1. Magic Jazz Hands

ONE

MAGIC JAZZ HANDS

Silence fell over the courtroom. “All rise.”

Oliver rose. In fact, he rose too quickly, causing a torrent of blood to rush to his head. Clutching the back of the bench, he bit the inside of his cheek to distract from the relentless pounding in his ears. He was a police officer. A strong — moderately sized — police officer that was absolutely not going to make a tit of himself during the reading of the verdict. A pale woman shuffled to the front of the jury box, her eyes downcast as though she held the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, your Honour.”

With a slight nod of his be-wigged head, Judge Cartwright-Smith cleared his throat and held up a slip of paper. “Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of grievous bodily harm against the complainant Sarah Greer?”

Oliver held his breath.

“Guilty.”

Nibbling his lower lip, he did his best to stop a smile pinching the corners of his mouth. Fuck yes.

Every member of the jury avoided meeting Clinton Greer’s gaze as the verdict was read. But Oliver didn’t. Oliver’s eyes slid to the alpha who had beaten the ever-living shit out of his omega wife and their three kids. Watched as the cocky arrogance dropped from his face and onto his cheap, pleather shoes.

He listened as the judge read out the other offences, nostrils flaring as the woman said, “ guilty ,” to all charges. If he could have bought the jury members a drink, he would have; instead, vowing to raise a pint in their names later that evening. Clinton Greer was snarling by the end, making the prison officers tense and reach for their handcuffs.

Oliver almost didn’t notice when the phone vibrated in his suit pocket—no doubt Nancy and the rest of his team waiting for an update. He couldn’t blame them, they’d busted their balls every night to get the case ready for trial, just as he had. But they could wait. The moment was between him, Clinton Greer, and the three years Oliver spent fighting to bring the alpha to justice. The three years he’d worked with the children to tease out the many horrors their father subjected them to. But Greer was no father. He was a monster in a man’s ill-fitting suit.

Oliver let out a slow breath, giddy relief washing over him as the judge nodded. “Mr Greer. On this day, 26th January, at High Enfield Crown Court, the jury has found you guilty on four counts of grievous bodily harm and three counts of cruelty to children. You are to be remanded in custody until sentencing.”

Oliver didn’t need to hear anymore. Needn’t spend any more time breathing in the same air as that piece of shit. He slipped out of the courtroom, pushing through the heavy glass doors and into the freedom of the waiting room.

Three years of work, condensed into a three-week trial, into a three-minute reading of the verdict. It would take him a little longer than three minutes to compose his thoughts, so he stalked towards the restrooms at the end of the hall.

Weaving between the waiting room chairs, he sighed as the phone vibrated again. Reaching into his inner breast pocket, he cleared his throat and looked at the screen. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, thumb hovering over the ‘accept’ icon beneath the photograph of Nancy Purslow in a cowboy hat and swimming goggles. That had been one wild night.

However, before he could press answer, his face smashed into a rock-hard wall of cotton-silk. Reeling backwards, he dropped the phone and landed flat on his arse. It seemed he was determined to make a tit of himself after all .

“Sorry—” He was about to throw his hands up in apology, but the words died in his throat as his eyes trailed up the long, broad form of an alpha. The white shirt strained over powerfully built shoulders, contrasting beautifully with his tanned skin, hazel eyes and mop of black hair. The beauty of the man was quite astounding, but it was the way his lip curled back over his canines, that really gave Oliver pause. The alpha was pissed. Like, really pissed.

Oliver’s eyes slid to the black lanyard around the stranger’s neck. It read, ‘Detective Sergeant 578 Lucas White, Metropolitan Police.’ Oliver sniffed, because what it should have said was ‘paperwork-dodging, glory-hunting city boy.’ But that was just Oliver’s pre-conceived notion of the Met, of course.

