly going to drive you home wasted on wine.”

  He eyed his glass suspiciously. “Well, I’m hardly going to drink alone.”

  “It’s already been poured.” I nudged his glass toward him, careful not to get my fingerprints on the thin frost that had formed on the bell. “And it’s your birthday, remember? We can switch you to a red, if you don’t like white.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Mr. Garnet, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk.”

  “No, Mr. Bishop,” I corrected him. “I’m trying to get you to enjoy yourself. Try it. It’s a Gavi dei Gavi.”

  He blanched as I pronounced the brand in perfectly accented Italian. Apparently, my showboating wasn’t hitting the mark. But when the wine hit his tongue, I saw the hint of a smile curl on his lips.

  Not impressed by my Italian, but he warmed right up to fine Italian wine.

  “Now, the pizza.” I pulled up a slice of the quattro formaggi, enjoying the way the cheese stretched as I moved it toward his lips.

  “I can feed myself, you know.”

  “I’m sure. But where’s the fun in that?”

  “You and I have different ideas of fun.” Still, he blew gently on the tip of the slice before allowing me to slip it between his lips.

  “Good?” I watched carefully for his reaction.

  “Fuck,” he swore all too loudly, his mouth still full and chewing. He turned red as he realized he’d done it—said a curse word in my fancy restaurant and spoken with his mouth full to boot.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I said with a laugh. As I passed the rest of the slice over to him, our fingertips brushed against each other—coated in the corn meal the chef used to lubricate the pizza while it baked on the stone, warm from the heat of the crust.

  “This is easily the best pizza I’ve ever eaten,” he murmured, careful to finish chewing before he spoke this time.

  “Good. Then you can stop complaining,” I teased.

  His gorgeous blue eyes raised to me, hooded beneath his dark gold lashes. “I’ll consider it, Mr. Garnet.”

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Bishop.” It amused the hell out of me, this formality. Good pizza and fine wine were usually enough to make most Omegas warm to me instantly—but here he was, still so tentative, so reserved.

  It was fucking cute, was what it was. He’d given me my little in. Allowed me to bring him into my world. But he was also making it clear that if I wanted any more of him, I’d have to earn it.

  Luckily, earning things was my entire job description.

  “Do you normally spend your birthdays at the club?” I asked, daring to pry.

  “I normally spend my birthdays locked in my room with my books,” he countered. “Personnel changes at the club interrupted me tonight, though.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Books, huh? “Romance, mysteries, or sci-fi?”

  “Textbooks.” He patted at his lips with his napkin, careful to place it back onto his lap when he was done. “Pretty much all the reading I get done anymore, really.”

  “You study?” I didn’t know why I was impressed—he was clever, after all. He’d already proven that. Dancing must have been more of a means to an end for him than a lifelong passion.

  “Physical therapy.” He cracked the ghost of a grin. “Almost as diligently as you were studying the dancers tonight.”

  “Only one dancer,” I reminded him, my eyes on his fingertips as he nearly brought them to his lips to lick them clean.

  He caught me staring and dove for the napkin again. No dice. “And why was that, Mr. Garnet? You don’t seem like a one-dancer kind of man.”

  “I told you I’d surprise you.” I reached for my glass, taking a sip of the ice-cold water within. “You’re an interesting study. I couldn’t seem to help myself.”

  He blinked. “And what makes me so interesting?”

  I leaned back in my chair. Now, we were getting somewhere. “Maybe it was the way you told off those Alphas when they were first cat-calling you during your dance. Or your choice of music—I’ve always thought Flashdance could’ve been improved with an Omega lead.”

  “Or maybe you’re just a horny old bastard and I looked like the most vulnerable piece of meat on the menu tonight.”

  I laughed. “I already told you—I don’t see you as a piece of meat. And as you told me—you’re not on the menu.”

  “I’m not,” he agreed, going in for another slice.

  “Even now, you’re fascinating to me, Damon,” I admitted, enjoying watching him enjoy.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Why do you find it so hard to believe that an Alpha might just be interested in you for you?”

  At that, he nearly choked on his pizza. I waited for him to compose himself before he answered.

  “I already told you,” he said, mimicking my earlier tone as he repeated my words. “I know your type.”

  Fuck, he was enchanting. The little tricks he used to spin the conversation in circles. The ways he found to make me work for every bite-sized piece of information I drew out of him.

  I didn’t normally consider myself a player. Usually, because this kind of thing wasn’t much of a game. A few clever witticisms from me had most Omegas laughing at everything I said that followed—whether it was actually funny or not. A glance at the cut of my suit normally would’ve had him back at my place within the hour with both our clothes on the floor.

  But Damon wasn’t most Omegas. I’d known it the moment he came out on the stage at the Ballroom earlier, that impossible mix of charisma and vulnerability radiating off him like light off the morning sun. Everything else I’d learned about him after had just sweetened the deal—and now that I’d had a taste of him, it was only in my nature to want more.

