Secured by the Buyer (Taken by His Alpha #3)

Chapter 2

2

T he scent of stale tobacco and alcohol hits me as I step through the casino’s service entrance, my sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum.

My nose crinkles in disgust. Like I don’t have to put up with this stench enough at home.

I head straight to the employee room, fluorescent lights flickering overhead with a steady hum that’s sure to give me a headache before the end of the night.

I yank open my locker and exchange my street clothes for the gray uniform I despise. The rough fabric chafes my skin, and with no stretch to it, it makes it tough to crawl around while I clean.

“Rooms three through seven need a turnover, Milo,” my supervisor barks from across the room, not bothering to look up from his clipboard.

I nod, swallowing the protest bubbling up in my throat. There’s no use arguing with him. He always assigns me the hourly rentals because I can’t afford to lose this job.

With a sigh, I slip on the rubber gloves and mask that have become like a second skin to me, my hands already itching from the latex. By now, my routine is so well-practiced I don’t think about it anymore.

I grab my cart and check to ensure the person before me restocked it, then set off toward the first room on my list.

One of my coworkers leaning against the lockers gives a sympathetic smile. “Good luck, man.”

I nod in acknowledgment, glad for the mask that hides my scowl. Luck doesn’t mean shit around here. He’s just happy it’s not him dealing with the misery of the hourly rooms. Drugs, vomit, contraceptives of all kinds…you name it, I’ve cleaned it and then some.

At room three, I use my all-access keycard to unlock the door and push it inward.

Fucking animals. How do people do so much damage in an hour?

Motions methodical, I clean up the debris left behind by the room’s previous occupants, tossing fluid-filled condoms and crusty tissues into a plastic bag while trying not to think about what I’m touching.

At least the mask blocks out the foul odor.

The sound of crinkling paper fills the air as I collect empty drug baggies and discarded wrappers. My gloved fingers sweep over surfaces, wiping away the remnants of someone else’s reckless night.

The mindless labor leaves my thoughts free to circle back to the fight with my father. I shove the memory away, desperate to focus on anything else, but my mind won’t cooperate.

It drags me back, replaying the argument, taunting me with all the things I should have said. Words that might have made a difference.

Deep down, though, I know nothing can change him.

The more I work, the more I think about how unfair it all is. How I’m stuck here cleaning up after people who squander all their money on stupid shit, while I struggle just to survive. My father is no different from these assholes, ruining both of our lives with his vices.

I curse, fighting back frustrated tears. My fingers slip as I scrub, and I lose my hold on the sponge, sending it flying across the room. It lands with a wet slap against the wall, and a bitter laugh escapes at the absurdity of it all.

Get a grip, Milo. I scold myself, retrieving the sponge.

I take a deep breath, the sharp sting of bleach reaching me through my mask. My exhale puffs hot on my face, but I refuse to take the mask off. It protects me from the drugs in the air and from inhaling foreign fluids.

The horror stories around the breakroom give me nightmares.

In a moment of luck, I discover change under the mattress when I strip the bed to put on fresh linens. I pocket the coins and cross my fingers that I find more, so I can use the old vending machine in the lobby.

The thought of a cold soda or a bag of chips puts a small, hopeful smile on my face. My stomach growls, reminding me of how hungry I am.

Out in the hall, laughter echoes, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I peek out the door, catching sight of a group of people dressed in fancy attire, their faces flushed with excitement as they head for the elevator.

Bitter envy fills me as they disappear. What would it be like to be on the other side of the door? One of the elite instead of the person restocking their condoms and lube?

The warning timer on my cart goes off, and I scurry to return to work, still needing to vacuum. No time to dream of a better life.

White knights don’t exist, and no one is swooping in to save me from this nightmare.

Four hours later, I collapse into one of the worn-out chairs in the breakroom, my body aching from busting ass nonstop.

Luck didn’t gift me with any more spare change, which means no vending machine. It’s not surprising, just disappointing. Coins are a dying currency, and guests police their cash.

“Hey, Milo,” my coworker, Steve, speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Did you see the luxury parade?”

I frown in confusion before I remember the people in fancy clothing earlier. “Spotted a small group. What’s going on? Some big event tonight?”

