His Broken Angel (Heaven's Ballroom Book 2) Page 2

  I grabbed it, jamming it onto my head and heading back up front in a jog. As I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the vanity mirrors on my way out, I almost smiled.

  I’d never really considered myself handsome. Not like Anders, definitely—in fact, not really handsome at all. But that whiff I’d gotten of the Mezcal must have gone straight to my head, because for a moment, even I had to admit that I looked pretty good that night. My eyes could’ve been bluer, but they weren’t a bad color of blue. My hair was a mess, straw-colored and all over the place, but it gave me a devil-may-care look that I kind of liked seeing on myself.

  I wasn’t about to go winning any beauty contests, and I certainly wasn’t going to attract a husband based on looks alone. But for a moment, I was willing to entertain the idea that maybe Mr. Mezcal really had liked me when he saw me up on stage, talking trash to table nine and putting them in their place. Maybe he wasn’t just another Andrew or Jason or James—maybe he liked me for, well, me.

  I laughed at myself even as the thought came to me, shaking my head as I pulled myself away from the mirror and out into the crowd. Liking me for me—that was rich. Not even birthday wishes could make that kind of magic happen. Cute fantasy, sure—but in the real world?

  In the real world, things like that just didn’t happen to guys like me. That was Anders’ territory, far, far beyond my reach.

  3

  Nathan

  Carlos sat the Mezcal back down on the bar next to me with an apologetic shrug.

  “Can’t win ‘em all, amigo,” he said, flashing me a sad smile. “Believe me though, I tried.”

  “Fuck,” I groaned, reeling back on my bar stool. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Sorry, buddy.” The bartender mopped a rag across the bar top and shifted the shot of Mezcal a little closer to me. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  I shoved the shot back toward him. “Take it. I need a clear head right now.”

  “Aww. If your ego’s hurt…” Carlos cooed.

  “My ego is not hurt,” I was quick to correct, pointing a finger at him with ferocity. “I just need to figure out how to make this guy notice me. Never could work well drunk.” Not that Don Sterling would’ve ever let me get away with trying. The customers at Sterling Enterprises could rest assured in my dedication to sobriety.

  In a way, catching a man was no different than playing the stock market. First, you picked your target—in my case, I was a go big or go home kind of guy. Then, you did your research—which I had. It didn’t make any difference whether I was reading the financial news, trying to decide whether the latest billionaire dick-pic scandal would affect the markets or not, or whether I was figuring out my current object of affection’s favorite drink.

  But dick-pic scandals, much like shots of Mezcal, didn’t always go over the way you thought they would. I’d bet poorly on the former earlier that morning—it’d been cocky of me to assume that the American public really cared anymore who their billionaire industry leaders were sending pictures of their wangs to. The latter, to my dismay, had been a bust as well.

  But that was the thing men and the markets also had in common: they weren’t easily simplified. I should’ve known better than to try something so pedestrian as sending an Omega like Damon a boring-ass drink. He wanted to play hard-to-get, that was fine by me. I just needed something that would jump out and wow him—something so big and impressive that he had no choice but to pay attention to me.

  I glanced down at my phone on the bar top, then immediately thought better of it. While my own dick pics were nothing short of fine fucking art, for some reason this didn’t seem like the time.

  Instead, I flipped through my messages, letting the drollness of my eternally full inbox scroll before my eyes while I mulled my next move over. Duncan Rourke, one of the finest finance men on Wall Street (as long as you weren’t counting present company), was sending me pictures from The Backdoor—another Omega strip club, but one that could only dream of having the Ballroom’s class and style. He had three strippers draped over him like fabric samples in a tailor’s shop—none of whom, I was proud to admit, were half as good-looking as my target for the night.