  I opened my mouth to ask him about it—exactly what was my type? But before I could, a blast of Billy Joel erupted from his pocket. The sha-la-la-las from “Brown Eyed Girl”.

  “Shit,” he swore softly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he fumbled to fish the phone out. “Sorry—fuck, I didn’t realize I’d left it on so loud.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured him.

  The deep red on his cheeks said otherwise, though. It was a problem for him.

  “What?” he said into the phone, glancing around to see if anyone else in the restaurant was looking at him.

  They were, of course. Just, not for the reason he thought they were. A gorgeous Omega like him out with a handsome fuck like me? They would’ve been crazy not to stare.

  I could hear the response come out of his phone’s speaker, shouted over loud electronic music. “Damon! You coming home soon? Your birthday party is pumping!”

  “Anders.” He said the name like it was a brand new four-letter word, pulling the phone away from his ear with a wince. “Come on, man. I told you, I need to study tonig
ht.”

  “More like you need to get some dick tonight! How’s dinner with what’s-his-nuts? Did he show you his cock yet?”

  I didn’t think Damon could’ve gotten any redder—but in that moment, I regretted not ordering him a merlot. We could’ve compared it to his complexion. Perfect match.

  “Kill the party, Anders. Please. I wasn’t kidding about the studying.”

  “No can do, bud! If you’re not getting dicked down, we’re gonna—oh, fuck. Gotta go—Noah just showed up with a fuckin’ ice luge!”

  Suddenly, the bass pumping from Damon’s phone went dead as his friend hung up the phone.

  “Interesting friends,” I commented, blowing on a slice of pizza before taking a bite.

  “Ugh. Spare me, Garnet.” Damon tucked his phone into his pocket, then settled his elbows on the table so he could bury his face in his hands. “I’ve got midterms tomorrow. There’s no way I’m going to get any studying in at this rate.”

  “You know…” I said slowly, seeing my in. “I’ve got a nice quiet apartment up on Fifth Avenue. Comfy couches. Wi-Fi. And…” I grinned as I offered up the pièce de résistance, “it’s quiet. Perfect for studying.”

  He brightened a little at that, the red on his cheeks fading to pink. “You wouldn’t mind? I mean, normally I wouldn’t ask, but—”

  “I was in college once too,” I said with a laugh, waving over the waiter. “Besides, you’re not asking. I’m offering. We can box up the rest of this to eat back at my place—study snacks.”

  Damon breathed a sigh of relief—but no sooner than he’d exhaled, his eyes narrowed at me again. “Just studying, though. I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of—”

  “Slut?” I suggested. “Mr. Bishop, I’d never.”

  “Good,” he said with a soft smile. His first of the night. “In that case…lead on, Mr. Garnet.”

  I slipped my wallet out of my pocket, passing my black AmEx off to the waiter. “Please, Mr. Bishop. The pleasure’s all mine.”

  6

  Damon

  Wherever I’d thought that night was headed, the last place I expected to end up was at a study session at Nathan Garnet’s place.

  And yet…

  There I was.

  “This is…opulent.” It was the only word for it. As I moved through Nathan’s penthouse, my eyes searched for something that looked even remotely middle class and failed to find it. Oil paintings in gilded frames hung in the entryway. Beautifully painted vases—I was no art student, but I could guess they were Ming—stood like porcelain soldiers on a bookshelf down the hall.

  As I took a few more steps in, it occurred to me that I needed to take off my shoes. I stopped abruptly, the perpetually be-glittered sole of my sneaker hovering precariously over a rug that probably cost more than I made in a year—and Nathan bumped into me from behind, sending my foot plummeting down onto the rug’s pristine surface.

  “Shit, sorry,” we said at the same time.

  I turned to meet his eyes. Somehow, we both ended up laughing at the same time too.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” Nathan assured me. “I’m the clumsy one, apparently.”

  “Clumsy one of what?” I took a step back, stooping down to unlace my shoes before I stepped on anything else pricey or priceless.

  “The beautiful relationships blossoming between us, obviously.” As I wobbled, trying to keep my balance, Nathan reached a hand out to steady me.

  “Obviously,” I scoffed. “I’m just here to study, remember? Nothing more.”

  “Mm. Whatever you say, Mr. Bishop.” He moved around me, not bothering to remove his own shoes as he headed out to the kitchen portion of the open floor plan just beyond the entryway. “What’re you drinking tonight? I’ve got some especially good Mezcal around here somewhere…”

  “How do you know I like Mezcal?” I blurted out before I realized how I really should have answered. Quickly, I added. “Not that I’m drinking. That sip of wine at dinner was enough.”

  Over the kitchen island, Nathan grinned. “I did my research, of course.” Popping open the fridge, he continued, “How about a La Croix with some ice and bitters, then? I’ve got some fresh mint in here I could muddle it with. Tastes like a cocktail, but it’ll help you keep your head. Or…hmm. Tea? ”

  La Croix with ice and bitters. God, even the refreshments he offered his guests were too bourgeois for me to handle.