Scrambling to collect the still-vibrating phone, he was about to hop to his feet and brush off his knees in an act of mock deference—as any sigma pretending to be a beta should—but the man surprised him by holding out a hand. The snarl retreated, replaced instead with a look of blank indifference. At least, it would have seemed like indifference were it not for one of his dark eyebrows quirking into a rather pleasing arch.

“O-Oh?—”

Huffing, Oliver took the hand that was offered and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The alpha’s scent filled his nostrils almost immediately—wet earth and treated leather, mixed with something wholly masculine. Had Oliver been an omega, he’d have probably deteriorated into a blushing, stuttering mess. Instead, his hand flew to his nose before he remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be. He played the gesture off as an awkward wipe of his nose, which seemed to work as the alpha released his hand.

“Apologies,” Oliver said, tucking the now silent phone back into his pocket. “Should have been looking ahead, not at my phone.”

The sergeant nodded, glancing down at Oliver’s own badge and no doubt reading ‘Detective Constable 1389 Oliver Reed, West Newton Constabulary.’

“No problem,” the man said, with a voice that was incredibly deep and impossibly smooth. “Good result?”

Oliver’s nose wrinkled, realising he’d done a piss-poor job of keeping his face trained into a neutral expression. “Yeah,” he replied, dropping his gaze only to discover that the man wore an immaculate pair of tan Berluti winkle pickers. Fancy fucker, he knows this is the countryside, right?

He was about to make a comment about expensive shoes and the countryside, but the man just stepped around him and strode towards the exit. Alrighty then. Oliver watched the man go, silently impressed by the sheer width of his shoulders as he passed through the security gate.

His phone vibrated for a third time, snapping him back to the task at hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just give me a minute, Nance,” he muttered.

Finally, making it to the bathroom, he slipped off his navy blue jacket and draped it over the top of a stall. Turning on the ancient bronze tap, he cupped his hands under the water and splashed it across his face. He did it two more times, his nerves calming with each pass. Looking up, he glimpsed himself in the smeared mirror, his face growing pink from the cold water.

“You’re a mess, Reed,” he whispered, pushing back the white-blonde hair that stuck to his forehead. There was no denying how good the stylish undercut looked. He’d have to let Nancy perform emergency haircuts on him more often. Despite that, his face was uncharacteristically drawn, making the smattering of freckles across his cheeks stand out even more. An unfortunate byproduct of sleepless nights combined with a diet of coffee and toast.

Sighing, he slid the phone from his pocket and pressed ‘call back’ on the home screen. Nancy picked up after one ring.

“Well?” she barked.

“Full house.”

A collective cheer rang out, and Oliver had to hold the phone away from his ear lest he be deafened. He couldn’t help but smile as he listened to his team celebrate.

“Good fucking job, soldier!” Nancy shouted. “Now get your arse back here. Tea and medals all round.”

“And pick up some custard creams on your way back.” Another voice called. Matteus, his omega twin brother.

“Yeah, yeah, see you in thirty,” Oliver drawled, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

He and Matteus were something of an anomaly in the sociosexual structure of their society. An omega and a sigma born to an alpha mother and father. Two sandy haired wolf cubs folded together in their mother’s belly. There was no rhyme or reason to it, despite their parents insisting it had been because they’d copulated under a half blood moon. It was a load of bollocks as far as Oliver was concerned, but Matteus bought into it.

His brother had mated young to an alpha named Julian, took the bite at only eighteen—despite Oliver’s outrage. Still, he couldn’t deny that Julian was a good man, and a good fit for Matteus—even encouraging him to pursue his career before starting a family. Oliver had no such luxury. There was no one waiting for him at home, because there was no hiding what he was as soon as his clothes came off. His unusual pheromones made sure of that.

No omega wanted him—not long-term, anyway—and most alphas held a ‘fuck you till you cry’ attitude towards sigmas. Sex made the world go round, and unfortunately for Oliver, he had what very few wanted in a life partner. Barely fertile, but with all the rage of an alpha, and the heat cycles of an omega. Though those cycles only came once per year, which was a small blessing.

