Overzealous Alphas Read online

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  -From the Contributing Authors

  Yours for the Taking Kally Ash

  Without Consequence Michelle Corchis

  Here Kitty Kitty Elizabeth Knox

  Bringing the Heat Stacey McCoy

  The Reason Aleya Michelle

  Bella Noche Daryn Rayne & Gabrial Quinn

  Sweet Temptress Crimson Syn

  The Date Sarah Toussaint

  New York City. Who would’ve thought out of all the fifty states, I’d be living here? Certainly not me. Despite having moved here in May for a pre-law school course, I still can’t get used to the fact that I actually live here—the biggest city in the country; the nerve center of the world.

  I rented an apartment from an upperclassman for the summer, and since he’s coming back tomorrow, I need to move out. There’s no way the two of us could’ve shared this shoebox together. My new studio is only a few blocks away though, so instead of calling my mom and having her take a seven-hour drive to help me move again, I’m doing it on my own.

  Grabbing all my clothes, I toss them into my suitcase, stuffing in as much as I can. When I finally get the zipper done up, I take a look around at my apartment, calculating how many trips I’ll have to make to get all my shit out of here. I blow out a sigh. This really couldn’t have happened at a worse time. School starts in three days, and I still have to move out and then clean the damn place from top to bottom.

  Locking up behind me, I roll my suitcase to the elevator only to see a sign telling me it’s out of order. Freaking beautiful. Not only do I have to go back and forth five blocks to move my things from one building to another, but now I also have to carry my suitcase down six flights of stairs too.

  God, I miss my car.

  ***

  “How many more trips do you have left?” my doorman, Mr. Harrison, asks as I enter the building with my suitcase in tow. Funny. I have a doorman. Only in New York City.

  “This is my last.” Thankfully.

  “Good! You must be exhausted from going back and forth. Ready to call it a night?” he asks. He and I are going to get along just fine. I can tell because every time I’ve walked in, he’s welcomed me with a smile.

  “I’m dead tired, but I have to go back and clean the other apartment.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes sir. I have to make sure it’s as I found it when I moved in way back in May.” It feels like forever ago now, but it’s only the end of August. I remember driving into New York City and seeing how different it was from my home, from what I was used to. I remember crying that first night because it was the first time I had to be alone.

  “Almost there, Gracelynn,” Mr. Harrison says as I walk toward the elevator bank.

  I step out onto my floor, maneuvering my suitcase behind me. I open the door to my new apartment, and once again I’m disappointed that it hasn’t grown in the last few trips. Seriously, I don’t know how people live comfortably in this shoebox the school calls a “studio.” For the amount of money I’m paying to live here, I should have enough space to fit in a helicopter.

  I set my suitcase next to the desk, turning around to take in the mess I’ve created. There are clothes covering my entire bed, shoes all over the floor, and just about everything else I had to drag in with me is scattered around the place. I wish I had time to fix all of this now and make this room habitable, but I can’t because I still have shit to do. I grab my keys and take the same path I have the last couple of trips toward my old studio. Time to make it spotless so the upperclassman who rented it to me doesn’t think I’m a filthy pig.

  ***

  It’s about 9pm when I finish cleaning. I place the keys on the table and close the door, leaving it unlocked per the instructions I was left. I let out a sigh, preparing myself to walk down the six flights of stairs for what will be the last time. When I reach the lobby, I can’t help but think about how life-changing the last few months have been. Moving away from home, relocating to New York City, living on my own, and preparing to start law school was something I’d dreamed about, but didn’t know whether it would come true.

  When I was a child, I remember telling my father I’d make him proud. Telling him I wanted to be a lawyer, and here I am. Despite the many times others told me I wouldn’t make it. The times people discouraged me from applying, and even those times when people told me I would change my mind. Yet none of it had come true, because here I am.

  I walk outside and am welcomed by the calm of the night. I never expected NYC to feel this quiet—but here, at this very moment, it’s serene. It’s home for the next few years. It’s where I’ll make my dreams come true.

  “Hey, did you have a chance to create a volleyball team for intramurals?” Sasha asks from across the lawn. I met her this summer while taking preparatory law school classes and we became sort of good friends. I say sort of because she’s in her second year, I’m in my first, and we rarely see each other.

  “I didn’t realize the sign-ups had started. Did you go for it?” I ask, hoping she did. We played a little volleyball over the summer and if I’m going to keep myself sane this semester, I’ll need an outlet. Sports, especially volleyball, have always been a way for me to let out my frustrations. I played intramurals in high school, again in undergrad, and I’ll likely die if I don’t get to keep playing.

  “No. I missed the sign-up. There are a few teams out there missing members though. If you want to scout it out, you can probably just ask one of them to let you in.”

