Heat for Hephaestus

by Sotia Lazu

  I drop down on all fours, to gather the couple Post-it notes that landed under his desk. When I go for a yellow slip that slides out of my fingers, Hephaestus’ hand brushes mine, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve felt in ages.

  Well, no. That was his grip on my wrist, the second time he took the wooden box from me.

  Cazzo. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm acting like a cat in heat, going weak in the knees over a total stranger.

  Maybe Noella is right, and I need to get laid.

  There’s a list of numbers on my cell phone, of gorgeous men who’d hop on planes—private planes, the sort that serve the finest champagne and caviar—for the chance to simply have dinner with me, but the thought of inviting any of them to spend the night with me is as alluring as yesterday’s cold pasta. This isn’t my hormones acting up, or a few months’ worth of celibacy taking its toll. I’m attracted to Hephaestus, specifically. To his eyes and his breathtakingly intense face and his wide back and his large hands that look strong enough to squeeze water out of a rock.

  And I really don’t want to leave. Sheena’s rule is no fucking around before a big shoot, but the shoot is in a week, and there’s no reason not to enjoy my time till then. Besides, I’m technically on vacation in the meantime. What harm can a quick fling do? We’re supposed to visit the nearby islands, but the girls will understand if I am otherwise occupied.

  When Hephaestus closes his long fingers around a foot-long receipt, I cover his hand with mine. “I could keep you company till the part arrives,” I say, dropping my voice lower. “Don’t have anywhere I need to be tonight.”

  For a moment, he considers it. I see it in the hard-set lines around his mouth. In the narrowing of his eyes. In how he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “You should go,” he says finally. “No way of knowing what time it’ll be delivered.”

  “And if I don’t want to go?” I caress a path across his knuckles.

  He withdraws his hand as if my fingertips were made of thorns that tore his fresh. His eyes are embers, setting my soul on fire. “You don’t know me. I may be a psycho who kills women and hides their bodies in a fridge in the back.”

  Okay... I’ve been turned down before, but no other man has pretended to be a killer, to get rid of me. “Are you?” I ask.

  “No, but I could be.”

  I straighten and wait for him to climb out from under the desk too, so I can look him in the eye when I ask, “Is the idea of spending a few hours in my company so abhorrent?”

  I meant for it to sound teasing, but it comes out petulant. When he doesn’t hurry to convince me I’m wrong, I square my shoulders and push my hands in my back pockets, staring him down.

  He holds my gaze easily. Tilts his head to the side in that way that’s become eerily familiar, and tucks his tongue behind his front teeth. “You’re not used to the word no, are you?”

  I choose to take it as an honest question, and not like he just implied I’m a spoiled brat. “Men don’t refuse me often, but when they do, I accept it.” I brush dirt off my knees and wipe my hands on the seat of my cutoffs. “I’ll wait outside, with the girls.” Only I’m not fast enough to exit with my pride intact and my head held high, because said girls barge inside.

  “It’s fucking hot out there,” Sylvie proclaims in English, as if Hephaestus wouldn’t know she was annoyed by merely seeing her sour expression. She practically pours herself onto the ratty sofa beside the ratty chair and kicks off her sneakers.

  Except for his desk chair that looks brand new, Hephaestus doesn’t seem to care about the condition of his furniture. The sofa has definitely seen better days, but those must have been decades ago. Maybe it was green at some point, but now it’s a dull beige with darker patches, and it’s ripping at the seams. That’s probably why Sylvie doesn’t mind leaving her shoe on the cushion, where it lands, but I push it to the floor anyway.

  Maria and Noella aren’t far behind her. I expect Hephaestus to be annoyed that they’ve raided his shop, but he seems relieved. Is he attracted to one of them?

  No. Mine.

  I mean... I saw him first? Nah, sounds just as bad. I can’t call dibs on someone who just turned me down.

  But he is into me. I’m not saying that because men usually like models; I sense that he’s attracted to me. I watch his face for signs he’s interested in one of my friends, but the only one he’s checking out is me. See?

  So why the cold shoulder?

  Maybe he’s got a girlfriend. A wife.

