Holly Ch. 03

The ad had said "quietish," so Holly takes care when going down the hardwood stairs. He imagines that, even barefoot, a grown man in a rush would sound like a stampede to a solitary omega. MK's door remains closed. Could she still be asleep? She had said that she sleeps a lot. He realizes he'll have to find out how long she can be sequestered before he should check on her. He'd hate for something to happen to her while he was just across the hall waiting to be needed.

This concern and all other thoughts are blown away like dry leaves when he finds her standing in the kitchen looking so beautiful in the morning light. She wears a nutbrown cashmere dress that is modest and chic yet still beckons to be petted. It outlines her form without clinging to it. Her hipbones look like they'd hurt, as Holly is slim in the hips, too. Her ass is still tight and rounded, suggesting she must have been fit before the accident. The soft material falls straight down from the curve to flare just below the knee so it swings prettily. Her strawberry brown hair is up in a neat, loose bun reminiscent of a Victorian lady. No makeup or jewelry, her only decorations are an embroidered shawl draped around her shoulders and a small tattoo toward the back of her slender neck.

"Wow. You look killer," he observes. If it hadn't been a blurted, spontaneous compliment, Holly would be at a loss for words.

Her head whips in his direction, hand flies to her collarbone. "Oh! Oh, good morning. Did you sleep well? Everything all right with the room?"

Hmm. Maybe she'd forgotten he was even here. That would be funny, considering the way he'd obsessed over her, he thinks.

"Yeah, I slept good, thanks. You?"

She shakes her head, looking a bit frazzled despite being so well put together. A wisp of hair falls down her back. "Would you believe I was suddenly wide awake at three AM and remembered the bake sale? I'm just glad I had the ingredients for these. Time got away from me, I guess-today is the first Sunday of Advent."

She stands at the end of the long kitchen island before a barricade of loaves wrapped in red and green clingfilm. "It's a sin to use this much plastic," she sighs, "but I didn't know how else they could sell them."

Holly realizes she wasn't kidding about being a Catholic. "Did I forget that I'm driving you to church? I can be ready in two minutes, no problem."

"No, no. I'd have told you. And if I forgot," she taps her head, "that would be my fault. No, the van that gets the ancient ones has me on their route. They pick me up for Mass every Sunday. Hey, I know you just woke up, but would you taste one of these for me? I'm not really supposed to have it."

"Yeah, love to," he replies. His eyes follow her as she reaches to get him a mug from a cupboard. She pours him hot coffee that smells rich and smooth, slices a loaf, and slides the cutting board his way. She watches him as he takes a bite and chews her bottom lip.

He can see why she needed an opinion; the smell of spiced rum punches him in the nose, but the cake is moist and delicious. "Well, it's not for children, but it tastes really good. What is it?" he asks.

"Ha! That's probably not a great sign. It's supposed to be a fruitcake," she chuckles.

"Oh, of course. I asked because I don't hate it. I'd eat this any time of year."

She gives him a pleased smile to quicken his pulse. "My secret is chutney made from real tropical fruit. I don't use those plasticky fruitcake pieces because I'm not entirely sure what they are. I figure, why bake in your own kitchen to make something that might as well come from a big factory?"

"So this is all-natural?" he asks.

"Uh-huh. No bleached anything, either."

"Good, I can have some more," he replies and her smile increases as she watches him take another bite and is sure he enjoys it.

He hopes he didn't give anything away. A/os are all highly allergic to artificial food additives. Some even think that the American diet is a plot to wipe them out. Holly is not that conspiracy-minded but does recall being at the supermarket with Mama when he was little. As they walked the aisles in search of their plain, simple foods she'd whispered to him, "And betas all wonder why they're fat and sick." Though they were technically poor, she always kept them well-fed on homemade staples like rice and beans and stews from the meat they hunted together. Fresh orange juice was the sweet treat in their house instead of candy. And of course, wild berries in the summer...

"Much better than store-bought," he declares with his mouth slightly full. "So this raises money for your church?" He's seen pictures of the Vatican dripping in gold and is a little confused why its far-flung parishioners would be up baking in the middle of the night.