  “I don’t know. It seems odd to just ask a random team to let me join them.”

  “A few of them are headed by first years, so maybe you know some of them.”

  “Really? Which ones?” I ask, my interest piqued.

  “There is one I noticed where the guy is missing a few players. His name is Barrett.”

  “I know a Barrett!” I yell in excitement.

  “Barrett Simmons?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “I played beer pong with him at one of the Thursday bar reviews.” Funny, when I started law school a few weeks ago, I thought a bar review was when we got to practice for the bar, and I didn’t question studying for an exam that was three years from now. I was quickly corrected by my peers who eagerly informed me that a bar review meant going to bars. The Bar Review group at school got us discounts on drinks. I met Barrett at one of the only
two bar reviews I’ve attended so far. School is too crazy to do more.

  “Ask him then. Maybe he’ll let you join. I already asked but he said he was at max capacity, which was a total lie. He could use more players.”

  “Doubt he’ll let me in if he rejected you,” I say, feeling a little disappointed.

  “He doesn’t know me though; he knows you. So, give it a try.”

  “Okay,” I tell her.

  “Gotta go to Crim, though, so I’ll see ya!”

  “See you later!” I yell back at the already retreating Sasha.

  ***

  Three weeks of classes and I’m still not used to the craziness of law school. At this rate, I don’t think I ever will be. Each class is led by a genius professor who has literally written the textbook. And each class my stomach recoils at the prospect of the professor calling my name. Have you ever watched any of the law school shows where the professor randomly calls on a student, makes them stand, and ultimately embarrasses said student by asking them as many questions as possible? Well, the shows and movies got that part right.

  I sit in Civil Procedure, praying the professor doesn’t call on me because even though I did the assigned reading, I’m still not sure what’s happening. Anxiously, I drum my fingers on the table top, my eyes lowered to avoid the professor’s gaze, to avoid being called on.

  “You.”

  My head jerks up, eyes wide as they settle on the professor at the front of the class. My mouth is suddenly dry as I open it to respond.

  “Could you tell me the difference between personal jurisdiction and subject matter jurisdiction?”

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! I lick my lips, drawing a blank on the answer to the question. I know I read about it last night, taking notes because I thought it sounded like something important. I start to stand up, but the guy next to me—Stuart, I think his name is—stands up instead, confidently answering the question.

  I blow out a breath and slouch down in my seat, waiting for my racing heart to slow. As I listen to Stuart’s reply, I realize I’m actually following what he’s saying.

  I’ve got to get in a study group with this guy.

  When class finally ends, I haul ass out of the lecture room, knowing that next time I won’t be so lucky.

  I walk into the law school building, hiking my bookbag up higher on my shoulder. I can feel the tension there, and I reach up to massage the muscles. I need to find an outlet for the stress of studying law. I need to get onto a volleyball team.

  “Gracelynn,” someone calls.

  I glance around to see Barrett lounging against the wall a few feet away. There are a few guys standing near him, and they all turn around to stare at me. My cheeks burn, but I still move toward him.

  “Hey,” I say, giving him an awkward little wave that I immediately regret.

  His grin widens. “What are you doing?”

  I hike my bookbag up again. “Just classes.”

  “Are you coming tonight?”

  “Tonight?” I ask, drawing a blank.

  “Yeah, tonight. Bar Review.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely. I’m buried in schoolwork already. I can’t afford to go out drinking. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Gracelynn,” he replies, giving me a wolfish grin. “I need that rematch in beer pong. You said you were going to whoop my ass next time.”

  A smile creeps onto my face. “I did say that, didn’t I? I’ll take a raincheck though.”

  “Too bad,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at his friends. He opens his mouth to say something—goodbye, probably—and I blurt out what I’ve wanted to ask him since he called me over.

  “Do you have space on your volleyball team?”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Who’s asking?”

  I can’t help but snort. “Me, of course.”

  “I didn’t know you played.”

  Resisting the urge to fold my arms over my chest, I say, “I do, and I’m good, too. I played undergrad volleyball. You’re staring at the intramurals champion.”

  Barrett gives me an appraising look. “I tell you what; beat me at beer pong tonight, and I might consider it.”

  My competitive streak flares. “You’ve got a deal.”

  He scrubs at the back of his neck, the muscles in his biceps flexing and relaxing. “I’ll need to get a better partner, though. The last one sucked,” he says, and I chuckle. His partner did suck. She was too fucking drunk to even get the ball near the cups.

  “That’s what losers say,” I reply, baiting him. I can’t help it.

  “You better not be all talk and no action, Gracelynn.”

  “Of course not,” I shoot back, grinning as I turn around to head to my next class.

