“Yes, you like it rough, whore.” His panting grew louder. “You want it to hurt.” Strife grabbed handfuls of sheet, tried to crawl away. Ares threw his body weight on top of her. Her nipples stung with abrasions from the Egyptian cotton sheets. He pinned her wrists with both hands, ramming her until her pelvis bounced off the bed with each plunge.
She cried into her linens with every wanton pulse as she fought for control. Her heart beat faster as Ares pushed harder against her sweatslicked ass. His scrotum tapped her clitoris incessantly. His sour breath warmed her ear and his rutting grew more frenzied. He wouldn’t stop until she was raw.
“I know how you like it, slut. You will come like the dirty little pig you are.” Strife took the deepest breath her crushed lungs could spare and let go. Another dizzying orgasm took her and she let out a throaty wail as the rush engulfed her.
Spots appeared behind her closed lids, her body alive with sensations of pleasure and pain. She listened to the roar and growl of Ares releasing his seed and lay unresisting as he slammed his prick in for a final thrust and as he pulled out afterwards, dribbling hot semen down to tickle her sensitive folds. She waited patiently while he wiped the stickiness on her buttocks. Only when she felt him leave the bed did she open her eyes again. She glared at him with unabashed hatred. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
He sauntered to his discarded clothing, checking through the pockets of his pants. What was he searching for?
A white rectangle appeared in his hand, which he tossed at Strife. “Get dressed, bitch.” Strife peeled the envelope from her cheek and opened it. Inside she found a one way ticket to Canada. “You have work to do.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Poetry tossed her napkin on her plate and grinned in satisfaction. The succulent shrimp and smooth nuttiness of the rice lingered as she sat back to let her food settle.
“That really hit the spot.” “Oh, yeah,” Adrian piled the last of his beans onto a crust of bread.
Poetry sipped at her Kokanee, enjoying the subtle breeze that wafted over the patio and whispered through the surrounding hedges. The sun hadn’t quite set, but their table sat in shade and the wind raised goosebumps on her skin. Classical music played in the background. The quiet murmurs of other diners added to the ambience.
“So, tell me about your job,” Poetry said. Not that she cared really, but it made for small talk. Uncomfortable silences weren’t fun at the best of times, but after Kevin’s appearance she needed to take her mind elsewhere. “Why did you decide to become a lawyer?”
Adrian smiled. “I don’t know, too much TV as a child?” He chuckled and Poetry warmed toward him. He didn’t strike her as the kind of kid who parked his behind in front of the tube. “I used to watch a lot of cop shows. Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?”
Poetry grinned into her beer and studied his body language. She liked how he sang with his head tucked down. He had a shyness to him she hadn’t expected.
“But you didn’t become a cop.” Adrian jerked his head. “No. Not that I didn’t want to be part of the justice system. Actually it’s the opposite.” His lips quirked. “This probably sounds really arrogant, but I thought my intelligence would be wasted on the force.”
Poetry opened her mouth to politely protest, but he held up a restraining hand.
“Don’t get me wrong. Law enforcement is a noble calling. But in real life perps don’t stay behind bars without a good prosecutor.” The beers must be taking effect. That remark should have annoyed her, Poetry didn’t like conceited men, but she loved confidence. A fine line separated the two. Those down-turned eyes suggested modesty more than pride.
“And the money’s better,” he said. This time she chortled along with him. “So how did you wind up doing defense?” A shadow darkened Adrian’s expression as the waiter came to clear their plates. “The firm placed me according to my talents and compassion. Lucky me.” He rolled his bottle on the table between his fingers and ordered them another round.
Had she said something wrong? The jovial mood switched to sour all of a sudden and Poetry didn’t understand why. She rubbed the inked-in grape vines trailing down her shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She kept her tone casual, hoping she didn’t hit a nerve or barge into his business. Adrian sighed. “I shouldn’t,” he said, and swallowed the rest of his beer in a single gulp. “But sometimes you have to do things you don’t like to further your career. Like representing people you think might be better off locked up.”
The waiter arrived with two more beer. When he departed, Poetry leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“Did you hear about that guy who shot two gay men on his property? The rancher from that little hick town west of Stony Plain?” “I saw that one on the news.” She recalled the footage, remembered the faces on the television screen. “Frank Fleisher, right? You’re representing him?”
