Heat for Hephaestus

by Sotia Lazu

  I might be able to tell, if I saw his face, but I’ve closed my eyes again. It makes the world spin even worse, but I’m so tired from the past couple days spent on the road, I can’t bother raising my eyelids.

  I nod and half-hum, half-swallow against the unpleasant taste at the back of my throat.

  The engine purrs to life, and a whirring to my right is followed by a blast of warm air against my face. The sun is still up, and I’m drunk. On beer. I’m a disgrace to models. To Italians. To humanity itself.

  This time I do laugh. A thankfully brief burp makes me clamp my jaw shut.

  Hephaestus chuckles.

  “Don’t laugh. I feel like hell,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  He touches the back of my hand, but the contact is so fleeting, I may have imagined it. “I’m sorry. If I knew you had a problem, I wouldn’t have...”

  It takes my frazzled mind a couple seconds to realize what he means by problem. “You think I’m an alcoholic?” Of course the first guy I’ve been attracted to in almost a year thinks I’m an alcoholic. “I’m not. I’m tired. I have been on the road for two days with very little sleep, because I’m riding with children”—the idea of driving to Athens from Bari via ferry to Corfu had seemed alluring before my ass molded to the shape of the car seat—“I’m hungry, and I never have more than a glass of wine with dinner.” That was too much talking. My head buzzes.

  “Still, I saw you were getting dizzy. I should have stopped you.”

  “You have no right to stop me. I’m an adult; I am responsible for my own actions.” Who said he can have any say in my life, anyway?

  Hephaestus rounds a bend hard enough to make the pizza flip in my stomach, carried on a wave of frothy beer that burns my esophagus like acid.

  “Porca miseria,” I mutter under my breath. Damn it.

  “You okay?” he asks. “Do you want me to pull over? There’s a gas station up ahead. We can get you some water. I should have thought to bring a bottle with.”

  But he didn’t, because he was in a hurry to get rid of me.

  Serves me right, for throwing myself at him and then making an ass of myself by drinking my body weight in beer.

  Okay, so it was only three beers—four?—but I’m a total lightweight when it comes to alcohol.

  “Well?” Hephaestus asks.

  Why won’t he let me sleep?

  Right—he is waiting for me to tell him if I need water.

  “Water is good,” I croak. “Sleep is better.”

  Another chuckle, though this one soothes my head and my stomach instead of annoying me. His touch lingers a couple of heartbeats this time, when he covers my hand with his palm. “I’ll get you straight to your hotel, then. You’ll be in bed soon.” His voice is a soft, warm blanket. I know it’s hot outside, but a soft, warm blanket feels perfect for cuddling up into and napping.

  I shift a little to the side and lean my back against the door. My head falls back outside the window. Not good.

  It takes a couple tries, but I get comfortable, and there are no bile-raising bends for the next few kilometers, so I doze off.

  When I open my eyes again, my stomach threatens to come out of my mouth. The rocking motion worsens the aftereffects of my drinking. I’m being moved, but not by the car.

  Someone’s carrying me.

  Panic has my heart racing inside my chest. My temples are throbbing. I can hear my pulse. “Wha—” My mouth is dry, and my throat feels scratched.

  I’m pressed against something hard enough to be a wall, but it’s warm. And smells like Hephaestus. He’s carrying me somewhere, like a child, one of his arms folded beneath my legs, the other cradling my shoulders.

  My head bounces with every step he takes. I let it roll to the side, to look away from him, so he doesn’t notice when I crack open one eyelid. I know I’ll be surrounded by darkness. That’s where kidnappers take their victims—dark places. And this is totally my fault, for dropping my defenses, climbing into a stranger’s car, and falling asleep beside him. I’ve been acting like a hormonal teenager, not a woman in her early thirties.

  He even warned me. Told me he might be a killer. My panicked brain scrambles to figure out a next move that will get me free and near people.

  The place isn’t totally dark, though. Cool lighting overhead illuminates what seems to be an underground parking garage. Totally on the Psycho-Killer Top Murder-Locations list.

