Legally, he didn’t have to leave me anything, and while we weren’t close after the divorce, when I was younger, I’d spend every second weekend with Father. The husband made himself scarce when I was around. Not that he left the house. Nope, he stayed in one wing and there were rules about where I could go. Often, I stayed in my room doing homework or playing video games while Father worked.
The nurse called my dad’s name, and I held him while he got to his feet. I smiled, but it probably didn’t meet my eyes. His pale cheeks and ragged breath were a source of worry, and if we hadn’t been at the hospital, I would have raced him to the ER.
“How are you today, Mr. Davidson?” I studied the doctor’s face. Yep, he had his commiserating face in place, all ready to go.
Dad had kept Father’s name after the divorce because it was my name too, but since my father’s death, we’d discussed him reverting to his own name and me giving Davidson the chop. Maverick, Dad’s family name, was my middle one.
“I have your test results.”
I reached for Dad’s hand. I focused on individual words rather than sentences. Words such asbypass surgeryandblocked arteriesin big red uppercase letters stuck in my mind as the doctor droned on.
“And what if I don’t have the surgery?” He pulled out sheets of paper from his pocket. “It says here medications can be just as effective, if not more so. And this surgery is risky.”
Dad had done his research while I’d been biting my nails, thinking of the money we’d need for doctors and refusing to contemplate a worst-case scenario.
The doctor nodded.
Here we go. More doctor speak.
“True for some patients, but for you, surgery is the only option.”
He let that sink in until I reminded him we had no insurance. His deer-in-the-headlights expression told me he’d not remembered that, and the tapping on the computer keyboard confirmed it.
“How much?” I hated that I had to ask. As much of an asshat as Father was, he wouldn’t have quibbled at paying this. Before his death, he’d spoken fondly of Dad, suggesting there might be problems in his new marriage.
The doctor printed out a list of the expenses, and I ran my finger down the list, stopping at his enormous fee.
We can’t pay this. Not if I work my dead-end jobs and save every dollar. But if I don’t, Dad will die.
Chapter 2
Opening Night
Devyn
“You may go.”
I took a step back, looking down at the omega who had been fiddling with my jeans. I didn’t know his name, although he knew mine. Somehow, it made the entire scene unfolding before me ten times as bad.
I wasn’t an asshole, and I wasn’t trying to be a dick by sending him away. I wasn’t that alpha, the kind who messed with omegas simply because they could, the kind who relished in their despair, the kind who would let a random omega suck him off in a feeble attempt to catch my attention.
Alphas in my circle might pride themselves on that fuckery, but I didn’t. And I certainly would not stand here and take advantage of drunk omegas, and this guy was very drunk, high, or possibly both. Even if I had been into him, which I wasn’t, he’d have been out of the question for tonight.
“But you said you liked my smile.” Onlysmilecame out slurred, and he closed his eyes mid-sentence, as if trying to stop the room from spinning.
“Let me find you a ride home.”
One that would not let him come to harm. Today had already been a cluster as it was. Adding an omega being harmed because I didn’t make sure they were safe… that wasn’t something I wanted heaved onto the pile of yuck the day had already created.
I opened the office door, the one he had, unbeknownst to me, followed me into, and stepped into the art gallery. I’d come inside for some peace, to break away from the snobbery and ass-kissing that events like these required. That was a fail.
This was supposed to be my break-out show. According to the owner, Roger, I was going to walk away from tonight with my paintings sold, my name on the lips of everyone important in the art world, and the world at my feet.
Instead, I was gifted a pounding headache, a drunk omega who needed tending to, and a bunch of people who were more interested in the gossip surrounding my trust fund being cut and people like this guy, who thought they could use the event to get close to someone “famous,” although infamous was probably more like it.
Why did I think this was a good idea? Because I had no choice. That was why.
Turning down a show at a prestigious gallery was hammering a nail into the coffin of your career. Sure, you could regroup if you did it once and they could brush it off as being eclectic or what have you, but I would not fit into that mold. I was firmly in the spoiled rich kid, black sheep, wonder what he will do next slot of society. I couldn’t even argue solidly that I didn’t deserve the description. Truth was, I sort of did.
