Clarke
We've got a booking on the third Tuesday in April in LA. Big one.
5.18am
I think we should head over early. Thinking 2 Saturdays in advance?
The day after the Sandrington gig finishes?
5.21am
I exhale slowly and crack my neck. Itwouldbe good to go home for a bit. Tension that I didn't know I was holding ebbs out of my chest.
I send a thumbs-up, and flop back into my bed.
Mornings used to be easy. As demanding as rowing was, it made mornings weirdly comfortable. The cool glide along the river, with only the sound of the oars clunking and whispering of the water against the hull of the boat for company. The quiet purr of my coach's motorboat a respectful distance behind. Themeditative rhythm—blades and core and legs and arms and back, everything humming together as the scull slips across the glass-like surface of the river—square, in, drive two three four, up two flat four, legs two three four.
Nothing to second-guess. Nothing to read into.
The perfect feeling of peace when it all just… worked.
I throw off my comforter, wincing as my lower back twinges—our last client really did a number on it. The sharp tugging is my body's not-so-gentle reminder that I haven't done my stretches yet. I shove on a pair of shorts, and grunt as I stiffly force myself down the hall to the gym.
Clarke is on the treadmill already, loping in easy, even strides, his earbuds in, his singlet and shorts clinging to his muscular form. His fair skin is flushed pink with exertion and his short dark brown curls cling to his head with perspiration. He's in the zone. His normally crisp scent of tangy mint is laced with musky sweat.
Shit, that reminds me. I gotta remember to pick up descenter and order some more of that extra-strength scent-neutralizing laundry liquid. And we need a new bottle of Phero-block each, even if I have to bully Sebastian into using the damn nasal spray.
I shudder at the memory of the last time we let Seb get away without it when we were with a client. The aftertaste is disgusting, but it's never once failed us—I have no idea why they insist on covering the bottle in disclaimers, because I've never heard of it working less than perfectly, other than with pre-existing bonds or for impossibly perfect scent matches. And we need to stay clear-headed around our clients. We need to stay focused when they're lost in the fog of heat. We need to be able to pick up on any little signs that there might be an issue when they can't verbalize their needs, or are so caught up with the pain of heat they ignore everything else.
Clarke doesn't seem to have even registered me coming into the room. Thank fuck. It's way too early to talk. But at least it isn't James. If James were in here, he'd be running his hand through his strawberry blond hair, his face all ruddy with concern as he nagged me about my form. It's way too early for a lecture on how I can't aggravate my injury before a booking.
I ease myself down onto my yoga mat, the combined scents of our pack wafting towards me from around the gym like a Mediterranean herb garden, and lie on my back with my knees in the air, groaning involuntarily as I start to limber up.
Fuck.
I'm sofuckingtired of everything.
My back is just starting to get on speaking terms with the rest of my body when something flicks me on the forehead.
"Hey, man. What the fuck—" I scrabble up onto my elbows.
Sebastian's smug face looms over me, his white teeth gleaming in contrast against his burnished bronze skin as his deep petrichor scent wafts through the room.
"You were completely out of it. Clarke's been calling you to come into the kitchen for the last ten minutes."
Along with his scent, Sebastian's usually faint Aussie accent always thickens when he is excited. And right now, he sounds like he's fresh off the plane from Bondi Beach. I scowl, muttering to myself under my breath about pushy, impatient betas and cheeky alpha fuckers as I push myself up.
"Trust me, you want to know what this is." Sebastian throws me a sassy wink, slaps my butt, and saunters off down the hall in front of me, pulling the top half of his brown and gold waves into a compact man-bun.
I pause. There was a twinge in his lip that hints at something he's not saying. But I can feel tension radiating off him as he walks away. He won't open up if I press him.
When I stomp into the kitchen, the barstools are occupied by James and Allen, although James hops off the stool with feigned nonchalance when I enter the room and starts packing away the dishes drying in the rack. Allen's warm brown eyes crinkle as he snorts and mutters something under his breath, rubbing his thumb over his strong, golden-brown forehead. I slump onto the now-empty stool. Allen has the news pulled up on his phone, even though his eyes are fixed on Clarke. Sebastian is dawdling around the kitchen bench, fidgeting with his sun-streaked man-bun, doing a terrible impression of indifference as he tries to listen to Clarke's call. Clarke is on the phone, still in his damp workout gear, his mint scent crisp with excitement. He can barely seem to keep the smile off his face.
The longer the call goes on, the more Sebastian vibrates like a kid on Christmas morning who has to wait to open his presents, moving on from retying his hair to fidgeting with a yoghurt pot but not actually eating anything. James has that overly disinterested expression that he gets when he's pretending he doesn't care about something, while his fingers betray his impatience as they tap on the dishrack as he takes out the clean mugs and his cheeks flush. Allen looks thoughtful as he sips his espresso and pretends to read the news, his dark brown eyes glaring at his phone screen, but his leg is jiggling, sending wafting plumes of tangy lemon verbena my way.
I raise my eyebrows at Clarke, who holds a finger to his lips.
"… Uh huh… yep, we can make that work… okay. So, you'll send the contract and the NDA through?"