  The pang in my belly is hunger, not jealousy. I can’t be jealous of a man I first met minutes ago.

  Sylvie sits beside Noella, with Maria on her other side. All three of them are as disheveled as we allow ourselves to get—clothes wrinkled, hair perfectly mussed, and no lipstick in sight. The beautiful people. I used to think belonging with them would make me happy, but now I know this job can be exhausting. It’s not all glamour and shoots and parties. It’s never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots. Having to jump through hoops, to have a healthy, long-term relationship. Not enjoying that burger with fries on a whim.

  I’m lucky to be in this profession at my age, but I’m riding what I hope isn’t a temporary wave of inclusion. Fashion is finally realizing people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors—mostly because consumers are sick of being told they don’t look good enough—and designers are forced to do something about it. I seldom get scolded for my tattoos or piercings any more, but I do still get the sexist comments, indecent proposals, and scornful glances when my stretch marks make an appearance or I smile hard enough to make the wrinkles pop. Who cares? I have a life to live. Can’t waste it on haters.

  “Does the Greek have something for us to drink?” Noella asks me in Italian. “Nectar, maybe?”

  He doesn’t look like I’d expect a Greek god to—no long curls or lean, sinewy built—but the combination of her suggestion and his name makes me smile.

  “Could we have some water?” I ask Hephaestus in English, giving him an apologetic look.

  Maria huffs, slamming her fist on the arm of the couch. “Screw water. I want to try ouzo,” she declares in English.

  Hephaestus lets out a surprised laugh. “Not all Greeks have ouzo within arm’s reach,” he tells her, “but I can offer you beer.”

  She nods. “Beer good.”

  Sylvie translates for Noella with a grimace of disappointment, but Noella shrugs and nods. “Beer good,” she echoes Maria.

  Hephaestus goes to the open-top refrigerator at the far corner. The back flap of his overalls covers what is sure to be an exquisite ass, but we do get the gratifying view of his back rippling with muscle when he bends over to fish out a six-pack of beer. He tears open the plastic packaging, biceps bunching, and offers one to each of the girls before popping one open and handing it to me.

  “Won’t you join us?” I ask.

  There’s that look again, that says he wants to decipher me as much as I want to open his mystery box. And maybe his overalls, if he weren’t taken. He licks his lips and takes a can out for himself, then focuses really hard on opening it and flicking the metallic ring back and forth until it breaks off in his long, thick fingers.

  Everything he does makes me think of sex. Which he isn’t open to, with me, so I sip my beer, looking at my nails. Had them done in Patra, yesterday. We were exhausted, but I hadn’t had my nails painted red in forever, and this is my week off. I get to do anything I want on my week off.

  I steal a glance at Hephaestus, who’s mesmerized by the tiny loop of tin in his hand, and then gulp down more of my beer.

  Almost anything I want. I obviously won’t be doing him. I finish my drink and hold out the empty can. “May I have another?” I bat my eyelashes at him, but it’s not flirty; it’s silly. Flirting will get me nowhere. Silliness may at least get me drunk enough to forget his rejection.

  Chapter Five - Hephaestus

  LAURA IS ON HER THIRD beer, and it hasn’t been half an hour since we starte
d drinking. On the one hand, she stopped hitting on me. Not sure how I feel about that, but my upper head says it’s a good thing. Her attraction to me wasn’t genuine. Couldn’t have been. She’s out of my league.

  Of course, my brothers and their mates seem perfectly matched, meant for each other...

  I’m not one of them. I’m the ugly duckling of the family, and Laura and I are far from perfectly matched.

  Anyway, we were on the other hand. On the other hand, she’s trying to dance without music on, and stumbling. Her friends aren’t faring much better, for people who only had a couple of beers. I steady her with a hand on the small of her back. She hisses and gives me a look of such naked hunger, I take a step back to perch on my desk, so I don’t sweep her in my arms and carry her upstairs to my bedroom so we can both sate our hungers.

  Laura shakes her head, cries opa, and smacks her hand on her thigh. Right over the tattoo I’m dying to follow all the way up. “Ouch.” She laughs, twirls, and half-sits on me. “Sorry,” she says, looping an arm around my neck.

