Page 1 of His Problem Alpha
Devon
Of course, the exact moment my client finally says the magic words—"we love the direction"—is the moment the bass drop from hell rattles my teeth.
"That's fantastic to hear," I say, my smile so forced it’s practically a grimace. The laptop on my thighs shakes with each percussive thud. "I'm thrilled you're connecting with the concept."
My client—Marissa from the eco-friendly soap company with the budget of a lemonade stand and the expectations of a multinational corporation—tilts her head on the Zoom call. "Is everything okay there, Devon? Sounds like you're in the middle of an earthquake."
"Just some minor construction next door," I lie, angling my body to shield the camera from the view down our narrow hallway. At any moment, six-foot-two of pure, unadulterated inconsideration might emerge from his den, and I can’t affordfor Marissa to see the source of the "construction." "Nothing to worry about."
The music, some kind of industrial death metal that sounds like a terminator having a seizure in a cutlery drawer, cranks up another ten decibels. Because of course it does.
Marissa winces, her perfectly curated millennial-pink background blurring behind her. "Maybe we should reschedule—"
"No!" I blurt, my voice a full octave too high. I rein in the desperation, smoothing my expression into something resembling professional calm. "I mean, it's absolutely fine. So you're happy with the logo options? Because I can make any adjustments you need before finalizing the—"
The apartment door slams open behind me. I don’t need to turn around. The air in the room instantly changes, thick with that special asshole alpha energy that makes my teeth ache. A scent of stale coffee and something uniquely, irritatinglyhimrolls through the living room.
"Devon!" Alex's voice booms over the screeching guitars. "Where's my external hard drive?"
I hit the mute button on my laptop so fast I nearly crack the screen and spin around. "I'm in a client meeting," I hiss, gesturing wildly at my computer, at my face, at the general concept of employment.
Alex Matthews, roommate from hell and the bane of my existence, stands there looking like he just rolled out of bed at—I check the time: 2:37 in the afternoon. His dark hair is a glorious disaster, his worn band t-shirt has holes in places that are probably intentional, and I hate that the shadow of stubble along his jaw looks good on someone so fundamentally irritating.
He doesn't lower the volume on the portable speaker he's holding. Of course he doesn't.
"I need my drive," he repeats, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through the floorboards. "The black one with the red stripe."
"I don't have your drive. I don't touch your stuff. Now can you please—"
"Devon?" Marissa's tinny voice calls from the laptop. "I think you're muted?"
I whip back around, plastering on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in two. I unmute. "So sorry about that. As I was saying—"
Alex cranks the volume even higher. I can feel the bass physically vibrating the couch under me, thrumming up my spine. My blood pressure is spiking. I can feel the carefully constructed wall of my professional persona crumbling, brick by painful brick.
"Actually," Marissa says, her hand fluttering to her ear like she's in physical pain, "let's continue this tomorrow when it's quieter. Send me an invoice for today's time."
"No, wait—" But she's already waving a polite goodbye, her face disappearing in a pixelated swirl.
The call ends. My potential paycheck for the next month, gone with it.
I sit very still for three seconds, letting the rage build until I can't hold it in anymore.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I whirl around to face Alex, who's now digging through a pile of tangled cords on the coffee table like a raccoon in a dumpster. "That was a client call! Do you have any concept of what that means? People who pay me? So I can pay my half of the rent? On this shithole we share?"
Alex barely glances up, his intense green eyes flicking to me with spectacular disinterest. "Should've taken the call in your room."
"My room has the lighting of a medieval dungeon, which you'd know if you ever emerged from your cave before sunset." I get to my feet, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Eighteen months. Eighteen months of your rotting food in the fridge—like that mystery container that actually grew fur—your 'borrowing' my coffee without replacing it, your middle-of-the-night hookups banging the headboard against my wall—"
That gets his attention. His eyes narrow for a split second before he scowls. "Jealous?"
"Of what? The parade of regrettable decisions stumbling out of your bedroom at four in the morning? Hardly."
I absolutely do not think about the last guy I saw leaving Alex's room. Tall. Built. Looking dazed like Alex knew exactly what he was doing. And I definitely don't notice the marks on the guy's neck or imagine Alex's hands—those long, calloused fingers—putting them there. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.
"Look," Alex says, finally turning down the music by a token amount, "I need to finish this mix by tonight. Some of us have actual deadlines."
"Some of us have actual jobs," I snap back.
