17. Heller

17

HELLER

I am entirely unprepared for how hot Sergey is in a suit. That must be why I ask him to buy me a drink. Or maybe it’s because I’m so fucking happy. I’m now officially one of Lark’s dads. At least I will be once the paperwork is done. I can’t believe it.

A few of the dancers make eyes at Sergey, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just stares at me like I’m the only omega in the world. It’s almost as if we’re back in our Pebble Gifting Season roleplay again.

Maybe I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

“Your dance meant something, didn’t it?” he asks.

I nod.

“You’re not going to tell me what it meant, are you?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Not until you guess.”

He thinks about that for a moment, taking a sip of his beer. “Well, you got naked.”

“Right. Because the show is called Naked.”

He gives me a wolfish smile. “Right, but you were naked, so I got distracted.”

Something about that smile makes me want to take him home and ride him like a cowboy. This is why I love one-night-stands. There’s nothing like the thrill of being seduced by a man for the first time.

Except this isn’t the first time with Sergey. If I brought him home, it wouldn’t even be the second time we had sex. It would be the third. Possibly the fourth or fifth if you count how many times he orgasmed, and who knows how many times I did. Last night was incredible.

“It’s a commentary on our binary perception of sex in art,” I explain, trying to distract myself from the reality that I want Sergey again. “Either a naked body is edgy art or it’s sexy. It can’t be both. You aren’t allowed to dance naked on a stage unless it’s a striptease or artistic statement. You can’t fuse them together or it will feel strange to the audience. They’ll be trying to categorize the choreography the whole time. There’s no space for nuance.”

His wolfish smile mellows, but doesn’t fade entirely. “You’re right. I was trying to categorize it in my head.”

“It’s because of the shame our society attributes to anything sexual. If something is titillating, it’s not allowed to be anything else. It’s just porn. And our society doesn’t respect porn. Even if the porn is artistic or thought provoking.” I’m basically repeating the speech Julia gave all the performers. I don’t know why. Maybe I want to impress Sergey as much as I want to have sex with him again. My body is all keyed up by how close he’s sitting. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he downs the rest of his beer in one go.

“Sorry, I’m not a heavy drinker. I guess I’m just excited to be here with you, sharing a drink.” He blushes furiously. “Is that stupid?”

A part me wants to tell him yes. He shouldn’t get excited about getting drinks with me because it doesn’t mean anything. But another part of me knows that would be a lie.

I never want to get drinks with a guy after we’ve slept together. It isn’t hard for me to keep things casual with men I sleep with because I genuinely have no interest in anything more than fucking or friendship. But sitting down to have a drink with him tonight isn’t fucking or a friendship. It’s something more than that.

I take his hand and lace my fingers through his. “You’re not stupid. Maybe a little too optimistic…”

He grins and lifts our hands, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “Because you don’t date. Cy told me.”

I can’t help but laugh. “He’s one to talk. He certainly got around before he committed to Axe and Ben.”

“Yes. Ben reminded him. It was very cute.” Sergey squeezes my hand. Just the pressure of his fingers is enough to make my heart race.

God, I’m sappy tonight.

“Ben is one of my favorite people. He’s like sunshine in person form,” I say.

“Yes! I think it’s the clapping. I love it.” He runs his thumb along the back of my hand. It’s wild how the smallest of touches from him can make me lose focus on everything else in the room. Instead of being nervous about it, I just let myself enjoy it.

“How is the business stuff coming?” I ask.

Just before he can answer the bartender, a sea lion shifter named Rick, returns to us with two shot glasses filled to the brim with clear liquid. “These are from your friends over there.”

I glance over at Becca and Trish, two of the dancers I work with. They blow me a kiss from across the room. Becca has that nurturing if-you-need-a-bandaid-I-probably-have-one-in-my-purse vibe. I adore her. While Trish is the first person to congratulate someone on a solo or their engagement. They’re my favorite.

“What is it?” Sergey asks.

“Vodka. Top shelf.”

Of course it’s top shelf. I sign “thank you” to them and knock the first one back. Part of pretending to be a polar bear shifter is learning how to drink vodka straight without wincing.

Sergey slides the second shot over to me. “I’m not shooting vodka. Sorry. It’s disgusting.”

It’s nice that he’s not afraid to tell me no.

“What do you like to shoot then?”

“For the record, I like to shoot nothing. I’m a margarita or beer guy. Either my alcohol should taste like a party or bread. But if I have to shoot something, I prefer tequila with lime and salt.”

“All right.” I gesture to Rick and he returns to us. “Get this man two shots of tequila with lime and salt and put it on my tab.”

“What kind of tequila do you want?” Rick asks. “Top shelf?”

“Always. Life is too short for cheap liquor.”

Rick grabs for a big glass bottle that makes a satisfying pop when he removes the lid. “Whatever you say, Heller.” He pours each shot to the very top and throws a lime wedge onto a plate with a tiny salt shaker. “Here is the finest tequila we have in this establishment with an organic lime wedge and sea salt.”

