Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  The rumors were true, of course. The Goddess of Love enjoyed an abundance of paramours, both human and immortal, an embarrassment of riches—if she were the type to be embarrassed by such good fortune. The affair with Ares that had produced Cupid was ancient history by now, but Ares was only one lover in a long string. For a time, Aphrodite’s seasonal trysts with the beautiful Adonis had provided her with the young, hard body missing from her marriage and the sort of sweet adulation one might expect from a puppy, but she hadn’t had a decent lover since Adonis was taken from her all too soon by that wild boar.

  Through the years, Ares had made it abundantly clear he would happily accommodate Aphrodite upon her say-so, which made resisting all the more difficult. At the same time, there was a definite wicked pleasure in keeping him burning for her.

  Aphrodite’s narrative had its own time-worn groove: she abstained for the sake of matrimonial harmony. Ares was the one lover Hephaestus absolutely could not tolerate. Truth be told, there was more to it than her husband’s feelings; there was Zeus to consider. Having arranged Aphrodite’s marriage to Hephaestus to discourage further infighting for the goddess’s hand, Zeus would stop at nothing to preserve their union. He’d be none too keen to learn of this private meeting in Ares’s lair.

  The guard’s knock on the chamber door was swiftly answered, and the final barrier gave way. Aphrodite’s response could have been plucked from the romance novels in her private library: sweaty palms, heightened senses, the sudden flush of heat rising to the surface, a flock of butterflies beating their wings against her chest.

  “The goddess Aphrodite is here—”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Ares sidestepped his soldier and flashed a grin at Aphrodite. “You’re looking well.”

  Had he noticed the extra curl she’d worked into her hair tonight? Or the strategic dip of silk right there between her breasts—that spot Ares used to love to nuzzle with the tip of his nose? Perhaps he was picking up on the bright color flooding her cheeks, as scarlet as the chiton he wore over one shoulder.

  “As are you.” She cleared her throat. Her gaze feasted on the stunningly displayed masculine form, the hard lines of a body built to conquer enemy or lover. Those traits that defined Ares on the battlefield—passion, unpredictability, complete lack of apology for taking what he desired—also made for a most captivating sexual partner.

  Ares smiled even wider. “Won’t you make yourself comfortable inside?” The god could charm the fur off a bear.

  He stood in the doorway, blocking the opening so Aphrodite had to brush against him to pass. Ares released a soft grunt as Aphrodite’s bare shoulder caressed his chest. Good. All’s fair in Love and War.

  Aphrodite strode toward the lounge area near the window. Her steps sped past the four-poster bed occupying half the room but not quickly enough to avoid the distant but glorious memory of Ares, stretched out naked across its plush, gold quilt.

  “Please, sit.”

  Aphrodite startled at the close voice and the hand that suddenly materialized at her lower back. She perched on the edge of the cowhide bench and arranged her skirts.

  “You’re nervous,” he said with more delight than apology. “Here, have some wine.” Ares filled the goblets on the table and handed one to Aphrodite. “To our son.”

  Our. His and mine. The walking, breathing embodiment of their mutual lust.

  “To Cupid.” She clinked her glass against Ares’s and sipped at the wine.

  “We did the right thing, you know,” Ares said, observing her carefully. “The Council would have overruled the ascension. I’m only one vote of five.”

  “I know.” She’d already faced the truth after shedding many a tear. Cupid’s heart was in the right place, but his choices were questionable. He had more growing up to do before they could risk bringing him home.

  Ares sat down beside her on the bench, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel his heat. “It’s crucial for us to be firm now so they don’t strip us of our power to control the situation.”

  Firm. Power. Control. And it was clear from the knowing twinkle in Ares’s deep blue eyes that the “us” he kept referring to did not include Hephaestus.

  “Yes, you’re right, of course,” Aphrodite said.

