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  Combustible (Roanoke River Omegas 3)

  Willa Okati

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2020 Willa Okati

  BIN: 009340-03025

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  315 N. Centre St.

  Martinsburg, WV 25404

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Margaret Riley

  Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

  Adult Sexual Content

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  Table of Contents

  Combustible (Roanoke River Omegas 3)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Willa Okati

  Combustible (Roanoke River Omegas 3)

  Willa Okati

  Long, lean, wild and unconventional for an Omega, Zane rocks and rolls Alpha Grant’s world. Zane can’t be predicted. He can’t be contained. And Grant freaking loves it.

  But it’s not all beer and BJs, even for these two. Grant’s never wanted to have kids of his own. His family is Legacy Tattoo, the business he finally reclaimed after his grandfather’s death. He’s dedicating his life to making it not just flourish but thrive. And he doesn’t know -- yet -- about Zane’s status as a single father to a rambunctious pre-K rebel.

  Their love affair is gonna be complicated. And -- downright combustible.

  Chapter One

  Every story has to start somewhere.

  “You think you’re tough?” Grant cracked his neck from side to side, rolling his shoulders until they were nice and loose, warm and easy. He sized up his opponent with one long hard stare.

  Hmm. Might be a harder bite to chew than he’d first thought, actually. Better free up his arms. He shrugged off the battered aviator jacket he wore out of convenience rather than desire and let it fall in a crumple to the worn city sidewalk under his feet.

  Better. Grant kept an eye on the prize as he picked up the crowbar, then bounced it once, twice, against the palm of his left hand. The solid smack it made was visceral, meaty, and sent vibrations down his chest and toward his groin. It made him think of his first ride on the back of a Harley, the way the roar of the motor made him feel like he was riding a tiger at full gallop. Like the world was his and anything could happen.

  Now he was ready.

  “Let’s see what you’re made of.” He’d lost the first round -- silly him, expecting the key to work after all these years -- but fortunately he’d come prepared with a full toolbox -- one of the few things he’d inherited from his grandfather -- stuffed with no end of helpful objects for a man on a mission. Which was a good thing, because you couldn’t really ask customers to go ‘round back to the delivery door.

  Grant wedged the crowbar under the edge of the hasp that held the shop doors shut. Looked like no one had put a key in that rusted old padlock since his grandfather’s business partner had passed away. Place had been left standing just the way it was, locked up tight.

  Not anymore. The building was Grant’s now, back in the family once more, and he was damn well going to get Legacy Tattoo, freshly renamed, open and ready for business.

  Grant leaned forward, adding the weight of his body to the leverage on his crowbar, and muttered to himself in annoyance when nothing happened. Wasn’t too surprising. The way the lock had rusted, they might as well have been welded shut.

  So he’d try again. Life had taught him the value of not giving up, no matter what. He stood five feet three inches tall in his sock feet, and everyone had been sure he would be an Omega before he hit puberty. Had he? Had he, hell. Alpha. Alpha all the way, even if he’d never grown past petite. God knew how he’d survived adolescence. Skinny, short and willing to take a swing at anything didn’t usually come with a long life expectancy, yet here he was. Someone must have been looking out for him.

  So he’d pay that investment back and do his damnedest with this.

  “Come on, come on,” Grant muttered between his teeth as he put his back into the job. He’d love to have the doors open and the dust on its way to settling before heading to the toasted sub place for lunch. A little corner shop that looked like a hole in the actual wall, they made the best damn Cubanos in town. Grant’s mouth watered, thinking about sinking his teeth into tender meat, homemade sauce and spicy pickles that bit back.

  The thought distracted him. The crowbar slipped sideways in his hand, making him yelp in surprise and over correct. He stumbled back just in time to avoid getting clocked on the nose, while the crowbar itself clattered to a noisy halt at the tip of his duct-taped Docs.

  Rattle-rattle-rattle-ronnnnnnnng.

  Right. Grant narrowed his eyes at the stubborn thing. “You think you’re cute, huh?” Frustrated, he shoved a hand through his hair. “Well, fuck me.”

  “Be happy to, sweetheart, but you could at least buy a man dinner first.”

  Grant looked up, eyebrow raised.

  An Omega, tall, whip-thin, and with trouble written over him from stem to stern, grinned back at Grant. “Offer stands.”

  “Uh-huh,” Grant said, amused despite himself. Some Alphas would pounce on anything that moved, but Grant had a particular set of preferences. This Omega ticked all of them off the checklist. Slim as a dancer, smooth and supple as a willow tree, suntanned limbs decorated in bracelets and woven bangles. Skinny jeans tight enough to hint at his religion and a soft suede jacket worn over nothing but the bare skin of his chest. A few bare-knuckle-fight scars on his knuckles, and a sultry mouth made as much for kissing as it was for smart remarks. Taken altogether it made him one damned odd Omega, but it made him fascinating.

