Page 7

Chapter 7

Kobe

Rain is pouring down when we step out onto the loading dock. There was no warning of it before, but now the air smells rich with it.

Apollo and I sit next to each other. Instead of reaching for a smoke, he presents me with his lightly parted lips. I can’t help but stare at them and remember his ruined face a few moments ago when I found him by the toilet. Banishing any strange thoughts, I place the cigarette in his mouth and light it.

I still feel such pure rage at the thought of that woman complaining so flippantly while he crumbled there alone, hurt. I felt that same rage when I was younger and got into all those pointless fights, fueled by mindless anger I could never satisfy.

“I don’t know why I reacted this way,” Apollo says, pulling me back to reality. Blinking sharply, I watch him stare at the cigarette in his hand, eyes focused somewhere in the distance. His voice is frail, like it will start trembling if he speaks any louder. “I guess…it’s supposed to be my heat soon. I get weird before it. All…fucking emotional. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get a grip on the…” He trails off, trying to find the words before giving up and drawing in a puff.

“I know what you mean,” I say, sad that it’s a fact we can both relate to. “I used to become weirdly paranoid and sensitive right before my heat. A strange state of mind at the edge of being manageable yet impossible to grasp objectively. Though, I don’t get it much anymore. My everything is a bit messed up and muted because I’ve been taking the suppressants for a while,” I admit.

He glances at me with interest. “It’s not healthy, you know?”

I chuckle. “I take the highest possible dose I can without risking any major long-term health consequences. At least according to my doctor.”

“I suppose it’s good. Being an omega, especially in a job like this, surrounded by alphas…anything can happen.” His tone tampers at the end and his gaze escapes me, telling me that he maybe regrets wording it like that. Either way, he isn’t wrong. Having to even think about such things is messed up, but real.

“Yeah…”

I’ve been lucky to not experience any of that. Apollo probably can’t say the same.

The thought makes me shiver, so I try to steer my mind and the conversation in a different direction. “Do you…need me to get anything for you? You know, considering the risks with knotting and the efficiency of the contraceptives when it comes to that and all,” I mumble anxiously, hoping it I’m not overstepping.

Apollo snorts. He tilts his head to the side to hide a smile on his face.

“Sweet of you to ask, but I don’t have to about things like that. It’s been made sure of,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match his expression. In response to my confused frown, he lifts his sheer top and points at the barely noticeable scar running right above the line of his lacy underwear.

I feel the heavy lump in my throat once it hits me.

Oh .

My insides twist painfully. Before I can think, words come out of my mouth. “Was that something you wanted to have done?”

For a second—the same second I need to realize how wholly invasive and fucked the question I just blurted out might have been—something appears in Apollo’s eyes. It’s gone as quickly, replaced by his melancholic, fake smile. He lets the fabric fall back over his flat belly and rests against his knees to take another inhale of the cigarette.

I shouldn’t have asked if it was forced on him. Fuck.

As I stumble over my own thoughts while trying to backtrack or fix it somehow, I notice Apollo’s quivers. He’s been sitting here in the cold with nothing but the revealing, light excuse of clothes he wears inside, and he must be all sweaty from what just happened.

“Here,” I blurt, quickly taking my brown flight jacket off and putting it over his shoulders.

Instead of gratitude, Apollo responds with a disgruntled snort. Still, he clearly welcomes the cover because he shifts under it and hunches, holding it closer to his neck. Hesitantly, I sit next to him. I know he hates me pitying him. I can tell he’s the type of proud person who refuses to accept help, but I’m glad he does right now.

When he finishes his cigarette, he throws it out into the pouring rain.

My heart skips. Is he just going to get up and leave again? And why don’t I want him to leave?

I glance at him carefully, only to see him brushing his nose against the collar of my jacket. Apollo raises his eyes to me with a smirk, tilting his head to the side. “That’s kind of weird, you know? That you use a cologne so similar to the smell of your pheromones.”

An awkward chuckle comes out of me. “It…probably is,” I admit while rubbing the back of my head, looking down. I feel his gaze still on me. “Didn’t do it on purpose exactly. Maybe it’s some subconscious ego thing.”

He chuckles. “You’re doing pretty good. At this whole…being one of the boys, all alpha-like and stuff. You can barely tell you’re an omega.”