  The Divine Council had already made an extraordinary exception in Cupid’s case by allowing Aphrodite and Ares to preside over Cupid’s reform. It was Athena who’d pointed out the Council’s exposure in disciplining such a high-profile deity. And what situation had more potential for disaster than loosing a lovesick Cupid on the mortals at close range? After hearing her convincing argument, Dike, Apollo, and Themis unanimously agreed to assign primary responsibility to Aphrodite and Ares, while the Council, with Themis at the reins, would retain ultimate oversight.

  Unless, of course, Hera chose to intervene. It hadn’t happened in recent memory. Themis was one of few deities Hera actually respected and therefore left the goddess of divine justice to govern as she saw fit. But what if the aggrieved Hera became motivated to mete out her own idea of justice and set Cupid mooning over a chicken or . . . or a fish . . . or (gasp!) gods forbid, Hera herself? Aphrodite shuddered to imagine it. No, she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “I trust your husband didn’t give you a difficult time about meeting me alone?”

  Hephaestus had been furious when the summons arrived. He’d never fully trust Ares alone with Aphrodite, but more than that, Heph hated being shut out of the discussion. He cared deeply for Cupid, and as the boy’s de facto father, he felt entitled to weigh in on his punishment. Hephaestus knew how these things worked, though, and he was far too clever to complain, nor would Aphrodite give Ares the satisfaction.

  “He trusts me.”

  “And why should he not?” Ares cocked an eyebrow.

  “Exactly.” Her sweet smile put Ares off the trail for the moment and onto the presumed reason for their meeting.

  “I see you’ve chosen a married Worthy this time.”

  Aphrodite couldn’t quite glean his opinion on her decision. “Yes.”

  “That’s stirring the mortal pot a bit, isn’t it? Breaking up a marriage?”

  “Who says I’m breaking it up?”

  Realization dawned, bringing with it a sly grin. “Her Right Love is the husband?”

  “You know, it does happen occasionally.”

  A booming, easy laugh rolled out of Ares. “So I’ve heard.”

  “The institution of marriage does have its place.”

  “How very precious, goddess.” And there it was; he thought her an idealistic fool.

  “Don’t forget the mortals only have to make it through seventy, eighty years, tops.”

  “Ah.” Ares gulped his wine and gave Aphrodite a long, hard stare. “I suppose there are one or two lovers I could imagine committing to for that length of time.”

  His attention sent a thrill through her body. She finished off her wine, and he refilled both goblets. “What happened to them, this married couple?”

  “They’ve lost their way, and now they’re both being steered in dangerous directions.”

  “Did she cheat on him?” Ares favored Aphrodite with a leer that held all the torrid memories of their shared transgressions.

  “Why would you assume it’s the wife who cheated?”

  Ares held up his hands in surrender. “Cupid did find her in a strip club. It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Now who’s being precious? Just because she was enjoying a night out doesn’t make her a cheater.”

  Ares smirked. “Sweetheart, you’re trying to sell me something I don’t need to buy. Perhaps you should be delivering this impassioned speech to your husband?”

  “Ugh, you’re impossible,” she said. And yet, something in her was stirred. She rather liked the idea of Ares thinking she’d been a little nau
ghty.

  Ares huffed. “So, the husband cheated.”

  “Honestly, must you be so black-and-white? There are other reasons marriages fail.”

  “Why go hunting for a unicorn when the stable is filled with horses?”

  Aphrodite could lecture him on destructive habits and lack of emotional intimacy and poor boundaries, but what would she gain from arguing nuances of Love with the God of War?

  “Whatever the reason for their strife,” Aphrodite said, “Cupid will have to diagnose the problem and fan the flames of their Right Love past their Liminal Point.”

  Ares crossed his arms over his chest. “And you believe this challenge will satisfy the Council?”

  “Reviving a twenty-three-year-old marriage is not so easy. A quarter-century’s dust covers their first rush of passion. They’ve seen each other at their worst. They’ve lost faith. They take each other’s gifts for granted, disappoint and hurt each other at every turn.”

  Ares tilted his head. “Are we still talking about the mortals?”