  ***

  I walk into the bar, scanning the room, looking for Barrett. I have a plan for tonight. Get in. Kick his ass in beer pong and get a spot on his volleyball team, then get the hell out of there. I have to study. I can’t afford to waste my precious time or money here. I spot him on the other side of the room; surrounded by a group of guys and a few gorgeous girls, Barrett looks like he’s the life of the party. Sometimes I wish I was that way—so quick to make friends and participate in these collegiate rites of passage such as getting absolutely wasted every other day of the week.

  As I approach the group, Barrett turns and flashes me a grin. “I thought you bailed.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t let you off so easy.” My eyes flash to the girls in his group. They all look well on their way to being drunk. “Any of those your partner for tonight?”

  He doesn’t even look back at the girls when he says, “Nah, I decided we’re going to play a different game tonight. Less chance of me losing with more people on my team.”

  I frown. “What are we playing?”

  “Flip cup. So,” he says, spreading his arms out wide, “pick a team, and get ready for an ass whooping.”

  Nervously, I look around the bar, at the people I don’t know. How am I supposed to pick a team when I don’t know anyone?

  “Grace, there you are!”

  I turn toward the voice. Sasha pushes past a group of guys and gives me a hug. “Did I hear someone say flip cup?”

  “Yeah,” I reply absently, then gesture to Barrett and his group of friends. “Apparently we’re playing.”

  “Great. I know just who you want on your team,” she says excitedly, disappearing into the throng once more. A few seconds later, tugging on the hands of two other girls, Sasha reappears. “Grace, meet Rebecca and Lisa. They used to play softball. Quick reflexes and good hand-eye coordination.”

  I wave my hellos, then turn to find Barrett watching with a smile. “Ready to do this thing?”

  “Yeah, let’s do it,” I tell him, feeling bolstered by Sasha, Rebecca and Lisa at my back.

  Less than two minutes later, we are victorious. I turn my attention to Barrett, giving him my sweetest smile.

  “So am I on the team?”

  He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Yeah, you’re on the team, Gracelynn.”

  A smile stretches across my mouth. “What time’s practice?”

  “We don’t really practice. Just show up on Sunday at 6pm for the game.”

  “Works for me.” I stretch out my hand to shake his. “Good game.”

  “Wait, where are you going?” He doesn’t let go of my hand, just holds it in a slightly too tight grip. I can see the sweat beading on his brow.

  “Back to my apartment. I have to study.”

  “No, have a drink with us first.”

  “Yeah, have a drink with us,” Sasha chimes in.

  I glance over my shoulder at her, my mood buoyant. “Alright, one drink,” I tell them. “And then I’m going home.”

  We all find a table as Barrett goes to the bar. As I sit there chatting with Sasha and the other two girls, I find myself actually having a good time. Beer suddenly sloshes onto the table and I look up to find Barrett back, wearing a stupid grin. “For th
e ladies,” he says with a mock salute. Man, how did he get so wasted so quickly?

  “He’s such a light-weight,” Sasha says. I laugh and take a sip of my beer, making a face as soon as the taste hits my tongue. I’ve never been a lover of beer, and it seems my taste for it hasn’t improved. I nudge my glass over to Sasha.

  “You’re not going to drink that?” she asks, already bringing the glass to her lips. Shaking my head, I glance at the time on my phone. Shit, I need to get back. I stand up, Sasha’s eyes following me.

  “And you’re leaving?”

  “Yep. Bathroom, then home. Thanks for saving my ass, Sasha.” I look to the other two girls. “It was nice to meet you, Rebecca and Lisa.”

  I’m glad they let me go without protest, because I really do have to use the bathroom. It’s too bad by the time I find the damn thing, I also find a line about fifteen girls deep. Desperate and unable to wait, I slip inside the men’s room, lucky to find it empty. Ducking into one of the stalls, I shut the door and relieve myself. I’m just about to flush when I hear the door open with a groan. And shut with a snick.

  Fuck.

  There’s nothing but the gentle sound of liquid hitting porcelain for moment, and then…

  “I must say, this is quite unusual,” a guy says. “I never expected to find a beautiful girl in here tonight.”

  I keep completely still, waiting, barely breathing.

  “You can come out, you know. The coast is clear,” the guy murmurs, clearly amused. The rustle of clothing, a zipper being pulled up. Running water, the snap of paper towel. “I don’t bite,” he adds in a slow drawl.

  Right. He’s right. I can’t stay in here all night. Sucking in a breath, I unlock the door and step from the cubicle. I keep my eyes down, not wanting to acknowledge that I’ve been caught in the men’s room. I hear the door open, and assume he’s opened it for me. Head down, I walk toward it, toward the sound of people laughing and drinking. Toward escape. As I walk past him though, I can’t help but glance at him sidelong, catching the briefest glimpse of a smug smile and hair like midnight.