Ch 9: Fool Me Twice

There's a saying. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. It's a simple concept. Don't be an idiot. Learn from your past mistakes. There's writing on the fucking wall. Look at it.

I opened my heart up once. That's dangerous business for a delta with little to no money to his name. In movies, the omegas are the damsels-in-distress, the alphas are knights in shining armor, the betas are comedic relief, the gammas are intelligent if awkward geeks. The deltas? Usually the low-life henchmen of the devious alpha villain. Pathetic, good-for-nothings who get punched by the alpha superhero in his righteous red cape.

People like to pretend that sub-genders don't matter anymore, that we've all moved on to an age of progressivism but as a delta, it creeps up on you in little ways, pricking your skin ever so slightly each time. I saw it in the way my mom would duck her head as she passed a beta on the streets while walking me home. I saw it in the way an omega would sneer at me if I held the door open for them. I felt every part of it when Joe threw me out onto the streets of Portland with a dismissive glance. The way he accused me of leeching off of him for his money.

I saw it on the nights James would silently cry on my shoulder while reminiscing his time with Dominic or talking about the scowls from co-workers at his law firm.

I promised myself that I would be above that. I had Elise, James, Declan, a quiet job at a bar, and Tulach Hills. I'd been looking forward to finally opening the box my dad had given me all those years ago. Then Misha came along. I guess I was missing something.

Misha, the tall, silent beta with curly brown hair that fell over pine green eyes and a gentle smile that brought you ease as he spoke kind words tinged with a soft Russian accent. I forgot what I was around him. Or more so, I only remembered that I was Conrad Fitzroy and not just a delta.

We dated for a year and a half. My clothes would be strewn about his apartment, or his at mine. We'd fall asleep at one another's watching a movie or coming in from a long night with my friends. It didn't seem too far-fetched to ask him, mostly during a drunken episode, if he could move in with me.

It took some wrestling. I still made only a quarter of what he did but I'd be damned if I'd let him pay everything for an apartment. We found something reasonable in Chelsea, and I could eek out enough to pay for a little over half of the rent and utilities. It wasn't big or fancy and the dish washer still needed to be repaired. But life was good. I cooked on the nights we couldn't go out. Long walks down the streets of Manhattan, evenings in Central Park, him watching me as I carved out my latest piece. Everything was perfect like it had once been all those eons ago in Portland. Funny that. History sure had a way of repeating itself. A twisted, aggravating, annoying way.

It was a gradual shift like before. At first, I didn't notice Misha coming home later than usual as the days went on. When I started commenting on it, he'd let me know gently that it was work related. He'd apologize and suggest a movie to watch. Some nights he'd come home to the tune of about 2 in the morning, and I'd give a defeated sigh looking into those guilt ridden eyes. It's not like it was a big deal. We both had lives outside of each other. Things were fine. Truly.

....I guess I knew something was up when he came home one night just as I had finished the dishes. It was jarring. The smell of a foreign odor as the front door creaked open. A rich cologne. Expensive. Maybe it was because it smelled vaguely of Joe on the nights he would go to some high-end gathering. There was a vague hint of something rich on Misha that blurred with the beta musk and the smell of pine cones he usually carried. It wasn't a particularly late night.

I turned to him with a smile. It dropped when I saw the blood. It wasn't a big smattering of blood. Only little droplets that popped out against the paleness of his cheekbones. Maybe that's why he hadn't wiped them off that night. Looking back, the exhaustion visible in his eyes was also cause for concern. He'd clearly slipped up. And that was the first night I would see a hint of something I didn't know about Misha.

"...You gonna tell me about the blood? Was-was it a mugger? Did you file a police report-"

"There's what?" Misha stilled. A look of panic flickered across his eyes. I blinked.

"Yeah...some drops over your face," I replied, more confused than concerned now. How had he missed the blood on his face? "And did you go through some fancy perfume place?" I joked. "You smell like my shitty ex, not gonna lie."

Misha barely seemed to register the words as he bolted to the bathroom. I followed with increasing worry.

"Yo, you ok?" I stopped right at the door as I watched him frantically wipe the blood off. Then he whipped his head to me and smiled. I barely got out a word as he pushed past me.

"Da, I'm fine, ok? I tripped while walking and must have gotten a cut."

My brows shot up. Part of me didn't like the defensive tone that seemed to seep in as he talked, and even less so as he frantically went about, refusing to make eye contact.

"You want me to look at it? Need any stitches-"

"No. I'll slap on a band aid. Go to sleep."