  Summoning every ounce of strength available in my toxin-riddled body—between alcohol and stress, my cortisol levels must be through the roof—I slam my right elbow in his chest and roll away from his grasp.

  Or that was the plan.

  Hephaestus doesn’t even flinch. He holds me more tightly, and in that growly voice that makes my body tingle even now that he’s a threat to it, says, “Careful. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

  I turn to glower at him. “And you’d rather be the one to do the hurting?”

  He all but throws me to the ground, the way he spreads his arms, but he clasps my forearms and helps me upright before I smash ass-first into the concrete. “I would never hurt you.” He sounds sincere, and his gaze is filled with pain. He squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, his expression is blank. “I’d never hurt any woman.”

  I shake off his grip and take a step back. “Then why bring me here?”

  “Here is your hotel, woman. I had to park somewhere. Tried to wake you up, but you insisted you wanted to sleep, so I took your luggage upstairs and came back to carry you to your room.”

  Cazzo. He is just being a Good Samaritan. But can you blame me for being suspicious? “I’m sorry. I just... You hear stories. All the women I know have them.”

  He nods, and his face softens. His gaze is warm when he says, “You shouldn’t apologize. I get it. If you’re wrong, I get insulted. If you’re right, you get much worse.”

  He does get it. Hot and considerate. Dannazione. Wish I could redo the past few hours, introduce myself like a normal person and not a horny diva, and maybe get to know him better, even if he’s not interested in anything more.

  What stops me from doing so now?

  I hold out my hand, and when he looks at it like I’m offering him a dead fish, say, “Let’s start over. I am Laura Rossi, and contrary to all evidence, I have been socialized at an early age. Nice to meet you, Hephaestus...?”

  Hephaestus smiles. “Olympios. Hephaestus Olympios. And the pleasure is all mine.” His large palm covers mine almost entirely. Like the rest of him, it feels warm and right and perfect.

  And I need to stop thinking of him like that. Though my ego insisted otherwise till now, the man is not even remotely interested, and I should cut my losses and go. But for some reason, what he thinks of me matters, even if I never see him again. Which I will, tomorrow, when we go pick up the minivan.

  “I don’t want to go to my room,” I blurt out. “The girls respect me. I don’t want them to see me like this. I mean, they already have, but I’d rather not stink of beer”—and bad judgment—“when I go up there. I don’t feel drunk anymore. Not really. But my head is fuzzy, and I doubt I can walk a straight line.”

  The look he gives me is full of speculation. “So what are you suggesting?”

  I shrug. “That I go for a stroll. Nearby. Maybe you come with me, to make sure I don’t get lost.”

  He licks his lips. “I have another idea. I’m gonna feed you.”

  My stomach protests the suggestion. “I had pizza,” I say.

  Hephaestus shakes his head. “No, I’m talking a proper hangover remedy. Patsa.”

  Never heard of it. Don’t care. It’s an excuse to spend more time with him. “Sounds good.” I grin.

  “The car is this way.” He steers us to the right, and I head toward his Yaris, my stride growing more certain with every step.

  Hephaestus gets behind the wheel and leans across, to open the door for me. Unlike last time, I slip inside with the grace of a ballerina. And hop up again li
ke a spring when I sit on something hard. My sunglasses.

  Second try isn’t as graceful, but I’m finally composed, and with the oversize glasses hiding what must be red-rimmed eyes, I feel in control again.

  Chapter Seven - Hephaestus

  LAURA MUST THINK I can’t see her eyes through the dark lenses of her shades. She’s partially right. I can’t technically see her stealing glances my way, but I’m intensely aware of her gaze on me. Is she studying my scar? She’ll ask soon; she’s not the timid type. And I’ll have to tell her a lie, like I tell everyone else who asks. Maybe it’ll be the mugger story. Or I could come up with a jealous ex, aiming for my eye.

  I certainly can’t tell her I don’t remember getting hurt—ever, in my entire life—and woke up with this on the side of my face one Sunday morning. It’ll make her think I am prone to drinking myself to a stupor.

  Though she shouldn’t judge, when she guzzled those beers down like her life depended on it.

  She humms, then— “How—”

  Here it comes.