  “Must you be such a tiresome cockroach?”

  “Oh, love,” Ares said with a chuckle, “you might be the only living soul who can call the God of War a roach and escape in one piece.”

  “I think you like it.” What she’d meant to sound defiant came out far more intimate, taking them both aback.

  “Maybe I do,” he confessed. “Sounds like Cupid’s got his hands full. He might be down there quite a while.” Ares’s evil grin found its mirror image in Aphrodite.

  “He might indeed.”

  Well, here was a new kind of thrill. If not for her mischievous son, Aphrodite might have missed stumbling onto the most powerful aphrodisiac of all: the warm glow of Ares’s respect. Now, the trick would be holding on to it.

  Up to that moment, she might have convinced herself her motives were pure—what mother’s conscience could bear to believe otherwise?—but that complicit smile destroyed all pretense of anything short of selling out her favorite son. Aphrodite was as disloyal a mother as she was a wife. Which was more egregious, she’d have to work out later.

  She shot Ares a provocative glare. “The point is for Cupid to prove he can put Right Love before his own base needs.”

  “Base needs,” Ares repeated with a half-lidded gaze, “can be quite compelling, don’t you agree?” He lifted his hand to her shoulder and brushed his fingertips across her skin while the two of them sat rooted in place as if powerless to stop it. His caress raised a trail of gooseflesh up and down her arm.

  “Indeed.” Aphrodite’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief, beautiful what-if.

  Back to her senses, she shifted just beyond Ares’s reach. “The boy is free to fulfill himself wherever he likes at this point, so there’s no reason for him to taste the forbidden fruit.”

  Her would-be lover received the message with an understanding nod, retracting his hand agreeably enough. “No reason at all, goddess, except everyone knows which fruit is sweetest.”

  4

  STRIPPED

  Pan found Cupid outside, leaning against the wall of the nightclub, staring off into the distance. So much for his friend’s respite.

  Taking up a spot on the wall beside him, Pan asked, “You okay?”

  “I’m in love again, so no, not really.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  Something white flashed between Cupid’s fingers. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Oh, this?” Cupid looked at the paper as if seeing it for the first time. “Ruthie gave me her number.”

  “Q, you can’t—”

  Cupid shot him a look fraught with pain. “I have to.”

  Pan pivoted toward the building, whispered “Fuck!” into the brick wall, and stepped menacingly in front of Cupid. “There are rules you need to respect here.”

  “What kind of rules?”

  “You can’t go around fucking married people, for one.”

  “Who says I’m gonna fuck her? Who says she’d even let me?” Cupid’s shoulders tightened into a stiff line. “You don’t have to be so vulgar all the time, Pan.”

  “Okay, okay.” Pan held up both hands in surrender. “Look, it’s been a long night. This might not be the best time to hash this out. Why don’t we sleep on it and talk in the morning?”

  Cupid seemed to roll the quarrel around in his head for a minute before letting it go. “Fine. Let’s go home.”

  Pan pressed his keys into Cupid’s hand. “Take the truck.”

  “You’re not coming home with me?”

  “I’m gonna stay a while. I’m in the mood to dance.” More accurately, Pan was in the mood for the dancer, but it wouldn’t ease Cupid’s mind to know Pan’s designs. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a ride home.”

  Deep into his own misery, Cupid didn’t have any fight left in him. “Fine. See you later.”

  Pan clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t wait up.”

  Cupid’s problems would still be there in the morning . . . and then some. Pan needed a hot body tonight, and he knew just the one. The stripper-angel greeted Pan from the stage with a well-hello-again-hottie smile. Pan took his place behind the greedy crowd thrusting their bodies and singles, content to wait until he could have the stripper to himself, not as some impersonal business transaction, but a true meeting of souls—or at least a private grinding of bodies.

