Page 3 of Alpha's Touch
With a shake of his head, Ash turned toward the leader. “What can I get you, Zeppelin?”
Zeppelin. Preston was never going to wash his ears again.
“Cold beer, Ash.” Zeppelin smirked as he stared at Preston, like he was used to shorting out someone’s brain.
Pull yourself together. You’re making him think you’re a moron. Preston blinked several times, like a crashed computer rebooting. “Hi,” he squeaked, embarrassing himself even more.
Zeppelin’s smirk widened. “New guy?”
“First night,” Ash answered for Preston, who was apparently too brain-dead to speak for himself. “Preston, meet Zeppelin. Zeppelin, this is Preston. Try not to break him on his first shift.”
Preston could only manage a nod toward the man of his dreams. Words seemed like an impossible concept.
Ash grabbed a beer from the cooler and popped it open, sliding it across the bar. Zeppelin caught it without looking away from Preston.
“Thanks.” He took a long pull from the bottle, and Preston’s eyes tracked the movement of his throat.
Snap out of it. The guy's just drinking beer, not performing surgery. Preston was completely and utterly wrecked by this man. A guy he’d caught a thirty second glimpse of on the street.
“You gonna stare all night, or can I get some service over here?” someone called from down the bar.
Heat settled beneath Preston’s collarbone, all because of that soft, sideways grin. Yeah. Other customers. Who weren’t walking sex gods in leather.
Zeppelin chuckled, a low sound that made Preston’s knees go weak. “Better take care of your customers, new guy.”
Preston nodded like a bobblehead and stumbled toward the waiting customer, nearly tripping over his own feet. Behind him, he heard Ash mutter something about “hopeless cases.”
The rest of the shift blurred together. Preston poured drinks, wiped tables, and tried not to combust every time Zeppelin looked in his direction. Which happened more than it should have for a guy he thought was straight.
Or maybe Preston was imagining things.
Around midnight, the crowd started thinning out. The bikers were still there, nursing their drinks and talking in low voices. Preston was loading glasses into the dishwasher when he felt someone watching him.
He turned around. Zeppelin stood at the end of the bar, empty bottle in hand.
“Another?” Preston’s voice only cracked a little this time. Progress.
“Nah. I’m good.” Zeppelin set the bottle down. “You always this jumpy around customers?”
His voice was smoky, like embers glowing in the dark—soft and dangerous.
Preston’s laugh came out strangled. Maybe by closing time he could actually die from all the embarrassment he was experiencing. “Normally, no.”
A teasing, sideways grin from Zeppelin made breathing harder. “So, does that make me special?”
It will tonight when I fantasize about you. “Nope.”
Zeppelin’s smirk rearranged the rhythm of Preston’s pulse. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”
Preston pretended to check the time, even though he already knew it. “Yep.” Liar.
A slow inhale flared Zeppelin’s nostrils, his eyes darkening as if he could already taste Preston. A strange look crossed his face before it vanished, making Preston wonder if he’d actually seen it. “Okay then. I’ll let you get back to it.”
What just happened?
Zeppelin turned and sauntered back to his booth, and Preston could’ve sworn his ribs loosened, like they were finally given permission to breathe. He managed to keep his cool right up until Zeppelin looked back and gave a wink that made Preston want to run in the opposite direction.
That wink was a crime against gay men with vivid imaginations and no survival instincts.
