Page 18 of Operation: CuddleDom (The Port Haven Omegaverse #9)

MOXIE SCHEELE

The sound of the aluminum bat was icy and hollow. I leaned over the bar, making sure my cleavage spilled adequately, and rolled the bat with a coy fingertip.

I’ve always found that tits and the threat of violence were enough to short out most male brains, unless they were an alpha, of course. Alphas needed a whole different strategy.

“Say that again,” I pitched my voice low into that sweet spot that would tangle his brain even further.

A bit of drool collected in the corner of his mouth. He watched my lips like a hawk, either imagining what they could do or praying to some unknown god that he had lip-reading skills.

“Come on, puppy. You were so brave just a second ago. You can do it. Say it again.”

He looked around the room. Maybe he was checking for an exit. More likely, he was looking for backup. He was unlikely to find that in the Delta Lounge.

“It’s not a big deal, Moxie,” Becky said. She was one of my newer regulars, recently having found enough courage to sit at the bar with the big kids. Her creamy beta aura blushed peach around the edges—obvious embarrassment.

The beta asshat in front of me ground his teeth and went all red in the face. Helena, my server, edged away from us, knowing she didn’t want to be in the middle of this nonsense.

“Who gave you permission to sit at the bar?” I changed tactics, knowing he was just about to wind himself up good.

“I don’t need your fucking permission,” he managed to get out.

I cocked my head and gave him a slow up-and-down, taking in his limp blonde hair and faded Dynamix T-shirt. It wasn’t retro or vintage. It was just simply old. I just knew that T-shirt had been sitting in the bottom of his closet for at least half my life.

“Oh, pet, I’m happy to serve you drinks, but if you’re going to get all sassy, you need to beg ‘please’ first.”

The alpha in the corner barked a laugh. He held up one of his long, elegant fingers, licked the tip, and marked the point on an imaginary scorecard in the air. I refused to look at him. He was a deadly distraction. His scent of croissants and coffee was distracting enough.

The beta dude-bro did turn, however. White shimmered through his aura.

Technically, betas couldn’t sense auras.

They couldn’t tell if you were alpha, omega, or beta on sight.

But you’d have to be dead not to clock my little book nerd alpha in the corner as an alpha.

Could a beta have that level of confidence?

Sure. But guessing alpha was always the safest course.

He took a breath and turned back to me. I tsk’ed at him and shook my head. “If the next words out of your mouth are not an apology…” The sharp taps of my nail on the aluminum bat finished the sentence for me.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

My lip curled into a fake sugar smile. I’d let that be enough for now. It had already been a really long night.

“Good puppy,” I chided. “Now come on, you’re going to pay your tab and hers, and get the fuck out of my bar.”

“Wha… what?”

“You got to pay your stupid tax, my friend. You don’t walk up into the Delta Lounge and call one of my closest friends a fat bitch for politely saying no thank you to your disgusting invitation.”

Becky squirmed on the barstool. I didn’t enjoy putting her on the spot like this. But when you are a single omega hiding out in a dive bar, you can’t take shit from anyone. Not even some greasy little beta who is looking to get lucky for the price of a lite beer.

He fumbled his wallet open, the grimy chain connecting it to his belt loop clanked dully. He pulled the $20 out, and I snatched another from the open mouth of the duct tape wallet.

“Yo, I only had one drink.” The beta moved to snatch the bill back. I held it high above my head. He’d have to invade my space to get it back.

“Stupid. Tax.” I flicked the bill back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch. While mesmerized, I snatched another bill and slapped it down in front of Becky. “That’s compensation for being a dick.”

Becky chewed her lip, nervous about the blowback.

I knew nothing would happen. I could tell from his aura.

He’d slink on out of here and not come back.

Ever. He had a typical beta aura, dense and close to his skin, and smooth like notebook paper.

No jagged edges, no breaks or leaks. His aura tasted desperate and lonely.

That’s why I served him a Jaggerbomb on his first visit.

The guy made a big production of snapping his denim jacket open and pulling it on, and picking up his cares and woes, all the while muttering under his breath.

He got within feet of the door when the alpha in the corner stood and stretched.

His cashmere sweater rode up to show off a sliver of abs.

I knew he couldn’t feel the alpha’s aura, but I could.