"Yeah, all month we'll have bake and craft sales to raise money for the Christmas dinner for the community. It's quite a big deal and the food is amazing! It's a 'pay what you can' set-up and even people with money come and eat at the tables with people who obviously can't pay. It's a beautiful thing. It's also way more fun than any Hollywood party I was ever dragged to and I don't even like to leave the house. And no one will Jesus on you, promise."

"Sounds nice. Maybe I can take you this year."

"Really? Did I sell you on it? Wait 'til you try the old Italian ladies' lasagne." Her enthusiasm fizzles out. "Of course, I can't really make plans in advance... I never know when I'll have one of my worse days. But now that you know about it, you can tell your friends. It's the best Christmas dinner in town."

'She's so sweet. I have to find a way to help her,' he thinks.

She looks at the time. "Shit. I'd better get ready. They'll be here any minute now." She packs the cakes into a giant canvas tote, which Holly carries for her as they walk to the foyer. She sits down on the quaint bench, and maybe it's the competing effects of strong coffee and boozy cake for breakfast, but what she does next catches him off-guard. He's not expecting an answer to one of last night's questions so soon.

MK lifts her hem a little to reveal the upper part of her prosthetic leg. It's shiny black and shaped a little like the fuel tank on a Harley. She presses a silver button of the kind in elevators. It makes a hissing sound.

"Ah!" he exhales softly, but she hears it.

"It's kind of cool, right? It stays on by a vacuum seal. It's easier to take it off to put on my shoes." As she fits the leg into a supple leather boot that will look great with her outfit, she continues. "This condom-looking thing rolls on over the stump to protect my skin and get a better fit... 'Stump' isn't the preferred word, but I call it that. 'Residual limb' is the proper term, in case you were wondering."

In his peripheral vision, Holly sees that her amputation was above the knee. It doesn't feel appropriate to stare at hidden parts of her body. Not yet. "I was kind of wondering how it works. It is cool."

MK stands with a knee-high boot on her good leg. She hops a few times on the prosthetic to work the stump into the socket, then presses the button again. "Piece of piss, as they say in England," she says cheerfully. She dons an indigo wool dress coat and chooses a walking stick with an ornate handle. "This, I don't actually need most of the time, but I think it looks distinguished," she chuckles.

They hear the van crunching its way up the drive. When Holly moves to get her heavy bag for her, she stops him. "Oh, no, no. Now you hide," she says, looking at him intently. He's almost positive she's getting her words mixed up again. 'Hide,' can't be what she means.

"What?"

"Holly, it's Sunday morning, you're a handsome man with bedhead, and I'm an unmarried woman," she whispers. Was that a little wink he caught?

"Oh, right. Catholic people." He backs into the living room. "Um, is there anything I can do for you around here while you're out?" he asks.

"Nope. It's your day of rest... so rest," she says in a maternal tone. She opens the door and calls out to the driver. A few seconds later, Holly hears them exchange pleasantries. He sounds like a nice teenage do-gooder. Then he listens to the van drive away.

He sits down on the brand new loveseat to collect his thoughts for a moment. He looks around. There's a matching armchair in the corner against the staircase. The opposite wall has a fireplace, not in use at the moment, and above it, there's a flatscreen of an appropriate size for the tiny hobbit-like room. The opposite wall has built-in bookshelves to the ceiling, which are full with some books resting sideways atop the others. The coffee table is a cross-section of a tree trunk, heavily varnished to a honey color, with some entertaining books neatly stacked and a little tray of candles and a deck of artsy Tarot cards.

If he were the kind of person to "rest" this would be the ideal place.

He thinks about the morning so far. He got what he wanted and is not disappointed. Holly likes the way MK has the undercurrent of a laugh in her voice when she talks about herself. It's like she sees everything about her life as some elaborate joke and she's letting him in on it. He admires her religious devotion and also how she seems to have a sense of humor about that, too. He wonders if that indicates she was born and raised or that she's a recent convert. And he likes most of all that she called him "handsome." He's been called cute before, but really, "pretty," might be more accurate. Holly doesn't care much about his looks except for what they might mean for him and MK. She imagined someone could mistake them for lovers and he likes that, too.

The smell of sunlit snow is calling to him, even indoors. It's the type of winter day to be outside. A walk in the woods is more his kind of resting than sitting around. He can make it his first patrol of her land-no need to wait for the thaw, as she'd said, but he knows she probably thinks with her limitations in mind.