  Damon had a face like a Navy SEAL and a body like a Navy SEAL who ate other SEALs for breakfast. He was strong, sensual, with thick wrists that were just begging to be held down against a mattress and lips that desperately needed to be crushed beneath my own. The slender-hipped, waifish thing had never been my type when it came to Omegas—I liked an Omega who looked a little more like a challenge. I didn’t spend hours pumping iron in my private gym every night just to pick up some frail little thing who’d break the second I got him in my arms. I wanted to conquer, and Damon was the kind of man who looked like he could use a good conquering.

  He’d succumb to my charms in the end. They always did. But of course, it would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if he hadn’t been putting up such an inexplicable fight.

  “Nate? What the hell are you doing here?” I recognized the deep baritone of Max Griffin’s voice before he parted the crowd between us, his own handsome Omega tucked beneath his arm.

  “Max!” I grinned, rising to shake my fellow Alpha’s hand. Sterling had been trying to tempt him over to our company ever since Max had left Hayward Financial six months ago. Max had only just recently signed. “Didn’t think I’d see you in a place like this for a good long while.”

  “You might not again,” Max’s Omega—whose name I hadn’t caught yet—said with a coy smile. He ran his hand over his belly, which looked nearly ready to pop. “We’re only here for the night.”

  “Riley, this is Nathan Garnet—the man to beat in the finance game these days.” Max was quick to make the introductions—always a gentleman. I’d heard he came from a rough upbringing, but someone had obviously raised him right. “Nate, meet Riley, my—”

  “Fiancé,” Riley finished, flashing a shining silver ring on his left hand before looking adoringly up at Max. “I know we said we wouldn’t tell anyone yet, but…”

  Max laughed. “But now you’ve told the biggest loudmouth in Manhattan. Half the city will know by midnight.”

  “Hey,” I said, mock offended. Admittedly, I did love a good rumor or two—but Max was Sterling Enterprises family now. I could save the gossip just this once. “Your secret’s safe with me. Scout’s honor.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “If you were a Boy Scout, I’m Tom fucking Hardy.”

  “Fair.” I chuckled, watching the way Riley’s fingers found homes for themselves in the spaces between Max’s. It was a beautiful thing—one that was far beyond my own romantic capabilities, but still sweet to watch nonetheless. “When’d you pop the question, Maxy?”

  The couple shared a devious look.

  “Just a few minutes ago, actually,” Max admitted, a grin that wouldn’t quit plastered across his face. “We, ah…might’ve met here at the Ballroom. Thought I’d remind Riley of where it all began.”

  “I used to dance here,” Riley explained.

  “Is that how you won each other over? With a lap dance?” I tutted, wagging my finger the way my nanny always had when she’d caught me climbing the fence onto the neighbors’ property to play with their dogs.

  “Started with a lap dance.” Max pressed a kiss to Riley’s temple. “I don’t think I really won him over until he saw me smashing Malcolm Hayward’s face against a counter.”

  I threw my head back, roaring with laughter. Everyone had heard of the terms at which Max had been fired from Hayward Financial. Hayward’s nose was still crooked from the encounter—almost as crooked as Hayward himself.

  “Congrats to both of you.” I clapped Max on the shoulder as they drifted toward the door. “See you at work tomorrow?”

  “Better be on your toes,” Max warned me. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a lucky man this week.”

  “I always am.” I watched them go, seeing the way Max wound his hand around Riley’s waist as they m
ade their exit.

  Fuck, that must’ve been nice. Not for me, of course—I’d never met anyone I’d ever be able to see myself settling down with for more than a night or two, let alone a lifetime—but in general, I imagined it was a pretty comforting thing. Having someone to rely on, depend on, someone waiting for you when you came home after a long day…

  It was never going to happen for me, of course, but when I said I was happy for Max and Riley, I meant it. The only person I had waiting for me at the end of the day was my corgi, Lady—but to be fair, she was always happy to see me, which was more than what some people could say. For the time being, I knew I’d just have to be content with what I did have: incredibly persuasive good looks, a bank account with more zeroes than I knew what to do with, and a cock so big I had to order my condoms special-made.

  Somehow, I suspected I’d be just fine.