  “Tea would be nice, I guess.” It was what my Omega father offered guests back home—iced in the summer, hot in the winter. And either way, sweet enough to rot your teeth out.

  “Tea it is. Chamomile or chai?”

  I laughed as he popped open the kettle and filled it up at the sink. Didn’t he have anything normal in all those kitchen cabinets of his? “Black, if you’ve got it.”

  “Mm. Back to no fun again, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Studying isn’t meant to be fun, Mr. Garnet.” I padded delicately across the floor into the living room. White couches—for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t going to be able to do anything in this place without worrying about ruining it. “Besides, you seem like you have enough fun for both of us.”

  “I am the fun one,” he mused.

  “In this—how did you put it? Blossoming relationship?”

  “In general. But I’m glad you’re finally warming up to the idea.”

  I eyed the couch a final time, then gave up and collapsed into it with my book bag. If Nathan was rich enough—or crazy enough—to buy white couches, then he was rich or crazy enough to replace them when the poverty that was intertwined in my DNA inevitably ruined them.

  “What’s the subject tonight?” Nathan called out over the bubbling kettle with what must have been faux interest.

  I let out a little groan as I hauled the textbook out of my bag. “Anatomy.” I glanced up at him, seeing the shit-eating grin spreading across his lips, and stopped him before he could start. “Not mine and not yours, might I add.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

  The book fell open on my lap, nearly every line on its pages highlighted. “Trust me. I can.”

  To Nathan’s credit, after that he mostly left me to my own devices. I’d been expecting another clever ploy to get me into bed with him—throwing some wood into the massive fireplace that adorned one of the living room walls so I’d be tempted to take my shirt off, maybe, or slipping a little whiskey into my tea. To my surprise, however, when the tea arrived it was only doctored up with milk and sugar—organic and GMO-free, I was sure, but delicious nonetheless.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” Nathan said after handing off the mug. “I’m going to tackle some work of my own—but I’ll do it quietly in my office. Just down the hall.” He pointed me in the right direction. “Don’t be afraid to interrupt.”

  With that, he disappeared just like he said. It was strange, being in such a fancy apartment all on my own—strange, but not unwelcome. The quiet got to me at first. Living with Anders in Riley’s old place didn’t exactly provide me with a lot of silence very often. But as I dove into my studies, for the first time in a long time I was finally able to focus. The couch was comfy, the tea was hot, and bodies in the diagrams on the pages of my textbook were technical and featureless enough that I didn’t have to worry about getting turned on by surprise dick pics or handsomely sculpted chests.

  I lost myself in the little black lines and attached labels of the muscle groups I was memorizing. The deltoid. The trapezius. The levator scapulae and the supraspinatus. One hand traced the diagram’s various connective tissues while the other scribbled away at my notes as I came up with mnemonic devices, clever rhymes and silly acronyms to lodge into my brain until tomorrow morning when I had to sit down and prove to my professor that I was good for something other than taking my clothes off for money.

  “Left-handed, huh?” Nathan reappeared from his office suddenly, what must have been at least a few hours later. I hadn’t heard him coming—the a
coustics of his apartment were too perfect to even make footsteps carry, and his wood floors were too expensive to creak. “I didn’t notice earlier.”

  “You wouldn’t have,” I said, straightening my posture and reaching back to rub my own levator scapulae. “It’s hard to tell when you’re eating pizza.”

  He held a hand up, wiggling his fingers. On his other hand, he had a tray balanced. “I’m a leftie too. Guess we were meant to be.”

  “Keep guessing,” I said with a little laugh. “What’s on the tray?”

  “Charcuterie. You didn’t eat that much at dinner. Thought you might like a little snack.” He placed the tray down on the coffee table in front of me. It was laden with thinly sliced meats, a soft wheel of brie, bread and crackers and grapes and olives.

  “You know, charcuterie is just supposed to be a meat spread, right?” I fought back a smile as I realized I knew something that the illustrious Mr. Garnet didn’t.

  But of course, when Nathan saw an opening, he went for it.

  “I’ll spread your meat,” he said, that shit-eating grin I’d fended off earlier finally forming fully on his lips as he sank down onto the couch next to me. But as raunchy as his comment was, his shoulders were relaxed and his gaze seemed more focused on what I was reading than my body. “How’s the studying going?”

  “Better than I expected. Your apartment is living up to all the hype.”

  He leaned over my shoulder to peer at my textbook. As I felt the warmth of his exhale pool over my collarbone, I found myself holding my own breath.

  “Complex stuff,” he commented idly, popping a grape in his mouth.

  “Not really. Just lots of memorization.”

  “Yeah?” Suddenly, his eyes lit up like a traffic light. Green means go. “Teach me, then.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  He rose abruptly, popping the first two buttons of his shirt open then reaching behind his back to pull it over his head. “Show me.”

  My mouth went dry. Sure, I went to the gym, but judging by Nathan’s six-pack, he lived there. The muscles of his chest rose and fell like the city skyline, a thick smattering of dark hair curling across them that I was tempted to reach up and run my fingers through.