Every May, he dreaded the rising heat in his deep-buried womb, and knew that he was about to endure another week of absolute hell. It was why he masked as a beta, to avoid all the shit that came with being a social pariah. It was a damned good job he preferred his own company, anyway. Though, best not to delve too deeply into that pit of depression.

The plastic bag rustled in his hand as he entered West Newton Police Station, and he quickly brushed away the crumbs from the lapel of his trench coat. He’d accidentally devoured half a pack of custard creams on his way back from the shop, but… he deserved it.

An array of smells wafted through the station as he plodded along the twisting corridor back to his office. Someone must have cooked fish in the microwave again because it smelled absolutely fucking satanic, and he couldn’t decide which was worse—the fish or the musty stench of the brown carpet-tile flooring. However, neither could out-do the peeling wood-chip wallpaper in making the police station look as dated as possible. The building was an unfortunate product of the early nineteen seventies.

Grumbling, he glanced up at the frosted glass door, which should have read ‘West Newton Constabulary, Child Protection Unit’ in bold white letters. However, in its place was an un-ironic picture of Helen Lovejoy concernedly shouting, ‘Won’t someone please think of the children?!’ That’d been Nancy’s doing, and Oliver remembered how she cackled when it came juddering out of the printer.

More cheers erupted as he stepped through the door. Nancy and Matteus ran towards him, their arms outstretched as Martin, a happy-go-lucky beta, slapped him across the back. Kevin—their grumpy administrator—just gave him a small nod and carried on typing

“Top fucking work, mate!” Martin jostled his shoulder.

“Glad to see the fucker finally sent down,” Nancy shouted, her dyed-red plait almost whipping Kevin across the face.

“Tea or coffee?” Matteus asked, shaking a mug that had ‘I LOVE BACON’ scrawled across it in porky lettering.

“Earl Grey, please.” He tipped his head towards the kettle.

They chatted back and forth for a while, their laughter going some way to relieving the tension coiled in the base of Oliver’s skull. Greer had been a nasty piece of work, and it was nice to finally feel he had made a difference in his almost ten year career as a police officer.

“… And then , Greer got his cock out and started slapping it up against the perspex,” Oliver finished, watching with amusement at the growing horror on his colleagues’ faces.

“No he fucking didn’t,” Nancy said, her eyes wide as she bit into a chocolate digestive.

“I’m telling you, he did. Genital warts and all.”

Matteus only grinned and shook his head, knowing full well Oliver was being a dick. But it was good to see them laugh, especially given the torrents of shit they dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Child protection was, for all intents and purposes, a depressing place to be. But they had each other, which kept Oliver’s head above water in the five and a half years he’d been in the department. All of them knew about his sigma status, and he trusted each of them implicitly.

They’d just got to the crumbs of the chocolate digestives when a shout came from the sergeant’s office. “Reed! The boss wants to see you,” DS Blake Smith called from behind a stack of paperwork. Oliver sighed and got to his feet.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Nancy said, slapping his arse as he sloped to the Inspector’s office. If she were in any other office, she’d have been reported for sexual assault at least fifty times.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he knocked the partially open door “Boss…” he said, tentatively sliding his head around the door.

His eyes immediately snapped to the enormous man standing to the left of the three by three metre office. It was the Detective Sergeant from the court, and Oliver was perturbed to find that he looked even more devastatingly handsome in the artificial office lighting.

“Ah, DC Reed,” Inspector Callahan began, “Cracking results today. Well done.”

The Inspector—a wiry haired, fifty two year old alpha—reached out, vigorously shaking Oliver’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, clutching his wrist as the Inspector let go.

“I’d like you to meet Detective Sergeant White from the Metropolitan Police.” He opened his hands as though presenting a prized pig. “He works for the Special Branch in London. Catches drug smugglers and the like.”