I was at a loss for words. It was bizarre. He hurried to the bedroom like the hounds of hell were spitting fire at his heels.  But I decided not to press any further. Somewhere in my idiotic, romance-filled head, I'd promised to give Misha the benefit of the doubt for anything. Idiotic was too kind of a word to describe it.

So, when did it happen? Or, more-so, what happened?

-8-

The coming home late evolved into us barely speaking to each other. Our work schedules didn't match, I assumed. But that didn't explain the light hint of that strange perfume. Or the night he came home with his trench coat caked in dirt and a bruise on his right cheek. He insisted it was an attempted mugging. And I believed him. Why wouldn't I? He was always so gentle and sweet. And everything was still so perfect.

I went to Tulach more often. The presence of Dominic's men grew and Tony (Freddy Krueger-tire track face) seemed to be the head of them in Tulach. But there was little worry when they hardly bothered us since the day James had gotten that letter a year ago. Tulach was the same as ever, with it quiet streets, tiny shops, and friendly faces. I'd celebrated my 24th birthday surrounded by friends as close as family.

So when did it go wrong? I ask myself that a lot. There wasn't a singular point. Something happened by early January. Misha seemed to dissatisfied. Restless. He'd never dropped the habit of asking about my knowledge of Dominic Seraz or talking about Ross Edwards with Declan. He'd even pester James about Dominic in subtle ways that I saw through as time went on.

We got into small arguments about it. Arguments consisting of Misha apologizing and throwing up his hands, insisting that it was nothing but plain curiosity. He'd kiss me and promise that it would end. I should have known better.

The cracks revealed themselves to me, or I became smarter, cynical, anxious, call it what you want when, on a night in late February, I admitted that I couldn't pay for that month's electricity bill. It had happened once or twice before. It was followed by defeated sighs, disappointed looks, an insistence on his part that he could pay for everything, and I should just let him support us, and "Why are you being so difficult Conrad?". I would grit my teeth. Worry would fester its way into my veins. He's right, I would think. I'm practically poor. Why is he even with me? Someone else could give him a much better place. He was going to leave me.

But then he would see the worry and kiss me and tell me that everything was alright, and I would believe him.

I should have known. God, I'm such an idiot.

-8-

It was a chilly night in early March. Pitch black. The rain didn't make it any better. I was off work. My bike was gone.

"Fuck," I muttered. Someone had stolen it. Broken through the lock and everything. I called Elise. Oh, right. She was out of town for some trade fair. Damn. James let me know that he would be working late with a client. Declan couldn't leave his post at the pub. I was too far, all the way in Manhattan. I cursed again. I could call Misha. Except I hadn't seen him in two days and he hadn't responded.

We'd had a fight. A real fight. I was tired of him being out so late all the time. I was tired of him asking about Ross or Dominic. Even when we were together for those few fleeting moments, Misha's mind was somewhere else. I couldn't take it. I'd lashed out.

But I was getting soaked out in the cold at night, just waiting to get mugged and with no money for a taxi. It wasn't the best idea to bike around with a wallet.

I called Misha. I called him ten times. A feeling of dread felt like it was about to swallow me whole. It suddenly didn't bother me much that I wouldn't be able to get back home without walking. Yeah, it's alright, I thought. I could walk the hour and a half to get home in the dark. Even if I had to go through some of the worst parts of the city. It was Misha I was worried about.

I remembered the last thing I said to him. The anger and the hurt that permeated the air between us. Misha's calm tone as he sighed and said he needed to take a walk. I bit my lip and sucked in a breath. But I knew Misha wasn't the type to stay angry. He was a calm and reasonable adult, a patient ocean to my admittedly, at times, volcanic temper.

So why wasn't he picking up? Something had to be wrong.

I decided to walk home after the 20th call, my heart ready to burst out of my ribcage with anxiety. Hoodie up, trying desperately not to get too soaked by the rain, I ran past shady alleys, run-down apartments and a few stores where I caught sight of many betas and gammas with the same tattoos of blue dragons. Of course Dominic Seraz's men were all over the area at this time. Suffice to say, I avoided making eye-contact.

Before I caught sight of the apartment, I caught sight of Misha's BMW. It was parked off two blocks away like always, hidden among the trees that surrounded the parking space. The rush of relief hit me all at once. I let out a shaky laugh, yelling at myself for getting so worked up. He'd probably lost his phone somewhere. Maybe he was waiting for me to get home? Either way, it was no reason to get worked up.