“Yep.” He took a smaller pull, regarded the bottle and pushed it a little farther away from himself. “I shouldn’t have ordered this.” “I won’t tell anyone anything,” Poetry said. It was an easy promise to make--she valued privacy. “Not even Jenny.” Adrian gave her a genuinely warm smile. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he seemed different from the first time she’d met him. Even from when he’d been at Denny’s. He’d given her the impression he didn’t like her. But here he sat, eating dinner, confiding in her like a friend. Oddly enough, it made her skin tingle.
Huh. I’d better lay off the beer too. “Thanks,” he said. “But Gary will probably tell her anyway.” “Hey, mate. Buy a flower for your girl?” They both jumped as a man appeared next to Adrian carrying a basket of roses. Poetry’s mouth dropped. If the accent wasn’t hot enough, he had the face and body of a god. His curls shone in the late sun and his enchanting green eyes made her pulse pound in her throat. What a beautiful man.
Adrian shook his head. “Actually, she’s not my girl.” “She should be,” the tanned Adonis said. “Pretty little Sheila like that?” Poetry giggled, but groaned inwardly. She sounded like a moron. The only thing worse than feeling fat around good-looking guys was feeling stupid in front of them.
The guy with the rose basket winked at her, driving butterflies around her stomach, slightly unsettling her food. She closed her mouth and sucked in her gut.
Please God, don’t give me gas. That’s all I need right now is to burp in front of the hottie. Classy.
Adrian made eye contact with rose guy for a hushed tick. “Oh, what the hell,” he said. “How about the yellow one?”
The man presented the blossom with a flourish. “Not a bad choice,” he said, peering at Adrian sideways. “But…”
“But what? It’s the color of friendship, isn’t it? That’s what I heard.” “Oh, it’s true,” the stranger said. He glanced over and gave Poetry a wide, knowing twitch of his lips that made Poetry’s sensitive stomach flip over. “But I think she’d much prefer this.”
He replaced the yellow one. In its stead he retrieved a plum rose so dark it appeared almost black.
Poetry gasped. Her favorite. How did he know? It was a twin to the one tattooed down her thigh.
She glanced at Adrian. He’d seen her reaction, and handed cash to the Aussie rose guy. “Looks like you’re right. Thanks, buddy.” Adrian passed the flower across the table. It smelled rich, like summer in heaven.
Poetry found herself so enthralled with its beauty she didn’t hear the sexy guy leave, but she didn’t much care.
“Thank you, Adrian.” “You’re welcome.” Adrian shrugged. “You should have seen the way your eyes lit up when you saw it.”
Poetry felt her mouth tugging upward until a sad thought dragged it back down. “Kevin never gave me flowers.”
Why’d she have to think of him now? He kept popping into her mind like a bad dream. She was sick of it. “Sorry to hear that.” His voice sounded carefully neutral. She didn’t look up, but she heard the huffed breath across the tablecloth. She’d ru
ined the mood.
“Personally, I don’t know what you saw in him.” Adrian grabbed his beer and took another swig. “Why do girls go out with guys like that?” Poetry shrugged. “We like to tame bad boys.” Wow, what a lame thing to say.
“Guess that’s why I’m still single.” Adrian said. “The only thing that changes a jackass like that is jail time.”
“I know that now,” Poetry said and sighed when she caught the edge in her voice. “It’s not like I have a lot of practice dealing with guys.” He held his palms up in a placating gesture. “Me neither. I mean, with girls. Practicing.” His shoulders slumped. “If only it were that easy, huh? If we could get a trial run or two?”
She pinched her lips shut and kept her eyes to the tablecloth to keep from smiling. That wasn’t a half-bad idea.
She heard him shuffling. “How about if we change the subject?” Poetry released the breath she’d been holding. “Great idea. What do you want to talk about?” “I’m tired of babbling about myself,” Adrian said. “What about you? Tell me about your art. Is that necklace you’re wearing one of your pieces?”
Relief washed over her. She never tired of discussing her work. Hopefully it wouldn’t bore him. She lifted her fingers beneath the chain so he could see the intricate links, when a shrill beeping interrupted.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s mine.” Adrian yanked his cell phone from his jacket pocket and gawked at the display. “It’s Gary.”
He pressed a button and placed it on his ear. “Yeah?” A long pause ensued. Poetry couldn’t make out words, but the voice on the other end sounded rushed and garbled. Adrian’s face went from cheerful to alarm in less than a minute. When he glanced her way, she counted the heartbeats in her ears. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good.