Full of purpose, he rises and dashes up the stairs to his room. He dresses in his hunting boots and jacket, knit cap and fingerless gloves, and slings his rifle across his back. He doesn't intend to shoot anything today but figures that if he encounters any trespassers, telling them to get off her land might carry more weight if he's armed. Around his neck, he wears his camera. He feels sure MK likes nature photography as much as he does and it can also show her parts of her world she can't see herself, so can count as a personal gift.

Holly walks straight for the treeline behind the house. He realizes he has no idea where the house is located on her property or if the borders are marked. He might end up the trespasser. Well, he'll just see what he sees and ask her about it tonight... when he shows her some pretty pictures to make her happy.

The glare of the snow is dazzling. It's too bright to be out without sunglasses, but in the woods he's fine. The scent of evergreens and crisp air makes him tingle all over as if something good is about to happen. It's wonderfully quiet like nature has gone introspective in between shapeshifts. Aside from a distant cawing, even the winter birds are saving their voices for next year's songs. His footfalls are hushed without him trying to be stealthy.

He makes his way deeper into the forest, trying to tell if these are trails someone made long ago or random patterns of growth. 'Who's been here before and when? Other than you,' he mentally adds to some new deer tracks crossing his path. He doesn't track them; he feels he knows where he's going intuitively. When he hears running water, he picks up the pace.

Holly arrives at a wide stream. The banks are steep enough that it must fill significantly in the spring thaw, but it's still lovely in a subtle, wintry way. He snaps a few pictures, then looks for a way to climb down. River stones are always a good subject.

He finds a natural ladder of rock and tree root and gets to the edge of the stream with no trouble. Through the lens, he enjoys the colors of the smooth stones, like human eye colors. MK's cold shade of grey-blue is represented. Holly's is more a summer shade. He sees one he wants and removes his glove to reach into the bracing water. It's a near-perfect heart, her shade with sandy veins running through it. He picks it up and if feels good in his palm. He pockets it.

Holly ambles along the stream, taking pictures, becoming more and more relaxed. A meditative smile forms on his lips to melt the tension from his face. This is the perfect day of rest. He hopes MK is getting the equivalent at Mass. What is she doing right now? Communion? Confession? Her beloved Mysteries are a mystery to him and that he loves, too. It crosses his mind that if he wants to sleep with her he might have to marry her. The idea doesn't faze him, it's just not something A/os usually do. The chemical bond makes the piece of paper laughably redundant, if not an outright insult to real love.

He explores until the temperature drops and it's time to head back. It takes the better part of an hour at a faster clip. His heart lifts at the sight of the house through the edge of the trees. It was designed to complement the surrounding beauty in its idiosyncratic style. He realizes he feels like he's looking at home, though he's never seen it from this angle. It's like spotting a loved one from a great distance and recognizing them by their gait.

Back inside, Holly knows just what he wants. He runs a hot bath in a tub that has likely never been used. It's been years since he lived in a situation where he could do this (or would want to.) Taking off his clothes in a comfortably warm environment still feels like a fancy novelty. When he submerges his nerve endings do cartwheels. 'Nothing can ever feel this good,' he thinks.

'Nothing?' answers his inner voice. Well, not nothing. Mating has always felt good to him. That's the word A/os use for normal, casual sex, even when it results in pregnancy. "Breeding" refers to a more serious act, maybe like how betas say "making love" when they are being earnest and not euphemistic. He's heard uncomfortable betas refer to humping dogs as "making love" and found it hilarious.

He lets his bent knees fall to one side for a nice spinal twist and to greedily soak in more warmth. Yes, the only thing better than this will be to knot inside his omega and fill her up with pups.

It's not lost on him that he wouldn't have had this thought a few days ago. He'd decided at too young an age that he could never enjoy that part of being an alpha. His father's only significant accomplishment, if you could call it that, was to make a child pregnant and ruin her life. If that was part of him, he'd abstain from that aspect of sex.

