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Around us, the bar has reached peak Saturday night energy, with couples leaning in to be heard, singles searching the crowd for a potential hookup, and staff weaving between bodies with practiced grace.
The lights have dimmed further, leaving our corner table in shadow.
Orien’s hand covers mine on the table as the music swells, his thumb moving once across my knuckles, caressing the base of my index finger.
He leans in, his mouth near my ear. “What are you looking for, trouble?”
Heat settles in my stomach. The whiskey, I tell myself. I don’t let myself think about what his thumb is doing.
“Right now?” I ask, voice steady despite the riot of sensation where his skin meets mine. “I’m looking for a good night.”
He gives me his full attention. “That I can give you.”
The simple statement carries more promise than it should, and I find myself caught between the role I’m playing and a genuine response.
I need to regain control of this situation before it spirals any further.
I pull my hand from under his and signal for the check. The bartender acknowledges me, already moving to prepare my tab.
Orien’s fingers graze the back of my neck, skimming under the nape guard, and my whole body goes taut, a current running straight down to my heels. “Leaving so soon?”
“I should,” I say, sliding off my chair on the side opposite from him, and his touch trails from my nape to my shoulder before falling away. “It’s getting late.”
He doesn’t move, studying me with that careful, unhurried attention until my skin goes taut.
I offer him a parting shot. “Besides, you still haven’t told me your name.”
He holds my eyes for a moment that stretches past comfortable. “Orien.”
I repeat it once, as if testing the sound of it. “I’ll see you around, Orien.”
“See you, trouble.”
I head for the register to settle my tab, conscious of Orien’s stare on my back.
Cold air hits my face the moment I step outside, a welcome shock after the bar’s heat. Snowflakes melt on my skin as I leave the Blue Note’s glow behind, my breath clouding beneath the amber streetlights.
The quiet hum of an engine draws my attention.
A dark sedan crawls slowly past the curb instead of continuing through the intersection. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise when I catch the driver watching me through the passenger-side window, and recognition hits.
It’s the Alpha from my first night at the Blue Note.
The one I humiliated in front of the entire lounge.
The dashboard glow illuminates the hard line of his mouth and the ugly hostility in his stare. One hand grips the steering wheel while the other hangs out the open window, cigarette ember burning bright in the dark.
For one tense heartbeat, I think he’s going to pull over to confront me.
But then his mouth twists into an ugly sneer, and the car lurches forward hard enough to spray slush across the curb toward me before disappearing down the street.
Asshole, looking for one last chance to salvage his pride after being publicly shut down by an Omega.
My pace quickens as I continue toward my apartment building, the back of my neck tingling with the lingering sensation of being watched.
By the time I’m inside my apartment and locking the door behind me, my nerves are still wound too tight. I toe off my shoes beside the entryway and pull the clip from my bangs, pushing the Alpha to the back of my mind.
Silence settles over the apartment, broken only by the soft hum of the heater fighting back the winter cold. I’ve kept the space sparse, with plain sheets and a comforter on the single bed, a desk with my laptop, and a small kitchen table with one chair. Nothing personal. Nothing to identify me as Levon Vartanian rather than Lee Esposito.