  “See anything you like?” the Omega asked, returning once-over for once-over. “I do. I’m Zane, by the way. Just so you know what name you’re going to be screaming.”

  Grant barked out a laugh. “Cheeky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

  “I am.” Zane leaned on the railing, grinning shamelessly. “What’s the name I’m going to scream? Fair’s fair.”

  Grant wiped his forehead, smelling the strong tang of rust from the padlock. “Grant,” he said. Then, “Any of those lines ever work for you?”

  “Nope,” Zane replied cheerfully. “But I live in hope. How about it?”

  Damn. Grant lost the battle with his own grin. Tight body, smart mouth, and sass for days. Just his type, usually, but… No. Legacy Tattoo was his only sweetheart right now. It had to be, until they were up and running.

  “A
ww. I lost you somewhere in there, didn’t I?” Zane cocked his head. “Anything I can do to change your mind?”

  “As an Omega sniffing up an Alpha, nope.” Grant laid the useless crowbar aside. “But if you’re a friendly neighborhood lay-about who happens to be passing by and you have any WD-40…”

  “Oh, so you think I’m the kind of guy who knows where to lay his hands on a little extra lubricant when it’s needed?” Zane’s grin grew sharper. “You’re right. Back in a second. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  He leaped over the stairwell, easy as a cat convinced it’d land on its feet with all nine lives fully intact, and loped lightly down the sidewalk leading away from Legacy. Grant cocked his head to enjoy the view. This’d always been a lively neighborhood. He remembered it from back in the days when Granddad had manned a foot-powered machine and specialized in ship’s anchors and LOVE + OMEGA hearts. Nice to know that some things might change, but others never did.

  His phone jangled to life in his hip pocket. When Grant checked it, the readout said Marshall. They’d met a few weeks ago at a block party on the roof of Kit’s building -- right before Kit unexpectedly gave birth to the son he hadn’t known he was carrying. The miraculous weirdness of it all still made Grant blink.

  As for Grant and Marshall, they’d clicked as soon as they’d met, and Marshall was like the pain-in-the-ass brother he’d never known he wanted. A new friend, and one with a little time on his hands, he’d offered to help.

  “I’ll be there in twenty,” Marshall said, sounding sleepy. Which didn’t surprise Grant. Marshall worked hard at whatever he set himself to, but he played even harder. Rare was the night that Marshall didn’t host one or two Omegas in his bed. “You need anything from the hardware store?”

  Grant lifted his chin in surprise as Zane reappeared around the corner, can of WD-40 in hand. A man of his word, then. “Grenades, if they sell them. Otherwise I think I’ve got what I need.”

  “I could lay my hands on a grenade or two,” Marshall offered, and as far as Grant could tell he meant it. Wouldn’t surprise him. “I’ll put out some feelers. See you in twenty.”

  Grant shook his head at the phone, but he tucked it back in his pocket and had his hands free in time to catch the familiar blue and yellow aerosol can Zane tossed him. “This do you?”

  Hmm. Grant studied the can of WD-40 and found it grimy and festooned with the remnants of cobwebs. Still, it beat grenades. At least for now. “It’ll do.”

  “Aren’t you the sweet-talking Alpha,” Zane teased. “Go to it.”

  Zane leaned one hip against the wall beside the door to watch Grant apply lubricant where it would prove most instructive. Jeez, Zane had Grant making double and triple entendres in his own head now. Grant clicked his tongue at himself.

  Zane chuckled. “Word on the street is your grandfather used to own this place.”

  “Word’s right. My granddad built this building from the ground up. Ran the shop here for 62 years before he passed. Been closed since his business partner died. Took some legal wrangling and a lot of saving, but I finally got the place back.”

  “What’re you going to do with the space? Same? Ink and metal?”

  “Like it’s in my blood, which it is.” Grant tucked the can of WD-40 under his arm and wiped his hands on his thighs before shoving his cuffs up to show off the tattoos that stretched from wrist to elbow. They went higher, but his jacket didn’t. Bold blackwork and bright jewel colors, dragons breathing sinuous fire and silvery smoke. Granddad had started it, and Grant had honored his memory by finishing the work. For an encore, he gestured to one ear and the ladder of silver hoops that ringed the cartilage. “All that and more.”

  A shrug sent his sleeves back down. Grant took a breath, fished the key back out his pocket, and tried the freshly lubed lock again. And again. Finally, with a small squeal of protest, the key turned. One more twist of the crowbar and the hasp popped open. Grant squared his shoulders, and gave the door a shove. It opened, emitting a breath of old leather and older ink. Grant breathed deeply, greedily, and if he happened to catch another deep whiff of Zane’s spicy-sweet scent, well, that was a pure bonus.

  Zane craned his head to look past Grant and let out a whistle. “What a mess.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Years of abandonment hadn’t done the place any favors. Still…”I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  “For that, you’ll need help.”