With a big smile on my face, I walked up to the car. Then I frowned. Confusion washed over me as I stared at another car a few spots away. It was a nice car. A very nice car. Too nice for this neighborhood or anywhere near this apartment. It looked like it belonged to the Upper East Side. Not here. The strangest part was the gamma dressed like a driver sitting in the front seat. A chauffeur probably, waiting for his master while guarding the car. I stopped walking. Quickly, with a sprint, I ducked behind a nearby tree as the man turned to look my way. I really didn't need the police to be called on me. Cops rarely believed a delta accused of wrongdoing even with little evidence.

When he looked away, I jogged past the cars and to the apartment. Ok, so, someone was here. Someone big and important. Nothing to do with me, I thought. Just a curious oddity.

Taking the elevator up, I couldn't help the smile that creeped it's way onto my face. I'd apologize to Misha. We'd kiss and have mind-blowing sex and it would be behind us.

I was soaked to the bone, dripping with water but that didn't stop the excitement as I quietly let myself into the apartment. I'd surprise him, I thought with a goofy smirk. Forget about the shitty apartment and our work schedules for one night.

As I set my keys down, there was a noise coming from the bedroom. Quickly changing into a pair of tight black boxers and a fitting white T-shirt, I tip-toed down the hall.

Halfway to the bedroom, my smile became smaller as I tired to make out the noises. What was Misha doing? It was then that I smelt a fancy cologne. The same, rich, expensive cologne as before. A frown overtook me as I got closer. Suddenly, my heart was beating. Faster and faster. The noises became more apparent. No. No, it couldn't be.

I could barely breath as I got to the door. It was open just a crack. I glanced in. I felt like throwing up. Tears streamed down my face as I tried and failed to process the scene in front of me. The noises were moans. The moans of two people. Misha, pinned to the bed by the arms of an alpha. It looked consensual. My brain made note of all these factual statements because I refused to take in what the scene before me truly meant. To me. To us. To Misha and I and the year and half we'd spent together.

I was caught up in it all. I hardly noticed that I kept leaning forward, trying to get in an eyeful before the door slammed open under my weight and I found myself falling forward. Catching myself, I looked up to see two faces. Misha with a look of horror, and what I thought had to be guilt and the other...the other was Ross fucking Edwards. I'd seen his face plastered all over New York the past year as he'd been moving the family business into the city. On a Times Square screen, in the newspaper, all over the internet. He was just as handsome in real life, looking at me with a quirked, confused brow. Then he smirked. He turned to Misha. They were still in the middle of it.

"Welp, you've got some explaining to do, clearly. I'll see you tomorrow." He was out with a condescending smirk sent in my direction. I thought I almost saw a touch of patronizing pity in his gray eyes.

The room was deathly silent after the slam of the front door.

-8-

"I'm an agent."

"An agent of what?" My voice was hoarse.

"I can't tell you that. What you need to know is that this was a front. I needed to do some work here in New York. I needed a cover story. A new identity." His voice was flat. Disinterested. Uncaring.

"So you picked me?" It came out as a whisper. Everything felt so surreal. We were standing out on a small hill behind the apartment. I stared up at the grimy black and brown sky. Misha's eyes bore into me.

"Yes," he hesitated. "I needed to know more about Dominic Seraz. You were a childhood friend of his. You and James."

A silence rang through. It was eerie and awkward. I looked at the man I had once loved. Still loved.

"And Ross?"

Misha let out a shaky breath. He rubbed his hands together. Like he was feeling guilty. But I knew it was an act this time. It always had been. It must have been force of habit to make himself look guilty.

"He's an...acquaintance. He's been helping me with the mission." An acquaintance. I had the strong urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

"I guess the shitty apartment wasn't enough, huh? Had to get someone with actual money on board so you could take a break." Venom seeped into my voice. I was glaring at my shoes, willing the tears away. Misha didn't reply. Of course he didn't. The world was falling apart around me, and part of me tried to will up some black void to suck me out of here, suck me out existence. And Misha didn't care. He never did.

"Was any of it real?" I asked, my voice a trembling whisper. Another silence. I didn't expect him to answer.

"No," he whispered. I liked to imagine that there was hesitance.

"Then why tell me all this? Any of it? Why not just tell me you found some rich asshole you liked better?" I was shouting. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wake the whole neighborhood.

This time Misha didn't reply. He...seemed at a loss. I liked to think that. I desperately needed to think that it meant something. Anything.

I liked to think there was a limp in his step as he walked away from me. I liked to think that he looked back once. I liked to think that he was thinking about me at all. Even as he left with a "don't tell anyone or you're dead", I liked to think that in some crazy, alternate universe, our time together meant anything at all to him.

I was a fool.

-8-

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