He nods, stuffing the last scrap of crust into his mouth and talking around it. “Some kind of fundraiser in one of the ballrooms upstairs. Manny said they’re posting bodyguards at the doors to check invitations. It’s all very exclusive and mysterious. Can you imagine?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I didn’t even go to my senior prom.”

I’d already been working by then and didn’t have the time for after-school activities.

“You didn’t miss anything.” He chugs his juice and stands. “Back to the grindstone, huh?”

He collects his trash and gives me a weary smile before gathering his cart and heading out. The staff room door opens, letting in a brief rush of screaming slot machines and the constant drone of voices. Then the latch clicks shut, and blessed silence returns.

I take a long sip of water from the filtered dispenser the company made mandatory in the breakroom. The cool liquid eases the thickness in my throat caused by wearing a mask for too many hours.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I take in the stained wallpaper and scuffed floor. It’s not much as far as views go, but I can close my eyes and pretend I’m anywhere else for thirty minutes.

“Hey, Milo,” my boss’s voice cuts through the silence.

I tense at the disruption and crack open my eyelids to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

What is with my bosses today? They seem hellbent on making my life harder.

“Yeah?” I ask when he appears in no hurry to get on with it. My break isn’t long enough to drag out whatever’s on his mind.

His gaze dissects me like I’m something he found on the bottom of his shoe. “Spotted your old man at the craps tables earlier.”

I swear under my breath, my hands curling into fists at the mention of my father. His presence here means more debt, more bills, and more hardship for both of us.

“Yeah? What do you want me to do about it?” I snap, my exhaustion making it impossible to bite back the retort.

“Watch your tone, Omega,” he sneers, taking a step into the room.

His Alpha pheromones fill the air, and my eyes flick toward the box of masks on the counter, out of reach. “Sorry, sir. Long night.”

“You’re only halfway through your shift.” He reins in his pheromones, his foot tapping. “It’s not my problem, but I thought you might like to know. ”

“Thanks for the heads up.” I keep my eyes down to hide my glare.

“Stop lazing around back here, or you’ll be out of a job.” He tosses a new room assignment onto my cart and walks away with a smug smirk on his face.

The door slams shut, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

Dammit. I still have another twenty minutes, but I stand, my back protesting.

I’m way too young for joint pain, but here we are.

I shuffle over to my cart and swear. Fucking three through seven again.

As I restock my supplies, my head swims with dizziness, and I grab the shelf of the supply cabinet for balance. I need my power nap, but I’m too worried now about bills and my dad’s gambling debts.

I gnaw at my inner cheek, and a metallic flavor fills my mouth, like copper pennies.

Too bad it’s not real pennies. If it was, I could spit them out and use them at the vending machine. My stomach feels like it wants to crawl out of my body in search of food.

Back out on the floor, I ride the service elevator to the hourly rentals and trudge down to room seven, deciding to start at the end to change things up. Not that there’s any difference between the rooms. Even the view from the windows is the same.

Unlocking the door, I brace myself for the usual disaster and push it open.

Instead of the expected stench, the faint hint of pine cleaner and bleach lingers in the air.

Confused, I steer my cart inside, and to my utter shock, I don’t find a single sign of debauchery or destruction anywhere. It appears untouched since I last cleaned it.

I double-check the room number on my list. Yep, I’m in the right place. Guess someone got cold feet.

Too bad I can’t just leave the room alone and use this time to get the nap I missed. Resigned, I strip the mattress of clean, crisp linens and stuff them into the dirty bag on the end of my cart before pulling a stack of fresh ones from the shelf beneath the cleaning supplies.

With them in hand, I return to the bed and set them on the nightstand. Maybe the renters only used the bathroom to do some drugs? Just in case, I drop to the carpet to lift the dust ruffle to check for any forgotten belongings or, better yet, loose change.

When I don’t find any, I run my hands under the mattress but only feel the box springs.

“What are you doing?” a voice demands from behind me, deep, authoritative, and not anyone I recognize, which means they shouldn’t have been able to enter the locked room.

My heart pounds, adrenaline flooding my veins as I bolt to my feet, spinning to face the speaker.

I glimpse black hair, intense blue eyes, and a powerful figure that screams Alpha before my head swims with dizziness. The edges of my vision turn gray as consciousness slips away.

“What are you doing in here–” my words slur to a stop as darkness swallows me whole.