  Up on stage, the band was plucking out the groovy opening lines of “Light My Fire” by the Doors while a copper-haired hunk in a fireman’s get-up shimmied beneath the weight of his hose across his shoulders. Wolf whistles and cheers rose up every time he removed another part of his outfit until he was wearing nothing but his boots, a G-string, and his fireman’s hat.

  He was handsome, of course—all the dancers at the Ballroom were. But my eyes weren’t so interested in the no-doubt enchanting things he was doing with his hose. I was still itching to see the other dancer again—Damon. Once I’d decided on a conquest for the night, it was hard to let my mind wander elsewhere.

  Unfortunately, when I found him in the crowd, he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as his firefighter friend was.

  I spotted his angel wings first, full and white-feathered as he thrust his shoulders back down by the tables just beneath the stage. His halo was perched atop his head jauntily, and his body was so slick with oil that I couldn’t help but think what he’d look like covered in my cum instead.

  But his brow was turned downward in a scowl, and his lips were pulled back in a snarl. To my disgust, I saw one of the cat-calling jackasses from earlier had grabbed onto Damon’s ass, attempting to pull my dancer into his lap.

  I glanced around for the bouncer, but he was nowhere to be found. And while some of the other patrons looked as though they were uncomfortable with what was happening—the drunken, redheaded Alpha refusing to let Damon go no matter how hard Damon pulled away—no one was actually doing anything about it.

  Fuck.

  I supposed that was my cue.

  I rose from my barstool, heat spinning itself wiry and tense in my chest. I wasn’t thinking—in that moment, rational thought was a luxury afforded to lesser men.

  I claimed the expanse of the Ballroom between Damon and me like Hannibal Barca thundering across the Alps into Rome. By the time I got to the table where he was being grabbed at, my shirtsleeves were rolled up to my elbows and my cufflinks were tucked away safely in my pockets.

  These pricks wanted to get handsy, they could get handsy with me.

  “Let go,” Damon warned the redhead a final time, throwing his hip outward as he struggled to slide out of the Alpha’s grasp.

  “Oh, come on, honey,” the Alpha cooed while his table mates guffawed nastily. “If you weren’t looking for a little sugar, you shouldn’t have come over here dressed like such a treat!”

  My knuckles cracked behind him, fingers curling into fists. It was the only sound of warning the redhead got before I dragged him up out of his seat.

  “Hungry?” I asked, giving him a sharp-toothed grin as I turned him to face me.

  “What the—” the redhead huffed, face contorted in confusion.

  “How about you snack on this?” I suggested—and then I drove my fist so far into his gut that I felt every molecule of air in his lungs leave it in a deep, guttural moan. He hunched over, huffing—then straightened, apparently not willing to go down without a fight.

  In that case, I’d give him one. I dodged the cheap shot he took at my jaw and cracked my knuckles against his brow, feeling the skin split beneath my fist.

  The man dropped forward into his seat just as I kicked it away from me, toppling man and chair both onto the floor. Unfortunately for me, the redhead’s buddies seemed to take some kind of offense to the way I’d just disabled their loud-mouthed friend. They rose, rolling up their own sleeves as they prepared to teach me some kind of lesson—or so they thought.

  Whatever. I didn’t start fights that I wasn’t prepared to finish. But as I squared my shoulders and cracked my neck, ready to take all three of them on at once, I felt a strong arm hook beneath mine, dragging me away before I got a chance to complete the lesson I was planning on teaching them.

  “Hey—what’s the big idea?”

  I glanced over to the man who was pulling me away from the table, expecting to see the bouncer. Instead, I was met by a pair of cornflower blue eyes, clear as a summer day.

  Bluest fucking eyes I’d ever seen.

  “Stopping you from getting your ass beat,” Damon huffed, yanking me back as the Ballroom’s bouncers closed in around the table full of jackasses. “What kind of idiot tries to take on three men at once?”

  I opened my mouth to answer him, but found that I could only grin. Damon. I hadn’t thrown that punch to get his attention, but apparently, I had it now.