  “Have you eaten anything all day?” I ask. And where the fuck is Hades? He should be here by now. Unless Hermes is enjoying turning the lights red instead of green, to prolong my suffering.

  Laura scrunches her nose adorably. “We were supposed to eat at one of the fish taverns in Palea Fokea, and didn’t want to spoil our appetites.” She squints at me. “Your eyes are gorgeous. They look black from a distance, but when you’re this close, they’re steel gray. And now they’re turning silver.” Her mouth forms a perfect O, while my jaw drops.

  Silver eyes herald ascending. Which means our bond is being woven as we speak. C said things would start moving faster, but this is too fast. And I refuse to have no say in my future, let alone drag an innocent into it.

  My brothers are bonded to the females always meant for them, though. How can that be wrong?

  I hate this argument. I’ve had it with myself a thousand times already. Like Ares, I didn’t have a soulmate in my original lifetime. If my dreams are memories, as I suspect they are, there was a nymph I thought completed me, but surely the female supposed to share my eternity wouldn’t have betrayed me with Zeus.

  “Fucking Zeus,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Pizza good,” the curly brunette exclaims from the sofa. She and the blonde beside her hug and take a selfie. Awesome.

  Where. The fuck. Is Hades?

  “My brother can take you to get pizza,” I tell them, propping Laura upward when she starts slipping toward me.

  “No. I ordered pizza. To come here. With the application, si?” The second brunette, the one with straight hair down to her shoulders, points at her cell phone. “They find us with satellite. At your door in forty-five minutes.”

  “No no no no.” Was that clear? “No.” I hop upright, and Laura tilts the other side, but I’m fast and grasp her arm before she falls off the desk. “Hades will be here in a couple minutes. He will take you to any pizza place you choose.” I can’t take another three quarters of an hour of this. And that doesn’t account for the time they’ll take to eat the food once it’s delivered.

  “Pizza sounds awesome.” Laura shakes my grasp off and staggers to the sofa. She hops onto her blond friend’s lap, and the four of them giggle and take more pictures.

  Laura’s shorts are riding high, but I won’t look. She’s inebriated, and needs food, a shower, and a nap. Not an unascended Olympian, gawking at her ass.

  “Is your brother delizioso too?” Straight-Hair asks.

  I don’t have time to answer, because Curly puts on music on her phone, and the three of them wedge themselves out from under Laura so they can dance, while she makes herself comfortable on my ancient sofa.

  Hades doesn’t have to knock, because none of my self-invited guests thought to lower the garage door after their intrusion. The arching of his thick, black brows over wide eyes when he views the scene unfolding in my office is so comical, it almost makes up for the train-wreck that’s been the past hour of my life.

  “You don’t have pizza,” Straight-Hair says, “but you are good looking. Beer?” She holds out her can to Hades, who shakes his head and gives me panicky-eyes.

  “Help,” I mouth. Aloud and in English, I say, “Ladies, this is my brother Hades. When the pizza gets here, he’ll take it and you to your hotel, and you can come get your car in the morning.”

  Curly shakes her head and says something in Italian fast enough that it escapes my burgeoning grasp of the language.

  She points to herself and says, “Noella.”

  Hades nods at her but keeps his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m Maria,” says Straight-Hair. “That’s Fuoco, and this is Sylvie. And we’re not leaving until we have some pizza. We don’t like cold pizza.”

  “Not sure you’ll like this pizza warm, either. It’s not like you’re used to in Italy. Maybe you should have something else, at the hotel.” I’m so desperate to get them out of here, I reach for my wallet and pluck out a couple twenties. “Here. I’ll pay for the pizza and keep it.”

  Maria shakes her head. “I paid. We eat it here. Party.”

  “Let them have their fucking pizza. Just turn down this noise.” Hades rubs his temples and gives me a pointed look. “Is this how you usually entertain?”

  Fuck. Forgot I’m shirtless. “It was hot,” I mumble, grabbing a fresh T-shirt from my second drawer. Always have backup here. I pull it on and glower at him. “Better?”

