005: Brooks

Brooks

I’d known this woman for exactly forty-five minutes, and I was already questioning my sanity.

Fake dating. What an absolute nightmare.

My car was usually my sanctuary—quiet, and strictly my own space. Now, the air was filled with a distressed Omega scent that told me exactly how much she didn't want to be here.

I kept my eyes strictly on the road, drumming my fingers lightly on the leather steering wheel. I hated forced conversation, and I assumed she did too.

But a few blocks in, she let out a heavy sigh and turned her head to look at me.

“You don't have to look so miserable,” she muttered.

“I'm not miserable,” I replied, keeping my voice flat. “I'm just calculating how much of my sanity this publicity mess is going to cost me.”

She scoffed, looking back out the window. “Then why did you agree to it?”

“I didn't.”

She glanced back at me, waiting for the rest.

“I was cornered,” I explained, stopping at a red light. “You heard Sarah, the league is threatening a suspension because I'm that 'jerk' and my 'temper' is apparently bad for the brand. Matter of fact, I don't care if the media likes me. I just need them off my back so they let me play.”

I shifted my foot off the brake as the light turned green. “What about you? You could have walked out of Dean's office and we wouldn't be here right now. Why didn't you?”

She hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “Because I need the job.”

I raised an eyebrow. Most people who got tangled up in my world wanted the spotlight, the money, or the status.

“You want to work for the Wolves team that badly?” I asked.

“I want to work in sports medicine,” she corrected me, a bitter edge slipping into her tone. “But every time a clinic or sports franchise sees my Omega status, I get the door slammed in my face. Alphas get their careers handed to them because of their biology. I have to fight for mine. So yes, I need the job.”

I knew what it was like to have people assume my life had been handed to me simply because I was an Alpha. Apparently, she thought the same thing. Though I knew better than most that being an Alpha didn't mean life was easy.

I didn't bother correcting her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her screen light up. She checked her phone quickly, and a heavy, painful disappointment washed over her face when she saw it was empty. She locked it and shoved it deep into her bag.

“Ex?” I asked.

Her head snapped toward me, defensive and sharp. “That is none of your business.”

“Never said it was.”

She crossed her arms, pulling into herself. “Whatever this arrangement turns into,” she warned, “I'm not interested in being one of those puck bunnies hanging off your arm for attention.”

A dry laugh escaped me.

“You're the one assuming I want you hanging off my arm.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You kissed me.”

“For the cameras,” I said.

“Good.” Her answer came instantly. “Then keep it that way.”

I turned the corner onto her street, and the argument died in my throat. Her building was swarming. There were at least a dozen paparazzi crowding the entrance, their cameras ready.

The news hasn't even hit the New York Times, yet.

She gasped softly, shrinking back into her seat. She wasn't used to this.

I shifted into park, killed the engine, and got out. I walked around the hood, ignoring the blinding camera flashes, and pulled her door open. I held out my hand.

She just looked at it. “What?”

“We're supposed to be dating,” I reminded her.

She stared at my hand like it was a trap. “Right.”

Slowly, she reached out and took it. It was our first voluntary touch. Her hand felt incredibly small in mine, her fingers cold. I noticed it for a split second, then immediately dismissed the thought.

The paparazzi surged forward like a pack of wolves.

“Brooks! Is it true that she is your girlfriend?”

“Are the rumors true?! What about Miss Quinn then?”

I wrapped my arm firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against my side to shield her from a microphone that got too close. She instantly went rigid as a board.

“Relax,” I muttered close to her ear.

“You're enjoying this,” she whispered back through a tight, fake smile.

“Not even slightly.”

I shot a freezing glare at the nearest reporter. “Yes. She's my girlfriend. Now back off.”

Ashley looked up at me, her eyes wide, like hearing me say it out loud had startled her. But she quickly looked away, staring straight ahead as we pushed through the heavy glass doors of her lobby.

The noise cut off instantly.

She let out a long, shaky exhale. I looked down and realized her small hands were still tightly gripping the fabric of my jacket. I had let go of her waist the second we were inside, but she was still holding onto me.

I wasn't the type to tolerate clinginess. But seeing her shake, I just let her hold on.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

She quickly dropped her hands, her cheeks flushing. “Yes. I'm fine.”

I smirked slightly but didn't call her out on the lie. I just gave the lobby guard a sharp look. “Don't let anyone from the press upstairs.”

We stepped into the elevator in silence. When we finally reached her floor, she dug her keys out of her purse. I stood behind her, waiting to make sure she got inside safely before I headed back to my car.

But as she pushed the key into the lock, the door drifted open on its own.

I stepped closer to her back. “You live alone?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, looking completely confused.

I reached out to push her behind me, but before I could, a voice called out from inside.

“Ashley?”

She froze. The blood drained entirely from her face.

I looked down at her. “Who is that?”

She didn't answer. Though her hand trembled slightly as she pushed the door the rest of the way open.

A guy was standing in the middle of her living room. He wasn't some intruder. He was dressed in expensive, flashy clothes, holding a folder in his hand. He had the arrogant posture of a guy who thought he owned the place.

But when his eyes landed on me, standing right behind Ashley, “Who the hell is he?” he demanded.

I stepped forward, putting myself slightly in front of her. My arm went around her waist again, pulling her back against my side.

The man’s expression hardened.

I didn't know who he was.

I didn't particularly care.

But the way Ashley had gone completely still told me enough.

“Her boyfriend,” I said.

His gaze swept over me again, this time with something closer to disbelief.

“Brooks Wayne?”

His eyes moved from me to Ashley, then back to me.

“You’re dating him?”