Sergey laughs. “Top shelf or not, tequila shots are tequila shots. All the organic limes in the world won’t save me from the hangover waiting for me tomorrow.”

So he has the constitution of a penguin shifter. Good to know. All the polar bear shifters I know don’t get hangovers until they’ve drank far more than that.

I take the second shot glass of vodka and knock it back. It’s been a while since I’ve done shots, so the alcohol makes my head swim for a moment.

“You okay?” Sergey asks.

“Mmmhmmm. But I’m definitely feeling it.”

He laughs. “Here. Let me join you.” He brings our intertwined hands closer to the plate, and instead of sprinkling the salt on his hand, he sprinkles it on mine.

“I see how things are,” I tease.

He smiles at me, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I think it will taste better on your skin.” He bends over and licks my hand, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. Then he takes the shot, setting down the glass rapidly to reach for the lime.

“I love lime,” I say. “Sparkling water with lime is my favorite drink.”

He pauses, and instead of bringing the lime wedge to his mouth, he hands it to me. “Then suck on this for me, and I’ll taste it on your lips.”

I lift the lime wedge to my lips and bite down, sucking at the sour juice. Sergey slides his fingers along my jaw and leans over to kiss me. He tastes strongly of tequila, but I don’t care. The texture of his stubble and the softness of his lips are too good. I let him make out with me where Trish, Becca, and Rick can see.

When finally pulls away, his cheeks are flushed. “Sorry. I… got carried away.”

“Nope. You are not allowed to kiss me that well and apologize for it.”

He searches my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for. Honesty? Lust? Intoxication?

“Does that mean you’ll let me kiss you again?” he asks.

I nod. I can’t seem to get enough of him.

Sergey sprinkles salt on my hand a second time and licks my skin with his hot tongue. He takes the other shot, and this time he doesn’t hesitate before kissing me. He doesn’t even wait for me to suck on the lime. The tequila is overpowering, but it’s still not as intoxicating as Sergey. His tongue dives into my mouth, his lips devouring me. I kiss him back, letting it go on for longer than I should. I don’t want him to stop.

Unfortunately, he does.

We just sit there, staring at each other for far too long. I’d blame it on the alcohol, but I know it’s more than that. Something happened between us last night—something special. And that something doesn’t appear to be over yet.

He slides his phone out of his pocket. “I want to ask you something, but I’m afraid you’ll say no. So I’m going to text you the question instead.”

I raise my eyebrows skeptically. “And you think that will better your odds?”

“Not at all. But when you say no, you’ll type it out instead of saying it out loud.”

I can’t help but laugh. “And that’s better?”

“Absolutely. Written rejection is always better than rejection spoken out loud.”

I know what he’s going to text me. Not exactly, but I know the general idea. I even watch him type it out with one hand, because he doesn’t want to let go of mine.

How about one more time?

I see it on his screen before my phone dings in my back pocket. It’s where we’ve been headed since the moment I asked him to buy me a drink. It’s what I want, even though I’m a little afraid of that desire.

I was afraid to be Lark’s dad too. That isn’t the same, but it isn’t entirely different either. Whatever is happening between Sergey and me is intense. I don’t feel completely in control of it. That’s how the love I feel for Lark is. I can’t just stop it or lessen it. Not even if I wanted to.

I’m not sure I want to stop or lessen this wild connection I have with Sergey either.

“What if I didn’t say no?” I ask, not bothering to take my phone out.

He bites his lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Then you wouldn’t need to text me back. You could just say you wanted to get out of here.”

“What if I’m not ready for that either?” I ask. Which seems a little silly. We’ve already fucked. “Sorry, I’m not any good at this.”

“Because you don’t date.”

I shrug. “Yeah. Basically.”

“Well, there’s no rule saying we need to leave now. We could have another drink. Slowly. Very, very slowly. No more shots, please.”

I laugh. “Okay. No more shots. I promise.”

He brings our hands to his lips and kisses me. “Thank you for making an exception for me. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t dated in a long time either. Being half polar bear shifter and half penguin shifter makes that a little complicated.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I’m working all the time, so that makes things hard too. I don’t know. If I found the right guy, I’d be willing to work less, but I love my job. It gives me a sense of purpose.”

If he was anyone else, I’d tell him that sex work did that for me too, but I’m not sure how he would feel about me being a sex worker. My friends often complain about how weird men are about that kind of thing. Unless they’re polar bear shifters, of course. But Sergey didn’t grow up here.

I guess I better tell him now. If it’s going to be a problem, it’s better to end things before they start.

“My last job was like that too. I mean, I love burlesque, and I do find it satisfying, but I did sex work for a long time, and that was a lot like therapy for my clients. I really felt like they got something meaningful from their time with me, and I loved that part of it.”

Sergey considers me for a long beat. I hold my breath, not sure how he’s going to react. I’m not ashamed or anything, but I like him. It’s only natural to want him to like me back and respect me.

