Lola & the Millionaires: Part One (Sweet Omegaverse #2)(60)

Gently, watching his face for any sign of waking up, I lifted Rake’s arm up from my chest, settling it into the pillows behind my head. Inch by inch, I slid myself out from under his stretched leg and then off the bed. My clothes were strewn over the floor on the way into the bedroom, but I’d brought sleep clothes with me in my bag in the other room. I tiptoed out to the open space, half expecting one of Rake’s alphas to appear suddenly. But no, they were too good at giving me space.

I dressed and grabbed the takeout containers. I could take them down to the kitchen, it would give me a good excuse for nighttime wanderings and the space I needed at the moment.

Caleb’s rooms were still dark, and my heart actually ached for him. Had my presence totally chased him out? Guilt hung like a collar around my throat, dragging weight behind me with every quiet step to the stairs. Caleb seemed… He seemed sweet, which was not something I’d ever associated with an alpha, even before Buzz. I didn’t want to be the cause of any discomfort for him.

It seemed kind of early for the whole house to be silent, so I wasn’t surprised as I crept down the stairs to hear music coming from the third floor. I paused on the landing, looking out the front window to the dark street, an orange street lamp across the road casting spiderweb patterns through tree branches onto the blacktop. A solitary guitar strummed through a familiar blues melody, and it wasn’t until the notes broke off and corrected themselves that I realized this wasn’t music playing over speakers, but one of the alphas.

I continued down to the kitchen, almost sorry not to see anyone else up, tucked the ramen into the fridge, and allowed myself a little indulgent exploring. I’d never been anywhere where everything was so nice. Not that it was all brand new—there was an old retro café model espresso maker, and Caleb seemed to have a taste for Art Deco antiques—but everything was high quality. You couldn’t call the house ‘understated wealth’ because the money involved was clear, but it definitely wasn’t gaudy or flaunted either.

Unsure of what to do with myself, I wandered back to the third-floor landing, hanging at the edge of the hallway and listening to the musician. I had an inkling of who it might be, and curiosity won out, leading my steps past an office and one of Rake’s tucked away nests. The rooms were more private and closed off on this floor, and I stopped in front of one open door to see a narrow room with floor to ceiling bookshelves and the walls cluttered with paintings. There was a book left open on the couch and the blanket I’d snuggled up in draped over the arm.

I continued to the back of the house, the guitar growing gently louder, and hesitated in front of a sliding door. A light was on inside, soft glow angling out across the wood floor of the hall. The blues were set aside, and now I was fairly sure I was listening to a slightly clumsy but intricate version of an old pop hit, something angsty and familiar that had come out when I was a kid.

I stepped up to the doorway, pausing in the shadow as I got the first glimpse of Matthieu Segal, hunched over a beat up, sea-foam green electric guitar, sitting on a squashed leather stool. A lock of salt and pepper had fallen over his furrowed brow as he studied his own fingers in their work. The room was a strange collection, a desk cluttered with business papers in one corner—a pair of glasses left open in front of a black computer screen—and the other corner filled with shelves loaded with records and CDs. There were music posters on the wall, as well as a few magazine covers and framed awards.

The song ran down to an aimless end, and Matthieu looked up, frowning as if he were disappointed or frustrated in his own performance. My lips were quirked in a smile, and I knew the second he saw me in the doorway. His back straightened and the guitar pick in his hand scratched awkwardly against the strings, a howling chord ringing over the small amp sitting near the stool. His eyes were wide and open in surprise, and I was perversely pleased to have snuck up on him.

“Lola!”

“Hi, sorry,” I said in greeting, giving him a tiny wave. “I heard you while I was taking some stuff to the kitchen. I almost forgot you were a musician.”

Matthieu’s shock vanished in a grimace. “I was in a punk band, so I’m not sure the word applies,” he said with a wry shrug.

My eyes turned to one of the posters on the wall, the words ‘Washed Up’ bold in a splattered hand-drawn font. The picture on the poster was bold in black and white, pixelated and a little hard to see. But the resemblance between the young man screaming into a microphone while holding a guitar, and the older version sitting on his leather stool in his beautiful city home was faint. Honestly, if it weren’t for the same hook in his nose, I probably wouldn’t have ever connected the two. Matthieu was so…polished when he was at the Stanmore.

Not now though. Now he was in a pair of sweatpants worn out over one knee, and a t-shirt that had been well-worn to the point of its original art being totally obscured, and I could see a hole in one of the armpits.

“I’m pretty sure if I’d known at nineteen where I’d end up, I would’ve given myself a massive ‘fuck you,’” Matthieu mused, his own eyes turning to the poster.

I snorted. “How did it happen, anyway?”

“Um, George and I started Broken Record,” he said with a shrug, referring to the now famous music magazine enterprise. “It took off. George sold his take, I kept mine, we got bigger and then…I suppose everyone assumed I knew what I was doing.”