  Grant shook his head. “Got a buddy of mine with a strong back already lined up. And there are others I could call on.” Darius would come, even if he had a toddler and a pregnant mate, but Grant wouldn’t ask him unless the situation got dire. Family came first.

  “No matter how much help you think you need for a job like this, you need more,” Zane said with certainty. “Lucky for you I’ve got plenty of time on my hands and I could use some gainful employment.” He grinned, shameless, when Grant gave him a flat look. “Hey, you’re the one who called me a lay-about, Alpha. The least you could do is give me an honest day’s work. I’m good with my hands. See?” He held them up for examination.

  “You’re dangerous, is what you are,” Grant replied, but he took Zane’s hand before thinking -- which he should have. A thrill of sensation made him draw in a sharp breath when skin pressed skin. The sweetness of the air between them grew stronger, like walking face-first into a bakery on rum and spice cake morning, and Grant’s skin felt suddenly too tight for his bones. A deep ache started in his balls and his cock twitched, ready and willing to go hard for a willing partner. Zane had to be close to a fertile spell. Grant wondered if he knew it or not.

  If he hadn’t before, he sure did now. His pupils were dilated to dark suns and his skin warming with a dusky, lusty blush. His hand spasmed once around Grant’s.

  Tempting, so tempting, but… no. Not happening. He had a business of his own to run. He didn’t have a drop of attention to spare and the last thing he needed, no matter what his dick wanted, was a lap full of warm, wet, willing Omega.

  Damn, damn, and damn again.

  “No.” Grant eased his hand and Zane’s apart. “I’d love a bite, but my plate’s already full.”

  Zane had to know how tempting he looked, and he plainly wasn’t ashamed to use it. He leaned in, giving Grant another breath of his scent. “Sure about that?”

  “Sure as I have to be,” Grant said. His cock was proving him a liar, straining at his zipper. “Sure enough.”

  Zane glanced down and lingered, hot with lust. The kind of look that made Grant want to grab a double handful of his pert ass and hold tight. He traced the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. “Really sure?”

  “Sure as I’m going to get, and that’s the last answer I’m going to give you,” Grant said. “So scram, would you? Before we do something stupid.”

  Zane laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  He turned as casually as he’d come to walk away, Omega scent trailing behind him in a tempting cloud. He got a few steps down the street, maybe fifteen, before he turned for one last shot. He licked his lips again, maybe tasting Grant’s scent in return, then -- grinned. “Hey, Alpha. You know something?”

  Oh, that wasn’t foreshadowing or anything. Grant had seen that look on more than one face right before its owner came out with a heaping helping of mischief to manage. He folded his arms, trying not to return the grin and invite the devil out to play. “What?”

  “You’re moving into my neighborhood,” Zane said, his gaze wicked in all sorts of ways. “No matter what else opening this place back up brings, I doubt we’re done yet, you and me.”

  He probably wasn’t wrong.

  Scratch that. He definitely wasn’t. And so help him if Grant wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Chapter Two

  Best breakfast in the world? If anyone had asked Zane in college, he would have voted for a black coffee big enough to swim in but strong enough to float on, and a cigarette for dessert. Maybe a roll or a doughnut if he wa
s feeling fancy or flush with cash.

  Hell, that’d been his breakfast of choice up until right around five years ago.

  After that his tastes had changed -- part necessity, part maturity. He might still want to crawl over broken glass for a smoke but he hadn’t tasted one in ages. He’d given up doughnuts and black coffee for the sake of decaffeinated tea, but he still took it black as sin, without a grain of sugar. Bitter, bottomless, beautiful.

  Zane blew across the top of the paper cup he’d bought at the little cafe situated catty-cornered from Legacy Tattoo, or what would be Legacy once Grant put in all the elbow grease and backbreaking work he’d need to get it up and running.

  Exhales led to inhales, and on the breath back in Zane’s nose was flooded with the scent of Alpha. Not just any Alpha. He’d spent five? ten? minutes with the guy one day ago, and Zane could have picked Grant out of a coal cellar at midnight by his scent alone. Spicy, like cloves. Strong, like espresso. Ink. Rubbing alcohol. The tang of iron.

  A shiver worked its way down Zane’s spine -- a good one. Mmm. He pressed his thighs together and savored the sensation, flickers of fantasy dancing through his head. Oh, he’d cracked a grin at first at the sight of the fierce little Alpha trying to crowbar his way into the old abandoned shop. He’d meant to stop in for half a second and have a little fun, nothing more. He hadn’t been at all prepared for a fucking briefcase-bomb of a man.

  His favorite kind. Wind ‘em up and watch ‘em go off. Tick, tick, boom.

  Mmm. Worth pursuing? Could be. He’d seemed pretty set on that “no” he’d given Zane, and that was as interesting as it was frustrating -- and challenging. In Zane’s life experience, it wasn’t often that a randy Alpha -- and he’d smelled the pheromones on Grant, he knew Grant wanted him -- turned a willing Omega down. So why had he done it? Curiouser and curiouser.