With a frown, I look at him again. There’s something hidden behind his words, yet I can’t quite place the emotion. I can’t tell if what he said was a dig or not. “I’m not trying to be an alpha,” I say firmly. “None of these tired stereotypes mean anything. We’re not all meek and weak, or that different from anyone else, like some want us to believe. We both know that.”

The bitter smile that appears on Apollo’s lips, with his eyes staying empty and dead, breaks my heart. “You’re right. Not all. Only some of us,” he says before getting up. “I’m better now.” His voice shifts into a more lively, done up one. “I need to have a shower and return to work. Deal with the…fallout with my handler and everything.”

I quickly get up as well, standing inches from him. I wonder if I should make him stay a little longer while I study his pale face. He was completely messed up when I found him. Obviously, he’s pushing himself and putting on a mask, so maybe I should—

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, looking into my eyes with an amused smile. Why is my concern so inconceivable to him? “This is what I do best.” Apollo’s words sound hollow. Propped up by an exaggerated determination and no doubt perfected by him saying them over and over again. I’m not sure he really believes them, though.

Somehow, I can tell. I just know .

He wants to walk past me but pauses, opening his mouth with a sharp ‘Oh’. I put my hand out as he hands me my jacket back.

“Thanks,” he says softly, close to a whisper.

Apollo’s sweet scent sits on the fabric. Did he release his pheromones into it? Without thinking, I raise it to my face and breathe in. Even out here in the chilly night rain, it makes me feel warmth. The fluid essence of an unspecified memory floods my mind again. A memory of a time when Mom was still a mother to me, or at least tried to be. One of the last moments of my childhood when I could be a kid devoid of any worries.

With a deep exhale, I let my arms fall down and turn, finding Apollo still standing there halfway in the cracked open door, smiling. We lock eyes for a few seconds, long enough for my cheeks to heat and my heart to gallop before he breaks the connection and walks out.

I stand there, the sound of falling rain drumming to the same beat as my racing pulse. These strange emotions I’m feeling… I probably shouldn’t.

Especially since Apollo is not just any person. He’s Jasper’s omega. And Jasper is my boss. What’s more, he is one dangerous man.

Clicking my tongue, I correct myself, remembering our interaction. He isn’t anyone’s omega, like he said. Yet when I look into his eyes, I get an impression that it’s because he’s lost, rather than stemming from some desire to be unburdened by attachments.

I put my jacket back on, but a strange sadness hangs over me as I do. Apollo’s scent quickly fades away, leaving me alone. Not for long , I tell myself to cheer up and head to the car. I was on my way home after all, before I noticed the commotion. Jasper graciously let me take the rest of the night off, mostly because I had to pick him up so early in the morning and waited ages for him to finish.

I wonder if Apollo knows about these ‘business meetings’ and what he thinks of them.

I get home at about eight, opening the door to an unusual sight. Marci is in the living room, her messy, graying blonde hair twisted into a braid, stained, oversized T-shirt on, and a painter’s palette in hand. She pokes out from behind the canvas, smiling wildly to the point her eyes nearly disappear, sinking among the charming wrinkles around them.

“You’re early!”

“You’re…painting,” I note, raising my brows excitedly. After locking up, I undress and lazily walk into the living room. There’s a pot of food sitting on the stove. “And you cooked as well. Having a good day today?”

Marci nods with the most energetic expression I’ve seen from her in weeks. “Yes, dear. Once in a blue moon, even I get a day when I actually feel like a regular human being with the standard factory settings. Or at least I think it felt something like this. A chronic illness does have a sneaky way of moving that goalpost…” She waves her brush excitedly while I sit on the couch.

I’m so happy to see her like this.

The door to Skyler’s room is cracked open. It sounds like he’s playing some game.

“You told Hannah to leave early?”

Marci focuses on her canvas for a moment, before nodding. “Figured I would take advantage of having energy and give the girl some time off. Skyler and I went to the park after school. He played football with some kids there. He did pretty well,” she says in a beaming tone.

I smile, even if sadness presses against my chest. I wish I could’ve been there. “That’s good to hear,” I say, tilting my head. “What are you painting, anyway?”

“Well, how about you have a look instead of sitting there?” Marci glares at me with a playful frown. “While you’re at it, you can have some of the food I cooked. I doubt you feed yourself properly when you’re out working all day.”

