"Oh, fuck you."
We eat for a while, and then my mind drifts to something my brother, Storm, texted me yesterday.
"Actually, I do have something interesting to say! My cousin Gabriel, you know, the eco-terrorist one? He got himself into deep shit right after the college year ended. He and his little group of broccoli-eating activists broke into a Malden Pharmaceuticals lab. They torched it but didn’t know the night cleaning crew was still inside. Six people could’ve died, some were injured. He’s being blamed for the whole thing, and he’s in serious shit."
Martin raises his eyebrows. Guess I shared something that got his attention, after all.
"No kidding? That company’s CEO, Blue Lowen, pretty much holds the record for most attempts on his life, or on his labs. People hate him for, like, a thousand reasons…"
"Yeah, he’s a weird one. My uncle Van’s trying to figure out a way to get in touch with him, to beg for some kind of leniency for Gabriel. One of my brothers works for Blue’s brother, so they’re hoping they can get through somehow."
"Maybe they need legal representation?" Martin flashes a grin. Of course his family would jump at the chance. For a nice fat fee.
"Thanks, but my uncle can’t afford that. He’s a retired cop," I mutter. "Gabriel’s on his own."
"Well, if you say so. My dad would love to take on a case involving Blue Lowen himself. That kind of lawsuit gets media attention. We’d get our name out there…"
"God, Martin, do you evernotthink about business? I’m telling you my family shit and you’re likehow can I make money off this. That’s fucked up."
He shrugs. "I’m just offering help, calm your ass. If it weren’t for idiots like your cousin, my family wouldn’t be making money. People just need lawyers."
I feel a wave of irritation but force it down, staring out the window, redirecting my thoughts to something more relaxing than his smug face.
The view is of the ocean, and I lose myself in the vast blue space and the birds flying high. Summer’s starting to kick in. I might try some nice beach shots soon. People love my pictures in speedos. Some new followers always show up when I present my flawless abs.
The waiter slides the door open to the terrace, and a blast of warm air rolls in. It hits me like a memory.
Hot wind, a roaring bike, me on the back, Dogger at the front. We spent so many summer days riding all over the state. Yeah. No longer on my schedule.
Now my life’s all modeling gigs, posting on Insta, and the occasional jam session with my band. Though even that’s fading out. High school ended a few weeks ago. Everyone’s going their separate ways. I’m heading to college. They’re scattering across the country.
And now? I’m stuck with a boring law student, aka trust fund baby, Martin.
Ever since Dogger, I haven’t felt that spark with anyone. All my flings have just… been. Nothing special. No thrill, no butterflies. They come, they go, I don’t miss any of them.
I’m just about to tell Martin we should call it quits when he tilts his head slightly and locks eyes on a group walking into the dining room.
Right from the entrance, the waiters swarm them like excited flies, guiding the guests into one of the fancy glass booths reserved for the pickiest VIPs.
They’re practically bowing to one of the guys.
He's a Beta, probably in his forties, of average height, with a slim build and black slicked-back hair. His face is unreadable, handsome in that cold, austere way. He acts like he doesn’t see anyone else in the room.
Next to him is another beta, this one overweight and visibly nervous, talking nonstop, gesturing wildly, clearly trying to get the guy’s attention, but Mr. Slick Hair doesn’t even blink.
He sits, picks up the menu, and starts reading it like he’s completely alone.
Following behind them are two alphas, both around thirty, maybe a little younger. Also black-haired and dressed in sharp suits. One has a long scar under one eye. His gaze sweeps over the restaurant like we’re all bugs as he takes his seat.
Next to him sits a massive alpha, probably something like seven feet tall, with a face that’s either completely indifferent or just plain bored. His eyes also sweep across the room, but differently, more like he’s sizing everyone up, calculating.
The whole group gives off this standoffish vibe, like they’ve all been constipated for a week straight.
"Holy shit, what a stiff-ass crew," I mutter under my breath and go back to my food.
The guys are flipping through the menu, but Martin’s sitting there with his mouth half-open.
"Are you serious, Sun? You don’t know who that is?"