  “—did you decide to get a Yaris?”

  Oh. I’ve gotten variants of this question before, always after the woman asking found out about the family money. Oh, you’re an Olympios. And then the car question, accompanied with a moue of distaste. I don’t remember anyone mentioning the model, though. It’s usually, Why go for a hybrid? Or, How come you don’t drive a muscle car? Or, Can I have your brother’s phone number? Any brother’s.

  The fate crap says Laura won’t ask the latter, but you never know. Though she didn’t go gaga over Hades, when women and men alike usually find him irresistible. And I can’t believe how relieved I feel at this realization. I’m pathetic. Haven’t felt pathetic in years. I despise this feeling.

  “Well?” Laura asks. “Most of the car mechanics I know go for German or Japanese cars, but none of them would be happy with only a hundred horses.”

  I snort. “Maybe I don’t need the extension to my masculinity.” Still, impressive that she noticed the horsepower in her condition.

  Laura’s silent long enough that I turn to look at her. Her eyebrows are arched high enough to peek above her sunglasses, and she’s biting her bottom lip. I don’t need to see where she’s looking, to know what she’s thinking of. And said what is rising to the occasion. Fuck, and at the same time thank Gaia for overall flaps. Without it, she could probably see the outline of my cock.

  I got hard because a—stunning, alas inebriated—woman knows my car’s model and horsepower. I need to get laid. Though not with her. That would be catastrophic. I shouldn’t even be in such close proximity to her that my knuckles can graze her bare thigh.

  I could pull over and rest my palm on that thigh. Glide my palm up to the frayed hem of her cutoffs and tug them out of the way so I can see the rest of the tattoo driving me crazy. Pull her on top of me, so she can feel the bulge she’s still staring at.

  I won’t do any of these things, of course, but now I can think about them for the rest of the drive, while trying to will my cock to please relax. Awesome. Suits me right, for suggesting an hour’s car ride, to feed a model tripe soup. What’s wrong with me?

  C. He’s what’s wrong. He and his need to control everything. Does his meddling go deeper than having Laura’s rental break down in front of my shop? I stop at the red light and smile at her politely. In my head, I scream, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fuck with my mind, C. Thank you.” No way of knowing if he heard me, but it can’t hurt to try.

  “Care to elaborate on that?” Laura pushes her glasses up into her hair, and my heart stammers.

  Not because her eyes are fucking gorgeous—which they are—but because she must heard my mental call. Don’t know about Sei and Denny, but this is how the bonding started for Hermes—he and Joy could hear each other’s thoughts.

  “You cannot make such a claim about your masculinity, and not substantiate it with evidence.”

  Ah. She didn’t hear. She’s talking about my... substantial evidence. Sadly, I can’t show her, or we’ll end up bonding for forever, and that’ll be wrong. For her, at least. The longer I remain in her presence, the better the idea settles in my gut.

  No. Stupid Hephaestus. Stop thinking of staring into those black eyes as you enter her body. As you feel her clench around your length. Make her moan...

  Fuck, this is too much. I’ve never desired someone so intensely. I can see why Sei gave away his throne for Irine. I’d give anything to know Laura could truly and fully be with me without her free will being compromised.

  Her gorgeous eyes twinkle naughtily. They’ll lose this glint when she realizes I’m not taking her to an upscale restaurant. She should know already, though, shouldn’t she? Look at what I’m wearing. Can’t get into anything more upper class than a souvlaki joint.

  “Green,” she says with a smirk.

  Huh?

  “The light is green.” She enunciates each word slowly, her full lips curving around the vowels. So very kissable...

  A car horn breaks her spell on me, and I press my foot on the accelerator. For the first time since I bought this car, it feels constricting. Suffocating. I may drive it to its limits—which I’ve enhanced way beyond a hundred horses—until its metal parts bend out of shape and the rubber of its tires melts off, and I’ll still be stuck beside this breathtaking woman, who’s supposed to be mine. Whom I need to keep my hands, and all other body parts, off of.