  “The kind of idiot that was trying to get you to notice him,” I said with a smirk as Damon marched me out through one of the emergency exits.

  “Yeah, well…” Damon sighed, slamming the door behind us as we poured out in the cool city breeze. “You’ve got my attention now.”

  4

  Damon

  “I’m Nathan. Nathan Garnet.” The man’s grin was impossible, unrelenting as he dragged his fingers through the inky black waves of his hair before offering me his hand to shake. “I’ve been trying to buy you a drink all night.”

  Nathan Garnet. He had one of those names that left me practically tasting his entitlement as I weighed it on my tongue. He was cocky, persistent, and goddamn—he knew how to throw a punch.

  I’d never met a more infuriating jackass in my entire life.

  “Damon Bishop,” I returned, staring at his hand without shaking it. He had rough palms for a man with such a fancy name. Calluses ridged across his skin beneath his fingers, suggesting that he knew what physical labor felt like—although judging by the cut of his suit, that was a lie. “I’ve been turning you down.”

  He laughed, a sharp, Playboy sound that lit up his entire face. “I’ve noticed.”

  “And yet…” I raised an eyebrow.

  “And yet, here I am.” He shrugged. “Must’ve taken a fancy to you or something.”

  Overhead, the night sky was so clouded over, I couldn’t even see the moon. The city lights painted the clouds a dull, muted navy. They called New York the city that never slept; it rendered our heavens perpetually starless.

  But I didn’t need the constellations or the Milky Way to tell me that whatever Nathan Garnet wanted from me, things between us were star-crossed from the start. For one thing, he liked me a whole hell of a lot more than he should have. He was a regular Wall Street Adonis, all shiny shoes, sleek hair and clever eyes. And me—well, I wasn’t much to look at. My muscles were just a distraction. Beyond them, I knew how plain I was.

  For another, I’d met enough men like Nathan before to know better than to be flattered by his advances. I’d known it when he started sending me drinks; seeing him standing here in person only verified what I’d already suspected. He was the kind of man who was used to getting what he wanted, which only made me want to tell him to fuck off even more. I wasn’t just something to be owned—I was my own damn person. I didn’t need his approval or his affections.

  On the other hand, he’d saved me from the jerks at table nine. Telling him to fuck off after he’d thrown punches on my behalf—well, it just wouldn’t have been polite, and my fathers had raised me right.

  “Look,” I began, crossing my arms over
my bare chest to fend off the coolness of the breeze. “I appreciate what you did back there. I’ll be sure to mention it to Foster—he owns the place. He’ll be happy to comp you for the trouble—free drinks, VIP table, whatever you want.”

  Nathan raised his dark, thick brows and took a step closer to me. “And if I’m not interested in free drinks?”

  I blinked. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not on the menu tonight.”

  “Birthday privileges, huh?”

  My eyes narrowed. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

  “Someone mentioned it.” He cocked his head to the door we’d just exited. “Why don’t you go throw your clothes back on and let me take you out for dinner? Least I can do to make up for the way those dicks were treating you.”

  “What part of not on the menu don’t you understand?”

  He laughed. “Then let’s go somewhere with a different menu. Birthday treat—I’ll buy.”

  I hugged my arms around me a little tighter, all too aware of the way he was looking at me. Not my body—I’d spent enough years dancing at the Ballroom to know a pair of wandering eyes when I saw them. No, he was playing the perfect gentleman—or as much of a gentleman as a man like him could muster. But he was staring at my mouth like an actor waiting for his cue. I supposed in his mind, I should’ve been swooning in his arms, lips gently parted so he could lay a kiss on them.

  Unfortunately for him, I was working from a different script.

  “I’ve got a shift to finish,” I explained, shouldering past him. “Thanks again.”

  Before I could get to the door, though, he stepped in front of me again.

  “You’re shaking,” he pointed out.

  I glanced down at my hands. He was right.

  “Yeah, well. It’s cold out here.”