Page 4 of Shaken Knot Stirred

“Moxie,” he said, his tone amused, “you told me to tell you that you said no more quickies in the kitchen.” He made no move tohelp or hinder my battle with the apron. “You know I’m down for it, but I just wanna remind you that you said you’d dock my pay. While this is the best perk of the job, I don’t need you getting all bossy once the afterglow burns out.”

“You know I hired you for the sex and not your cooking, right?” I said.

“Absolutely.” His smile was wide, full of line cook arrogance. He put a hand to his chest. “And I am good at my job. Do you remember the last time I had you bent over the kitchen sink? Customers need to pay for that kind of show.”

I threw my hands up in disgust. He was right. Paying your employee for sex was one thing, getting caught by your customers doing it on the job was something else.

“Fine. We’ll close early,” I said, turning to go back into the bar.

“No can do, Mox. Tonight’s the pack anniversary party.”

“Right, I forgot.”

“You wanna come? We can get up to something scandalous for my dads to complain about.”

The last thing I wanted to do was spend the night with Marty’s birth pack. The less time I spent with alphas and omegas, the better.

“You’re missing out, come on,” he cajoled.

“I don’t even want to spend time withmyfamily. Why would I want to spend time with yours?”

“Oh, come on, the pack is great, lots of kids running everywhere. I’m sure one of my brothers will have some Disco. We’ll get high, and I’ll do you in the hot tub. Gotta earn my paycheck.” He gave me a sly smile and took another sip from the quart container. He was pre-gaming, obviously.

“Why don’t you head out early? I’ll stack those dishes in the sink,” I said over my shoulder as I edged into my itty bitty office.

I shut the door and leaned against it, wrapping my arms around my stomach and squeezing my legs together. I yanked up my skirt and pulled out the stretchy waistband of my panties.

I circled my clit with fast fingers. My slick was doing its job. I’d stopped keeping toys in the office because it was unprofessional. I kicked my head back, waiting for the immediate relaxation to kick in. But it didn’t. My shoulders were still tight and tense, which meant only one thing. This wasn’t garden-variety horniness. This was omega need. I could jerk off all I wanted, use the vast array of toys I had at home, and it would be good, satisfying on one level. My body would relax, but my aura would still be unfulfilled.

My last heat was a couple of months ago. That kind of needy tension shouldn’t be building already. I paid damn good money for a heat helper in a heat hotel far out of the city. You would think with that level of service, satisfaction would last longer.

I pulled open a file cabinet drawer. I kept personal odds and ends in here. A stack of spare panties, a change of clothes, a makeup case, among other things. A pack of slick wipes was right on top. I pulled one out and secured the top tightly again. These were lavender scented. Most omegas preferred the unscented kind, so it wouldn’t clash with their own personal scent and pheromone profile. I did not have that concern. I wiped between my legs quickly and dashed it into the trash. Turning the package over in my hands, I read the little tag line about how it was scientifically proven to lessen slick production. I was pretty sure I was stewing in some kind of chemical soup by using them, but I didn’t care. They were effective.

I tossed the packet of wipes back in and heaved the lockbox out. It was mostly empty. I just used it as a decoy. There was a floor safe where we stashed the till overnight. This lockbox had a couple hundred in it and copies of my fake business license. Imight be stupid enough to pay my employees for sex, but I was not stupid enough to keep actual valuables in this place.

There was a row of amber bottles behind the lockbox. All but one were empty. I popped the top of the pill bottle and shook out half a dozen pills. I reached in the desk drawer for a razor blade and made quick work of cutting the pills into quarters. They were a pretty blue color. I wasn’t exactly sure if this drug had a name. It was all the rage in the underground party scene, designed for alphas and acting like one of those weapons-grade suppressants they used to hose down riots. I had discovered that regular micro-dosing was the most effective of any blocker, street-grade or pharmaceutical, to keep your scent at bay. Nosebleeds seemed to be the only side effect.

I cut the little blue pills into quarters and tipped them into my locket. I ran my fingertip over the engraving, “te cupio.” I snapped the locket closed and tucked it back in my bra. The chain was too long, and if I let it dangle, it ended up in patron cocktails.

It was only here in my little broom closet office that I let myself have warm fuzzies about Nico, my ex-boyfriend, and the night he stole this little folly. We’d been a great team, the con artist and the thief, and I had to go and fuck it all up.

Chapter 3

Moxie

Three sharp bangs onthe door had me ripping my hand out of my panties like I was a teenager getting caught by my parents.

“Low Boy’s all cashed out. It’s just that alpha left in the bar. I’m taking off.” Helena’s voice was barely muffled by the door.

“Me too.” Marty’s voice joined hers.

“Cool. See you tomorrow.” I shouted, frantically cleaning up with a slick-nap and straightening my skirt. I had to get control of myself. I pushed back into the bar just in time to catch the door screaming as it closed.

Book Nerd, no, Alistair, turned yet another page, unaffected by the high-pitched sound. His coffee scent was more prominent now that the place was empty. I grabbed a bar mop and started wiping down tables. As I circled the room, pushing in chairs, I did my level best to avoid even looking at the alpha, with his long fingers cradling that book. I really needed to find a reason to ban him from the Delta Lounge for my own sanity.

A car commercial flashed on the TV above the pool table.

“Damnit Marty. That’s your one job,” I muttered under my breath. That TV was on the fritz, the only one that couldn’t be turned off with a remote. Marty was tall enough to hit the button; both Helena and I needed a step stool, so we always left it to Marty.

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