  Why the fuck didn’t I suggest seafood? There’s a series of restaurants lining the coast, a couple of kilometers from her hotel. One of them is bound to be open year-round. Would any of them be happy to serve a guy in stained overalls and with grease under his fingernails, even if said guy escorted an internationally acclaimed supermodel?

  I look at my fingers, clamped around the steering wheel. I’m usually very conscious of the dark perma-lines etched into them, but I haven’t thought of them once in Laura’s company. Perhaps because I don’t need more reason to feel inferior to her.

  She clears her throat. “So—”

  “So how come you know so much about cars?” I cut her off, because every time she asks a question, I end up feeling lost and horny.

  She clams up, like she did earlier.

  But I’m not done. “And why pretend you don’t?” I keep my gaze on the road ahead, pretending not to notice how the air in the car is turning thick with tension.

  Laura is silent for a long time. I’m talking six-blocks long. I feel more like an ass with every passing minute. Why call her out on it? Everyone has secrets. She’s allowed to keep hers.

  I’m about to apologize and say it’s none of my business, when she says, “My dad is a mechanic. Well, he is a farmer, but he builds cars as a hobby. Restores them. Like you do with your antiques. He and my older brother were always under one hood or another when I was a kid, and I felt left out, so I hung around.” She lets out a wistful little laugh. “I was so annoying, they kept asking me for drinks or snacks, to get rid of me. But I kept bugging them with questions, until they started including me. When Maurizio left for college, I was thirteen. I should be going out, enjoying my teen years, but I finally had Papa to myself, and it turned out I had a... What’s the word? A knack for motors. So I helped him with the cars until”—her voice fades to a whisper—“I left home too. ”

  I want to ask why she left. Why she sounds so sad. The subject obviously makes her uncomfortable, though, so instead I go with, “And what brings you to Greece in a minivan, with those children?”

  “They’re not children; they’re exuberant young women.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “We’re in Athens for a photo shoot. We’re—”

  “Models. I know.” No reason to lie. “Well, I know you’re a model, but I assumed you had a little side-gig going on.” When she furrows her brow, I ask, “You mean you’re not baby-sitting them?”

  Her laugh is throaty and bubbly, and I’m so glad I didn’t insi
st on finding out why she lied to me when I was checking out the minivan. “Luckily, no, since I’m the one with a hangover,” she says.

  I’ll take laughing-Laura over sad-Laura anytime. Though part of me wishes I knew what made her sad, so I could fix it.

  And I just sounded like Ares, cocky enough to believe I can fix people. I can fix things. All the things. I can tell how they work and what’s wrong, simply by looking at them. Except for that stupid box.

  Which reminds me— “Do you have a knack for Japanese puzzle boxes too?”

  “Ha! Are you ready to admit I almost opened it?”

  I glance her way. “I haven’t been able to open it in almost three decades, so I’ll do pretty much anything not to admit that.”

  Tilting her head to the side, she scrunches her nose adorably. “You look too... macho, to be so eloquent.”

  “Thanks.” I snort. “Guess that’s the equivalent of, You’re too pretty, to be smart.”

  “Touché.”

  My eyes are on the road, but I hear her expression fall. And it all clicks into place. She wasn’t hiding her knowledge of vehicles before; she was hiding her brains. Playing dumb for my sake. It’s not a guess; In this proximity, I sense her hurt as clearly as I would the damage of a broken clock. I’m still reeling at this realization, when a second one slams into me like a punch to the solar plexus. By a Titan. On steroids.

  Gaia blast me, I can fix her.

  Pity it’s not my job.

  Chapter Eight - Laura

  YOU’RE TOO PRETTY TO be smart.

  I’ve heard that stupid line too many times. Most recently, when I told a photographer’s assistant that strobe lighting might not be the best option when it came to video. His exact words were, “You’re paid to be pretty. Stick with that, and leave the thinking to those of us who can do it.” The kid was fired for talking to me the way he did, but the words dug deep, like they always did.

  It’s like I’ve spent half my life trying to prove to people I’m smart, and the other half hiding it so I don’t come off as intimidating. Being this other woman, sultry, not very opinionated—every man’s fantasy, according to my first manager—is sucking the life out of me, and at the same time, I’m afraid to let her go.