Page 75 of Your Wild Omega

Her eyebrows pop and she shrugs, turning to pour a golden ale. The foam slips over the rim as she slaps it down on the bar. “That’ll be ten bucks. Cash.”

I whistle but fork out when she doesn’t relent. Gotta pay the ferryman on the way to hell. My phone vibrates and I tug it out of my pocket to take a look. A message from my mother glows against the sunset backdrop.

Can you possibly join us for family lunch on Thursday?

A smile toys on my lips as I tap back a reply. Last weekend was the hardest moment of my life since my father’s passing, and yet, like a trembling phoenix, something good rose from the ashes. My relationship with Mom is fragile and featherless right now, but so long as I nurture it, we’ll find a way forward.

I always thought I didn’t have time, but it turns out I just didn’t make time available in the right places. Sipping the frothy beer, I check my calendar and ask Hale to push back a client meeting on Thursday afternoon. Then I reply to Mom to let her know I’ll attend. All the while, the eyes of the beefy, tattooed men and hardened women drill through my back.

A yawn tickles in my chest, but I breathe deeply to keep it at bay. Drowsiness dogs my steps, not only from working long hours to keep up with my caseload, but because for the first time in my life, I’m not sleeping well. The hotel apartment smells lifeless, and I’ve grown used to falling asleep to the muffled murmurs of Red making love to her men.

A musclehead alpha with more hair on his jaw than his scalp slides in beside me. “You lost, sonny boy?”

I lick foam from the rim of the glass and glance over. My drowsiness drops away, replaced by instinctive alertness, as I jerk my thumb toward the bartender. “She seems to think so.”

The man chuckles and pops his chunky, tattooed knuckles loudly. “Don’t mind Grandma. Menopause made her a li’l cranky and she never recovered. You a cop?”

I wrinkle my nose. I tried to dress down, but since I haven’t been home to collect anything, I didn’t have many options. “No, I’m a lawyer.”

He scoffs. “Better and better.”

I dig out my business card and fiddle with it between two fingers. “Who do I have to talk to about a favor?”

His bushy brows pop. “Yeah, you’re in the wrong place for sure.” He leans back on the bar on his elbows. “That’s prejudice speaking. Just because a motorcycle club runs this joint doesn’t mean we’re doing anything illegal.”

“Sure, whatever floats your boat.” I drop the card on the bench and then unbutton my shirt. I hold it open to show him my bare chest.

He draws back with a scowl. “You look good, lad, but I’m not into—”

I shake my head. “Just showing you I’m not wired.”

“You realize technology has evolved since wires and battery-powered recorders?” His eyes twinkle with merriment.

I flush and slide my phone across the bar top. “What do you need to see then?”

The bulky man crosses his arms over his chest and snorts. “It’s fine. Go on.”

“I got a personal reference for this place. Maybe you don’t do favors now, but once upon a time someone here did, ’cause they helped my dad.” If I’m really going to investigate this angle, I decided it’s better to deal with someone I’ve never had contact with before, rather than criminals I’ve represented in the past. No traceable ties.

He glances at the card and drags it closer with one fingernail, like someone might take a print off it. “Wren, huh?” he muses aloud while reading my name. Abruptly he stands. “My name’s Dodge. Leave your phone with the lady and come with me.”

I push my phone across the bar but take my pint with me, since I paid a small fortune for it, and follow him into a back room. He snaps his fingers at a few guys along the way and they flow after us like grizzly bears looking for honey. Hopefully not any extracted from me.

“This here is ol’ Alistair Wren’s boy, if I’m not mistaken,” Dodge says once the door shuts behind us, locking us in a wood-paneled room decorated with black-and-white photos of old Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

The second man, equally beefy with a spider tattooed under his eye, scans me up and down. “That right? God rest the gent’s soul.”

The younger of the three men thumbs through his phone, leaning his hip on an old table. “Barrister over at Harkman and Laurance,” he reads off the screen. “Currently has a ninety-four-case win streak. Believed to be on track for partnership at the firm.” He chuckles darkly as his gaze flicks up with a calculated look. “Bane of the corporate-crime world.”

I purse my lips. “Don’t recall putting that on my LinkedUp profile.”

The guy grins at me, revealing a couple of black teeth. “Who said that’s where I was searching?” he declares smugly, which reassures me I’m in the right place.

The first guy indicates a chair for me to sit at a round table. “You don’t sound like the kind of man who loses, Callisto, so even though we can’t help you, tell me about this hypothetical favor.” He jerks his chin upward. “And do up your shirt before Jackson here gets any ideas.”

The younger guy grins and licks his lips. “Aww, boss, don’t ruin my fun.”

“No thanks,” I retort, wagging one finger. “My type has less facial hair and nothing dangling between their thighs.”

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