  Yes, this dancer was exactly the right boy to break Pan’s all-female streak since Pablo. He could feel it in his bones. Pan bided his time, enduring dance partners who stepped in to fill the void in front of him. He pumped his hips and rode the music, but it was all for the angel on the stage. Pan barely saw the boys who interloped, and the angel broke eye contact with Pan only to charm the patrons out of their money. Pan understood; the man was working.

  The beat changed and brought with it the next shift of dancers. His angel thanked the audience, collected the scattered bills, located Pan in the crowd, and jutted his chin toward the Employees Only sign.

  The angel hung back while his costumed coworkers filed through the swinging door. He held the door open for Pan, then followed him into the hallway. The door swung shut, blotting out the lights and techno music and carefully staged fantasies.

  “You were watching me.” Everyone was watching him, but Pan knew what he meant.

  “Yes.” Pan smiled with the ease of a man who knew he was watched right back—until he remembered it was the other man’s job to attract attention. Indeed, the privilege normally involved compensation.

  Shit. Might as well cut to the chase. Pan reached for his wallet.

  “What do you want? Twenty? Fifty?”

  The man hung his head. “Oh. I thought . . . You know what? Never mind.” He gave Pan a small wave. “My mistake. You have a nice night.”

  “Wait!” Pan grabbed the man’s arm as he was turning away. “That was my mistake. I apologize.”

  The man scanned Pan’s face, then shook his head with a dry chuckle. “Occupational hazard. Can we start over?”

  “Please.” Pan slid his hand down the dancer’s forearm, grasping him in a firm handshake. “My name’s Pan, and you are . . .?”

  “Jagger,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Not very angelic, is it?”

  Pan winked. “Who says I want an angel?”

  Jagger’s smile widened, not the stripper smile he’d flashed at his adoring audience but one that held real warmth without losing that touch of bad boy. “What do you want?”

  “Anything not here.”

  “That’s pretty broad.”

  “Let me narrow it down a bit for you.” Pan took two big steps toward Jagger, forcing his back against the wall, bent forward, and pressed his lips to Jagger’s mouth. Jagger yielded and responded in kind, reaching hungrily for Pan’s mouth when he pulled back to
catch a breath.

  The waiting had worked Pan into a froth. Now that they were actually kissing, Pan was half-delirious.

  “Jesus. Get a room, Jag,” one of his coworkers teased as he rushed past them.

  Jagger broke off the kiss, leaving Pan aching. He grinned up at Pan, light green eyes peeking out from behind dirty-blond bangs. “Damn.”

  Pan held his ground, lowering their joined hands to Jagger’s scant costume. With a strategic backhanded brush, Pan confirmed that the other man’s excitement matched his own. “Is that from our kiss or all those girls who had their fingers in your pouch tonight?”

  Jagger shook his head. “I love my job, but I avoid Mix Night like the plague. Women are nuts. My boss messaged me this afternoon when one of the guys called out sick. I’m not great at saying no.”

  “Good to know,” Pan said. “And this”—he thrust against Jagger’s hand—“is entirely your fault.”

  A needy moan escaped Jagger. “Lemme just grab a quick shower. I reek of sweat and money.”

  Oh yes, Pan was acutely aware. He leaned forward, nicked his teeth along Jagger’s shoulder, and tasted the salty skin at the base of his neck. “It’s hot.”

  Jagger let out a soft grunt. His hand closed around Pan’s head. “Screw the shower.”

  Pan chuckled, releasing a warm, breathy stream into Jagger’s ear. It had been over a decade since Pablo, and Pan had all but forgotten the sweet pull of a hard body pressed against his chest. “Not that this isn’t fun, but I want more than a dry hump in a dark hallway.”

  “Likewise,” Jagger answered. “Mind if I put on some pants?”

  Pan chuckled. “Seems counterproductive.”

  “Being arrested for public indecency would put a serious damper on the evening, don’t you think?” Jagger set his palm against Pan’s chest, forcing space between the two of them.

  Pan replied with a loud sigh. “I suppose. Shake your tail, then. I’ll wait here, impatiently . . . unless I can come back there with you and watch?”