“I could see you being very good at that,” he finally says. That’s very neutral. I don’t know what I was expecting. I imagine people in New Mexico are just as judgmental about sex work as people everywhere else. Anchorage is unique.

“I was. I worked on Valentine’s Row. That’s sort of like Anchorage’s red-light district, but swanky. I made enough in one year to live on for the rest of my life.” It’s a little silly to boast like that, but I was proud to be selected as a resident of Valentine’s Row. And I guess I want him to know.

“That’s impressive. Do you miss it?” he asks.

That’s less neutral. At least he understands that it was something I might miss.

“Yes and no. I miss having sex regularly. I don’t miss some things about it, like the unpredictability of new clients. Most of the guys who booked me were nice and respectful, but occasionally I’d have an appointment with someone who was rude. It’s just like any other customer service job. Only maybe a little worse in that respect because some people think it’s okay to treat sex workers like trash.”

He clenches his jaw. “That’s shitty.”

“It’s just part of the job.”

“It shouldn’t be. I know it’s not the same thing, but when I was sixteen I dropped out of high school to focus on welding. My dads supported me because they knew I worked around the clock to pursue my dream, but there were a lot of people who looked down on me for that. Like I was worth less because I didn’t have a high school diploma.”

I squeeze his hand. “I don’t have a high school diploma either.”

“We both did okay for ourselves, right? I threw this big party when my company hit one hundred million in sales, and I made sure all of those people were invited. I also made sure it was on the same night as my graduation would have been. Petty, I know. But I got the point across.”

Sergey made a hundred million dollars by the time he was eighteen? That’s wild.

“I didn’t know there was that much money in prosthetics,” I say.

“It all comes from my wealthy older clients. If a kid wants one of my prosthetics, I’ll put them on my list even if they don’t have a way to pay for it, but if you’re an adult, the price is around forty million dollars per prosthetic. Even at that price point, I have a waitlist for adult patients. I really need more welders on my team.”

“I can’t believe there are that many people with forty million dollars who need a prosthetic.”

He looks away from me. “Most of them have sacrificed their dominant hand for a blood spell. That kind of sacrifice can get people all sorts of things. Money, power, fame. In wealthy circles, my prosthetics are considered to be a clever workaround. Beating Magic at Her own game, if you will. They give up their hand, but they still get to have one that mostly functions like the one they lost. And everyone in those circles knows how much they cost, so it’s like showing off an expensive watch or piece of jewelry. Meanwhile, there are kids all over the world who actually need a prosthetic and are still waiting. It makes me sick. If I didn’t need money for my business, I wouldn’t ever provide a prosthetic for someone who sacrificed a limb for a spell.”

I know plenty of men who would be proud to know their invention was considered the “it” item among the rich. Sergey’s attitude about this says a lot about the kind of man he is.

“What if you made your money in another way?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“The next time you make forty million on a prosthetic, invest it. Run your business on the dividends. Almost all of my money is invested. I can live comfortably on the dividends alone.”

“I’m sure my omega dad has invested our money, if that’s the wisest thing to do. He’s good with numbers.”

That sounds ominous.

“You don’t know?”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I know that sounds bad, but I’m barely keeping my head above water as it is. I can’t worry about things like the money side of it. I’m always welding or traveling to fittings. I haven’t taken a full week off in over ten years.”

Sergey and I have a lot in common. I didn’t ever take days off either when I was doing sex work. I’d always fit in an appointment here or there. I never travelled unless it was with a client. That didn’t change until I found burlesque.

“It sounds like you need a break,” I say.

“I took the day off today and just wandered around Anchorage.”

“I mean a real break. This is still a work trip. You came here to rent a forge and hire more welders.”

He squeezes my hand. “It still feels like a break. Especially tonight and last night.”

I have this intense urge to take him back to my apartment and make him forget about all the responsibility weighing on his shoulders. Maybe it’s my conservative Gentoo upbringing or maybe it’s my career in sex work. I don’t know. I just think this good man deserves to have someone take care of him, if only for a few hours.

“I live a block away,” I say.

“Is that your way of inviting me over?”

I release his hand and reach for my drink. “Maybe. If you don’t judge me for calling a cab. It’s below freezing outside. I’m not walking. And I can’t drive after doing shots.” I down the rest of my drink, which might be a mistake. Even after all these years, it’s hard for me to waste things.

Sergey waves to Rick. “Could I get my check?”

For a moment, I almost tell Sergey to forget it. Bringing him back to my apartment may only bring out more new and unexpected feelings I’m not ready for. But I stop myself. Would it be so bad to let myself have this? What’s the worst thing that could happen?

“Can I get my check too?” I ask Rick.

Tonight I’m going to allow myself to want things. And right now I want to flirt with a good guy on my soft couch and make him cookies. If I have the stuff for cookies. I don’t live at my apartment often enough to justify stocking the fridge, so we’ll see. I want to make him something.

I can deal with any hangover or regret that may come in the morning.