I get up and walk around her to see. Marci hasn’t painted in a while. The migraines, dry eyes, and light sensitivity she’s been struggling with, on top of the general fatigue common with her condition, haven’t made it easy for her to pursue her passion and her craft. Still, it’s obvious she’s a professionally trained artist with a ton of experience when I'm presented with the beautiful scenery of what looks like Hill Park, just with fewer gray, shitty buildings in the background and more vivid, dreamy colors. There’s a beginning of a figure, not yet rendered, in the middle.

“Wow. Going out really inspired you, hm?” I ask, putting my hand on her shoulder gently. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

Marci snorts, as if offended, and pokes me between my ribs with the wooden tip of the brush. “Of course I haven’t!” Her laughter brightens the room and makes my heart swell. It’s almost like that unattainable, whimsical image I keep trying to reach. The end of the road, the resolution of all of this crushing, soul-tainting labor. The three of us happy and secure and safe. Laughing, spending time together, living life carelessly.

That’s all I want in the world. My only purpose here is to achieve that for us.

“Hey.” I blink when she grabs my cheeks, furrowing her brows. “What’s with that expression? I know you keep saying your work is none of my business, but you have to promise me you’re not pushing yourself too hard, okay?” she asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

I look to the side. “I’m good. And I should get some more free time soon. It’s just the probationary period. I gotta show my best self.”

Marci chuckles and gently pushes my chin so I face her. At first, I think she’s being playful, but the smile freezes on my lips when I notice her unusually serious expression. “You might think I’m stupid,” she says, lowering her voice, “but I know damn well that whatever you’re doing to make this money isn’t legal.”

I clench my fists almost subconsciously and want to retort with something like I always do when she tries to breach this subject, but her sharp, concerned glare makes me pause.

“ Don’t. I’m not asking you about it or…scolding you. Just promise you won’t do anything that puts you at risk, okay?” Marci takes my hand, placing it on her chest and squeezing it. I dart my eyes across her face tensely. “All this money you’re making…we don’t need it more than we need you, do you understand? The medicine, the teachers, all of it won’t matter if something happens to you. The money means nothing if you’re dead or in prison like your mother.”

I feel a sharp tingling rise in my throat, so I swallow and blink. Nodding, I look away because Marci bringing up the things I try to ignore everyday rattles me. “I’ll g-get some food,” I mutter, heading to the kitchen.

Behind me, she sighs, then grabs her brush again and continues painting. I hope I haven’t completely ruined her inspiration.

The stew she made smells heavenly. Same one Mom used to make. Marci probably gave her the recipe in the first place. A long time ago, when they were inseparable childhood friends, family in all but blood, happy and healthy…

I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Focus on what’s important.

With a bowl of food in my hand, I go to Skyler’s room. I knock and wait for a response. The soundtrack of whatever game he’s playing pauses, followed by a sort of huff to let me know I can come in.

Skyler’s room…is a mess. Nothing unusual there. The judgment is probably a little too strong on my face since he snorts and rolls his eyes at me from his bed. “You’re home… Did you come to moan at me for not cleaning up in here again?” he asks, sounding fed up but not entirely pissed off. He’s just taking my absence out on me again. Fair play, I guess. While keeping his space organized is one of the many things he still struggles with, I know that right now isn’t the time to deal with it.

I come closer and sit on the edge of his bed. “I’m not,” I say softly, hoping he lets me off. “I just want to eat my dinner and chill with my little brother. Can I? What are you playing?”

Narrowing his eyes as much as he can with his pronounced skin folds covering the inner corners of them, he purses his lips and cocks a brow in a pretend show of indecisiveness. Unfortunately for him, I already know by the way the left corner of his mouth keeps riding up that he’s just wanting me to suffer and sweat a bit.

“Julio Kart,” he says finally, turning to his game again and pushing himself to sit up straight. It’s an invitation. I shimmy up next to him, resting against the wall and pressing our shoulders together.

“I’m so bad. My hands won’t listen to me,” he mutters.

“Your score isn’t too bad. Come on, show me. I’m sure I can help you.”

Skyler jerks the console away from me with a smirk. “You’re just going to start playing by yourself and make me watch like when I was little!”

“I will not!” I laugh at his preposterous suggestion.

“Yeah, yeah. You got food to eat, so just…tell me what to do and keep your hands to yourself,” he says under his breath, but I see that smile creeping back up.

Looking at him, I fight the urge to pat his head and hug him. Unfortunately, he’s not a baby anymore, and it probably wouldn’t pass. So instead, I make a dissatisfied huff and settle next to him, nodding for him to resume the game while I put a spoonful of the stew in my mouth.

This is good. This is all I need.