3. The Morning After

The Morning After

Ecker

Icautiously crack an eye open and quickly resituate myself in someone else's room. 1 The pillow below my head smells so strongly of rose and jasmine, I don't know how I fell asleep.

I guess a good rut and fuck will do that. I shrug to myself.

Out of curiosity, I tip up the face down frame next to the stack of cash on the nightstand. There's a young boy in a purple sports uniform, his foot on a soccer ball and fresh gaps in his toothy smile. A middle-aged man dressed in loafers no reasonable person would wear to a muddy field stands next to him. And his arm is wrapped around the shoulders of the woman asleep two feet from me.

I laugh silently to myself at her brazenness for bringing a trick to the home she shares with her husband and kid. Now that I think about it, she liked it rough—I bet she gets off on the extra risk of getting caught.

Slowly, I begin to extricate myself from the limbs coiled around me, doing my best to not wake her. I really hate meaningless, morning-after chitchat. Sliding out of her bed, I pick my jeans off the floor. As I step into my pants, I grab the cash, counting it in a quick flash.

I hear a rustling of sheets and freeze where I am, bent over picking up my shirt. She moans softly, and I rise an inch, looking over the edge of the bed to see if she's awake. Her brown eyes land on mine and a sleepy smile begins to spread on her face.

I stand up and shrug with a shallow apology. "Sorry, babes, gotta run."

She sits up, ruffling her hair. "I'll call you next time Eric has a soccer tournament. His dad loves taking him to those things."

"Yeah, you do that." I offer her a wink on my way out.

I race down the stairs, hopping over the picture frames that fell when I fucked her against the wall.

I didn't check the time when I stuffed my phone in my pocket along with my money, but apparently, it's lawn-care o'clock because as soon as I step outside, three heads swivel in my direction. The older woman next door pauses her hedge trimming to glare at me from under her pastel, floppy hat with "Too Blessed to be Stressed" embroidered across the large rim. I wave, my shirt still in my fist, swinging in the air like a hooker's white flag of surrender.

The man on a riding mower across the street tilts his head and squints into the early morning sun like it must be playing tricks on him. Surely, that's not a shirtless man in the driveway of the PTA president who's twice his age.

I continue to the car parked along the curb with extra pep in my step, saluting another man watering his windowsill flower bed underneath a Marine Corps Alpha Veteran flag across the street.

"What about this weather, huh?" I holler, holding my arms out appreciatively, nodding to the sky. I hop in my truck and roll down the window, shouting as I drive away, "Keep those edges tight, gentlemen!"

Driving away, I pluck out my colored contacts and toss them out the window. My eyes feel dry and scratchy from sleeping in them but it's worth it. I can't risk my clients seeing my eyes turn solid gold when in rut, rather than mere streaks and flecks, something that only happens to unsuppressed noble-blooded alphas and omegas.

On my way home, I stop by my regular coffee shop. There's nothing particularly special about Bailey's Beans except for the fact that I come here enough that they know mine and the boys' orders by heart. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and sweet omegas meets me as soon as I step inside.

It's not uncommon for omegas to get jobs in the service industry or other tip-heavy businesses. Their natural charm and biological allure can turn a regular job into a lucrative gig. Alphas gravitate toward leadership positions or physically demanding jobs. And undesignated people . . . I don't know. I guess they're accountants or some shit.

"Hello, beautiful." I run my hands through my blond hair and give Rachel, the omega behind the counter, my signature smile, one that apparently makes women cheat on their husbands while their kid plays soccer.

"Good morning, Mr. Dirty." She blushes, using the nickname the baristas have given me. It comes from the large company name and caricature portrait painted across my tailgate. I Like It Dirty is my mobile car detailing business that charges five grand a night and hasn't cleaned a single tire.

"The usual?" she asks with a smile, already beginning to type in my order.

"You know it." I rest my elbow on the counter and try to carry my light and casual tone into my next question. "Has that guy come around asking questions again?"

"Yeah, but he hasn't asked anything more. Just orders a hot water and sits over there for an hour or two." She nods to an armchair in the corner. "To be honest, he's giving some of the girls the creeps."

"Oh, don't worry about him." I place a reassuring hand on her forearm and try to infuse my words with a slight alpha command. I want to take advantage of her omega instincts to trust and obey without her realizing what I'm doing.

"He's harmless." My lie does the trick. Her eyes grow heavy, and I can feel a wave of calm radiate from her.

"Right, okay." She nods, reassured, and smiles warmly. "We'll call your name when your drinks are ready." I give her arm a parting squeeze and head to the pickup counter to wait.

Anger crackles down my spine. I don't know what these Echelon fuckers want from our neighborhood baristas. I know they've been keeping tabs on the three of us since we were officially designated as alphas six years ago, but now that we've officially accepted their terms to petition for reentrance to the Echelon, they've been swarming like goddamn termites to light.

Titus, the cynical bastard, thinks that they're trying to create a list of people important to us. People they can use against us later. I suspect they just want to intimidate us and continue to flex their omnipresent power.

I say let them try. Try to intimidate us, to threaten us, to bring us to our knees.

Our families have waited a hundred years for this. So go ahead and give it your best fucking shot.

We're ready.

I arrive at the warehouse still riled up from Rachel's update. The boys instantly pick up on my heightened emotions.

"What happened?" Titus all but snarls, kicking his feet down off a chair as I pull the rusty garage door closed behind me. Bishop comes to look over the railing of his loft, yawning like he just woke up. When we moved in here three years ago, we each took a corner of the wide, open space and built a loft for makeshift bedrooms.

"One of their goons keeps coming 'round Bailey's," I tell them. I know it's not an Elder but one of their lackeys because Rachel didn't mention the man wearing a mask. An inducted member of the Echelon would never be so blatant to begin with, but certainly not without his veil of anonymity.

I set the drink tray on the table along with my cash. Bishop makes his way down from the loft, pulling his soft brown curls into a loose bun on the top of his head, his sides faded.

"How was the cougar?" he asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Better than your night, it looks like." Dark circles under his hazel eyes contrast with his normally bright and warm bronze complexion.

"Yeah, well, spending all night in a tiny room with hotel security and fluorescent lights will do that to a person." He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug then raises his gaze and smirks out of the corner of his mouth. "Good thing they can't prove shit."

Bishop's got twice the brains as Ti and me combined. And he's the best damn card counter in Cape Aurelia.

"And he brought in nearly eight grand. Where's the rest of yours?" Titus looks up from counting my bills.

"She bought a deluxe detailing package with her husband's card." I chuckle. Creating I Like It Dirty and giving bored, horny housewives the chance to pay for a hot, young alpha to fuck them right under their husbands' noses is borderline genius if you ask me.

Titus doesn't even crack a smile, just lifts a brow while keeping a stony scowl. I roll my eyes. "I'll withdraw everything on Monday."

"Good. The Trials are less than two months away, and we still have a lot left to raise for our tribute between now and then if we want a half decent omega."

"Why are you always acting like Bishop and I don't know what's going on?" I scoff and look around our barren home. Other than our lofts, there aren't many personal effects; our only furniture is secondhand and threadbare. The kitchen is nothing more than a workbench with a camping stove and a mini fridge. "We've all sacrificed shit and put our asses on the line countless times for this. We're not gonna forget what's at stake."

"Shit, I know," he grumbles and hangs his head. His palm makes a scratchy noise as he runs it over his buzzed hair. It's as much of an apology as I'll ever get from him.

One hundred years and counting . . . We're ready.

1. Play "Lush Life" by Zara Larsson