Years of practice kept my knees from shaking and had me resist the urge to back the fuck up.

He looked casual in his tailored dress pants and feather-light sweater I ached to touch.

He held his book in his long fingers, the middle one probing its depths so he wouldn’t lose his place.

His aura was anything but casual. It crackled with menace and pushed out into the room.

Betas couldn’t manipulate their auras, couldn’t feel them in the same way.

But it didn’t matter when an alpha like this had an aura like that.

The beta paused, white flashing through his aura again.

He darted his eyes between me and the alpha before ducking out with his tail between his legs.

The door wailed. It was appropriate. That little hydraulic mechanism that helped the door close on its own had decided it was going to scream bloody murder every time it closed.

The alpha saluted me with his book, sat down, crossed his long legs, and carefully unfurled his book again.

Now Becky, she had a delicious aura. It was creamy and thick, like Irish cream. And static too, like most beta auras; it wasn’t prone to the chaos and volatility of alpha auras or the narcotic sea of an omega.

I pulled a wide fat martini glass from behind me and filled it with ice to chill. I had quite the collection of glassware that rarely got used. Most patrons of the Delta Lounge were the beer and a shot crowd.

“You didn’t have to do that, Moxie,” Becky said, tucking her bangs behind her ear. The $20 bill I slapped down in front of her stared at her like a viper.

“Oh, but I did. This is my place, and you are a friend. No one treats my friends like that.”

“She gets off on it.” Helena said, not picking her head up from her phone.

She didn’t need to know the real reason I stashed baseball a bat behind the bar.

I had considered a shotgun for a while but axed that idea.

First of all, I couldn’t trust Marty, my line cook, to make good choices with deadly weapons.

The kid was sweet, good at his job, best dick that money could buy, but not the brightest crayon in the box.

It didn’t really matter. The threat of a firearm was predictable, which made it ignorable, especially for an amped-up alpha. Pumped full of ego and aura, alphas could see guns as toys and slide into bravado, trusting their instincts to dodge bullets.

But a girl with curves and cleavage stepping up to you with a Louisville Slugger? Now that was unpredictable. To get the upper hand with alphas, you had to disrupt their patterns.

No alpha would ever suspect a little beta going to town on them with a bat.

No alpha would suspect that little beta to be an omega auracle hiding out, and those were cards I needed to keep very close to my chest.

My fingers stilled on the well vodka. Becky deserved top shelf tonight. I stepped back and pulled a bottle of Amabie Vodka and the milk chocolate liqueur from the glass shelves behind me.

I filled a pint glass with ice and two jiggers of vodka and a healthy pull of the liqueur. I stared into the depths of the glass and needed something else. A dash of cream would do it.

I spun the plastic tub of cocoa powder in front of me. Her aura wasn’t bitter enough for cocoa. She lacked depth, the complexity of trauma.

That’s what gave Becky her butter-smooth aura.

I didn’t know if it was the same with other auracles.

I avoided them like, well, like everyone else.

But to me? Auras had color and texture and tastes.

Just like your tongue could tell the difference between heavy cream and oat milk, auras tasted different to me.

Becky didn’t order this drink. They never ordered this drink.

I squeezed my eyes shut before pulling out an envelope of hot chocolate. This was madness. This obsession with making drinks that taste like people’s auras. I tried to go cold turkey once and just ignore the fact that I was a freak who could see auras. That was a fucking disaster.

My brain needed some way to cope with all the extra sensory input, especially considering I had so few outlets. I didn’t even have one single friend I could unburden myself with and spill the tea. Making drinks to match random people’s auras was a crutch.

I popped the shaker on the pint glass and went to town.

No showy flips in the Delta Lounge. This wasn’t a fancy heat hotel where you had to keep the patrons entertained with pretty things.

This was just a dive bar on the way out of town.

I topped off the glass, sprinkled some hot cocoa dust on top, and then I just stared at the thing.

It was missing something. Without looking, I fished out the can of whipped cream from the little fridge under the bar and added a perfect little knot of cream.

Knot.

I shivered at the word dancing through my gray matter. Keep your eyes to yourself Moxie, and just ignore the stupid alpha. I knew I wasn’t putting out enough scent to be noticed. And I knew for damn sure he couldn’t see my aura. But it still felt risky.