Oliver stared at the sergeant’s chest, somewhere between his sternum and his throat. His tie hung loose, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, letting his collarbones peek through. Scandalous, really.

“We’ve met,” the alpha said. “Albeit briefly. Just call me Lucas.”

Oliver nodded, finally meeting his gaze. “Oliver. Or, Ollie. Whichever is fine.”

Perhaps it was the man’s overwhelming presence, or the way his hazel eyes held Oliver’s for just a touch too long; but something about the alpha made him want to curl up into a ball in the corner of the office. A truly unique sensation, given that Oliver was prone to butting heads with the patriarchal over-lords of their society. He blamed his omega side for his current reaction. Man alive, his wolf needed a run.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver. Again.” And fuck if his name didn’t sound salacious coming from the alpha’s lips. Oliver nodded, pretending to smooth out a wrinkle in his own baby-blue tie.

“How can I help, boss?” He said, gaze drifting back to the Inspector.

Callahan nodded, gesturing for him and Lucas to sit. So Oliver did. He sat perfectly straight-backed in the uncomfortable plastic chair and paid absolutely no mind to how their knees touched. Absolutely no mind whatsoever .

“Oliver, DS White and his team need your help.”

“My help, Sir?”

The Inspector nodded.

“Without sounding obstructive, what could the Special Branch need with me ? We deal in child protection, not international gangs. I don’t even carry a taser.”

The Inspector lifted a hand in a placative gesture. “Calm down, Detective. I’m not about to send you on a jaunt across Europe. It’s about one of your kids.”

Oliver’s stomach sank. “Which one?” He looked up at Lucas with hard eyes.

“Helena Cartwright,” he replied, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

If it was at all possible, Oliver’s stomach sank even lower. Helena Cartwright had been one of his most troublesome cases to date. Though, now an unsettled twelve-year-old, he had known her for several years. Abused by her heroin addicted omega mother and taken on drug runs with her piece-of-shit beta step-father. Oliver checked in with her every few months, but she had recently stopped answering his calls.

“Shit. What’s happened now?”

Lucas slid a manila envelope into Oliver’s lap. “It’s all in there,” he said. “We recently apprehended her in a car containing a major player in one of our German operations.”

“Fuck. Is she safe?” Oliver covered his mouth as the expletive slipped out. However, the ghost of a smile made the alpha’s lip twitch.

“She is now. She’s back at the Safe Haven care home.”

“And you want me to talk to her? Introduce you?”

Lucas nodded. “Yes. We’re hoping she’ll agree to an interview.”

Oliver studied Lucas’ face. “She won’t like that,” he said. “Won’t like that one bit.”

The Inspector leant forward and tapped the back of his hand. “Which is why they need you , DC Reed. Work your magic, help build rapport. You know, all that jazz.”

Oliver wanted to say he’d need a little more than magic fucking jazz hands to convince Helena Cartwright to speak to the police again. But if the request was coming from his Inspector, could he really refuse? No . The answer was always no.

“Alright…” he said, voice trailing off as he met Lucas’ gaze.

“Excellent!” The Inspector said, clapping his hands. “Just think of it as a little cross-border project.”

Oliver bought more biscuits on his way home. Partially because he’d skipped lunch, but mostly due to his thoughts rattling around in his brain like a bunch of marbles. The bus journey lulled him into a contemplative trance, so much so that his temple smacked against the metal hand rail as the number four bus came to an abrupt halt.

“Pendle Cross!” The driver called, which was a damned good thing because he’d have missed his stop entirely.

Shuffling off the bus, he clutched his rucksack strap as he walked down the busy street towards his flat. After stopping for five minutes to pet the cat outside the Chinese takeaway, he took a left at the bike shop and ambled up five flights of stairs to his tiny home. Sighing, he turned the key, opened the door and shut out the rest of the world behind him.