It never made him ashamed of the haphazard family planning of his kind. It was not uncommon for an omega (female or male) to have kids with a few different alpha mates. It wasn't a sad thing; alphas don't abandon their offspring and love their bastard siblings, too. Family is everything, so it made perfect sense to love their child's brothers and sisters and care for them, too. Holly's never quite been sure why some betas, alphaphobes, take this as further proof of their sub-humanity. Busybody betas like to call child protective services for the feeblest pretenses, like a toddler streaking naked in a moment of freedom or a kid with messy hair and mismatched clothes, nevermind that they are healthy and clean.

To the consternation of that kind of beta, A/os make the best school teachers. By both nature and culture, they are great with kids and love them even if they aren't theirs, even if they are beta, which you can't tell in young children, anyway. Omegas make ideal special ed teachers because of their gentle way and infinite patience. Alphas use their charisma and boundless energy to hold the attention of a classroom of hyper kids and get them to learn.

Of course, they aren't legally allowed to hold these jobs. It's a "don't ask, don't tell" policy, but parents have the right to demand a DNA test if they feel suspicious. The tip-off a child's teacher is A/o is usually that the kid loves school and won't stop talking about Mr. or Mrs. so-and-so, all the cool stuff they learned that day, how much fun it is in their class. It's just an aptitude for the job but is regarded as something akin to sorcery and that teacher is fired and replaced with someone inferior.

Like pit bulls, who were bred to be nanny dogs because they are gentle and protective with kids but can also rip someone's face off, alphas have something in them that is not so warm and fuzzy. Holly has it, as they all do. Damian's seen it firsthand and it's part of the story behind their bromance. Holly doesn't think it should be glamorized, but can't seem to shake his friend's admiration.

One night years ago, even before he and Allison were serious, he and Damian went for a guys' night out at Bonnie's. They intended to have a few beers, eat some bar food, listen to the so-so rock band and maybe dance with some cute biker chicks. They'd been enjoying themselves when things took a turn.

Maybe it was that they were talking too loud to be discreet or that someone they knew, innocently, gave it away. Maybe it was just Holly's jokey yet appealing way of dancing that the girls like. For whatever reason, the wrong person picked him out as an alpha.

One would have to be truly mentally deficient, extremely drunk, or just suicidal to start a fight with any alpha, but there is a surprising number of male betas who'll do just that. They want to impress their friends by besting a "real alpha," even though that's never how it works out. It can only end one of two ways: The aggressor is dead or appears dead enough the alpha's switch flips back to "off."

Alphas are taught from the time they present as such that this might happen and, when it does, you always walk away. Even when they insult you, walk away. If they destroy your property, you walk away. Even when they say something crass about your mate, you walk away. You always do this unless you want a corpse on your hands. It's important to get away before the instinct kicks in and you can't control what happens next because you truly won't be able to.

Sadly, betas have caught on to this and if they don't want their fun to be spoiled, they apply the right pressure. If an alpha doesn't respond to a nasty comment about his or her omega, then threaten sexual violence. If that doesn't work, threaten their brood. This activates a mechanism in the alpha's brain that overrides every impulse but to kill. And they are fucking efficient at it, too, never being taught how to fight. There are no A/o boxers or MMA fighters because that's an accident waiting to happen. A/os are just fine with this, not trusting the beta culture. It would be just like a beta fight promoter to find a way to flip an alpha's switch to turn a cage match into an actual deathmatch. Imagine the ratings...

Holly and Damian are laughing and licking Buffalo sauce from their fingers when they hear from the table behind Holly, "Hey, alpha! I'm talking to you, alpha. What, are you deaf? Turn around, alpha. What, you scared, alpha?" And on and on.

Holly rubs his eyes wearily. Suddenly the fun beer buzz has become a sickening headache at the repetition of the word in the guy's ugly voice. He does not respond, but ignoring it won't make it stop. "Sorry Damian, I think we'd better leave."

"Yeah, I understand." He's a big man, but not a fighter and doesn't care for this at all.

They get up from their table and start to walk toward the door of the crowded bar. It's a shame because it's a friendly place, just big and famous enough to attract all kinds, for better and, tonight, worse.

The guy grabs at Holly's shoulder as his passes. This pisses him off, as it would anyone, but he's still on course for the front door. The guy follows him, which means he's hellbent on fighting him. Holly can ignore the taunts and slurs. Though he's proud of his kind, some are so disgusting it is a little embarrassing in front of so many people. And if he's already feeling exposed, it's going to suck when it happens in front of everyone.