  He shrugs, but in Hades speak, that’s an entire paragraph. He’s essentially telling me he didn’t mind before, but this is more appropriate when I have guests.

  “By the way—in case it’s not obvious—I’m not entertaining. I’m helping them out with their minivan. They’re the ones with boundary issues,” I say.

  Sylvia demonstrates that, by plastering herself onto Hades and pinching his cheeks. “Smile, beautiful Hades. Brooding is so last season.”

  Hades winces, but I crack up at the absurdity. An Italian model is pinching the cheeks of the god of death and calling him beautiful.

  Then it hits home, what this must be doing to said god of death, and I hurry to gently lower her hands and pull her away.

  “You okay, man?” I ask.

  Hades nods, but his eyes have gone black instead of their usual gray, as he rubs both his temples with his fingertips. “She needs to quit drinking.”

  “Pizza delivery. Anybody home?” calls a man from outside. Finally, someone with manners.

  I go out to meet him, and get the single pizza these girls ordered for five adults—six now. It’s a family-size one, but still... I tip a little extra, to make up for dragging the guy out here for just one pie.

  “Food’s here.” I slap the pizza on my desk and flip open the cover. No meat scent. Lovely. One pizza, and it’s vegetarian. Granted, I wasn’t hungry before, but I am now, and this won’t cut it. I’ll order something else when I’m blissfully alone again.

  Which takes forever. The girls have a couple slices each, and more beer, and Laura sits up long enough to have a bite and of course drink some more.

  I want to cut her off, but this isn’t a bar, and I’m not her father.

  Though I might be okay with her calling me Daddy.

  Snap out of it, self. This isn’t gonna happen.

  The moment all three of Laura’s friends stop chewing, I say, “So. Ready to go? Hades will drive the four of you—”

  “And our stuff. We must take our stuff too.” Laura’s voice is barely audible. She hiccups and gives me startled eyes. “I think I’m drunk.”

  No shit. “Then take your stuff too. I’ll help you unload the minibus.”

  Four minutes later, I regret offering. There’s no way the four suitcases, six holdalls, three backpacks, and four laptop cases will fit in the trunk of Hades’ Golf, and if he takes all four girls, the trunk is all that’s left.

  “Hmmm...” Hades arches an eyebrow.

  Fuck. “Can you maybe leave your s
tuff with the car, and get it tomorrow? Take only essentials with?” I ask the ladies.

  A chorus of no says they won’t entertain the idea.

  I turn to my brother. “Could you do two trips?”

  His brow goes even higher. This is his fuck no expression.

  “Can’t you drive me home?” Laura asks me. Her voice may be steadier now, but her gait isn’t. She’s leaning against Maria, and watching me through eyes narrowed with inebriation, not speculation. “I will be good. I promise.”

  Hades tilts his head to the side and purses his lips. I can read the, Say yes, you fucker, all over his face.

  All right. I can be alone with her and behave. She’s drunk. I’d never touch a woman not in full possession of her faculties, even if the bond makes me feel like I’ll die if I don’t. Which is why I can’t bond with her even if she sobers up—without fate’s interference, she wouldn’t spare me a second glance.

  “I’ll help you load their stuff, and we’ll follow you to the hotel,” I tell Hades.

  He glances between me and Laura. “Gimme your car keys. I load up what doesn’t fit in my trunk while you lock up.”

  Chapter Six - Laura

  HEPHAESTUS DRIVES A 2017 Toyota Yaris Hybrid. He opens the passenger door for me, and I drop into the seat. Keeping my eyes open is hard. I could go to sleep the moment my head touches the headrest.

  He throws the driver’s side door open and folds his enormous body behind the wheel, rocking the car. It’s like he’s wearing the vehicle, and the fit is too snug. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. It still bubbles up my throat with a whiff of beer that’s gone sour, and kills my mood.

  “You okay?” Hephaestus asks.

  I open my eyes—when did I close them?—and squint his way. “I’m fine.” Only it comes out mfine and may indicate the opposite.

  “If you need to throw up, tell me to pull over.” He doesn’t sound judgy. He sounds worried. About me or his car? I’d be worried about my upholstery if I had a drunk hiccuping in my car.