Shrugging off his bag and shoes, he padded to the kitchen, flicked the switch on the kettle, and headed to his bedroom. His apartment looked like any other one bedroom, one bathroom residence belonging to a single male beta with a full-time job and very little time spent at home. He prided himself on clean lines and minimal clutter, with only the essentials on display. But his bedroom… his bedroom was a different beast entirely.

Blankets, pillows, throws, black-out curtains, white noise machine, massive stuffed koala called Roger, equally massive stuffed orangutan called Betty, humidifier, incense sticks, candles. You name it, his bedroom had it. The very core of comfort for a sometimes-omega, sometimes-alpha, sometimes-beta to rest his weary bones after a hard day of catching criminals. No one but he and Matteus had ever been in his room, and no one ever would. His brother called it his nest, but something about the word didn’t feel quite right to Oliver. Huffing, he slid off his tie and flung himself onto the double bed, head landing comfortably in Roger’s lap.

“Hi,” he said, staring up at the obscenely large koala. Roger, of course, said nothing back.

Lying down had been a mistake, because his eyes grew heavy almost immediately. ‘ You won’t sleep tonight ,’ his mum would have said. Ah well, a few minutes’ wouldn’t hurt. The sound of his phone ringing swiftly interrupted his nap.

“Dear God in Heaven—” he groaned, picking it up. A photograph of a scruffy haired beta flashed across the screen. It was Rhys, a coach at his kickboxing club. “Yeah?” He grunted, mouth heavy with almost-sleep.

“Yo Dai,” Rhys said, his South Wales accent far too cheerful for Oliver’s tired brain. “What time you getting to the club?”

He thought about it for a long moment. He should go, but the idea of ramen and an erotic ebook sounded far more palatable that evening.

“Because you do remember that the residency coach is starting tonight, right? You said you’d meet him.”

“Oh crap,” he muttered, having indeed forgotten. “I’ll be there in an hour. But don’t expect me to make small talk.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just come do your thing. Someone needs to make us look good. Oh, and bring your wraps. The guy’s an absolute beast.”

“Oh great,” he drawled, but Rhys had already hung up.

Letting out a world-shatteringly long sigh, he slipped from the bed and peeled off his clothes. Glancing in the full-length mirror, his eyes drifted to the tight plane of his stomach and the lean lines of his thighs. He’d worked hard for that body, after nearly losing it six years prior.

Rolling out a strip of tension across his shoulders, he stepped into the shower. Now, showering before working out may have seemed counter-productive. But Oliver found it was better for his sweat to be masked in the stench of peach and vanilla, than his sigma scent confusing everyone endlessly. Regardless, he swallowed an additional suppressant as he waited for the water to heat up.

Drying himself, he slipped on a black cotton t-shirt and a pair of blue shorts. Giving his glove bag a tentative sniff, he grimaced at the smell of stale sweat. No hiding that stench, even after dousing them in fabric spray. Pulling the bag over his shoulder, he slipped on his trainers and walked out the door. It was going to be a tiring night—especially if the new guy was a dick—but punching something might actually be a decent remedy for his sluggish brain. The thought lightened his steps considerably, as he made the short walk to the club.

Ducking under the railing, he walked alongside the murky green canal and towards the railway bridge in the near distance. The wind whistled through the reeds, giving the towpath an eery feel in the late-afternoon sun. As he crossed the car park at the end of the path, he noticed a British racing green BMW in the corner of the yard. It was pretty nice, despite the almighty scuff across the bumper and curb marks on the nearside alloy. He admired it for a moment, before stepping into the dingy little warehouse on the edge of town.

Oliver’s gaze trailed across the mats and towards the gathering in the centre of the room, falling on a tall figure dressed in black. He was all legs, his black shorts revealing muscled thighs that seemed to go on for days. The t-shirt clung to his broad back in such a way that made Oliver’s insides do little flips.

As he crossed the threshold, the figure turned, hazel eyes meeting his own. Lucas fucking White.