“She’s fine,” he said. “In fact, she’s here with me. We decided to go for a bite.” More squawking erupted from his phone. Why would Gary call Adrian about her? She pulled her own phone from her purse, only to discover she’d shut it off. Right. To avoid any calls from her ex after his cameo appearance. Maybe Jenny was trying to contact her. But why? She wouldn’t be off work yet.
“What? Why?” Adrian’s mouth dropped. “What?” He said the word so loud, other customers turned to stare.
“We’re on our way.” He hung up and flagged the waiter. “Check please?”
“What’s going on?” “We have to go to your apartment. Now,” he said. “Your ex made it in after all.” Panic set in as Poetry gathered her things. “I’ll call a cab.” she said, and hurried behind Adrian, dropping the rose to the brick floor in her haste.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Strife dragged her weary bones off the Greyhound and wiped the grime of several time zones from her face. The monotonous trip from Germany hadn’t ended at the Toronto Airport. From there, she’d flown to Edmonton, only to take a bus to Grey, Alberta. She’d never been a strong deity. Strife hoarded what little power she had. She couldn’t afford to use it on travel.
Despite the fact that Ares could magick her across the world on a whim, he refused. Instead, he made her take human transport the entire way. Something about her mission being secret and conserving his strength to deal with Aphrodite.
Strife sneered. She didn’t believe him. He enjoyed making her feel insignificant, like a dog. A lackey. Why did she let him treat her like a slave?
She searched for a distraction to the disturbing thoughts. A sign in need of a hose down and paint welcomed her to this mangy town. Not much to see. But she understood why they called it Grey. Everything from buildings to lampposts seemed to be covered in a film of neglect. Even the parked vehicles. Apparently this dump had no car wash.
This wasn’t a town as such. She hesitated to call it a hamlet. The narrow street boasted a convenience store that doubled as a gas station and a hotel-slash-cafe-slash-bar. Every community it seemed, no matter how small, had one of these.
Strife’s spirits lifted as she made her way to the decrepit buildings. She would start there.
# # # The grey-haired woman across the counter scowled. Just as Ares warned, the locals weren’t friendly. Strife’s appearance didn’t help, with her hair the color of pitch and her tilted jade eyes.
The matron pursed her lips, trying not to call her a ‘chink’ out loud, unaware of Strife’s telepathy. Obvious as well was her unwillingness to rent her a room. Granny’s disapproval virtually hummed.
Strife cranked her charm; let it ooze from her skin. She batted her lashes in the most sincere manner she could manage and licked caked lipstick from her mouth.
“Please, ma’am,” she said. “I really need a place to stay.” Somewhere beyond her sight rodents scurried in the walls. She heard the skitter of tiny claws over the wheezing ceiling fan.
“Well…” Granny dropped her gaze to her paperwork, avoiding Strife’s pleading gaze. Strife leaned in, rubbing her wrists together before clasping her hands in a gracious gesture. The crisp sweetness of green apple perfume carried from the fan’s draft. She studied the bulbous beak of the old bat across from her, waited for the tell-tale sign of flared nostrils. At last the bitch breathed deep, taking in the chemically altered scent, completing the influence. Strife sensed her mood change.
“Something just opened up.” Her dentures gleamed with her phony smile. “I think we could accommodate you after all.” Strife let her open lips spread across her face, aware that her clenched teeth could be interpreted as menacing rather than lovely, but she couldn’t help it. Manipulating humans made her giddy.
“That would be nice,” she said. “I have a lot of work to do.” CHAPTER NINE
Poetry couldn’t get home fast enough. Even as Adrian paid the cab driver she stormed the stairs like a dyslexic lemming. And came to an abrupt halt when she saw the remains of the doorjamb. Kindling littered the ground. The deadbolt, still in the locked position, lay among the wreckage. Squawking radios chanted from within.
The tall uniform guarding the door held out a hand. “Sorry,” he said. “You can’t go in there.” “I live here. I need to see Jenny.” Adrian caught up behind her. “What the hell?”
She swallowed. “I have no idea.” At least Poetry sounded calmer than she felt. She listened to the strange voices and static for a lengthy moment, trying to pull her head together.
“We should go inside,” Adrian said. “The police will want to speak to you. And Jenny needs you right now.”
“Go on in,” the cop shifted aside. “If you’re involved in any way we need your cooperation.”
Convincing argument, but now wasn’t the time to fall apart. Poetry braved the threshold. The chaos made her want to spin around and run. She smelled oranges and pungent onions mixed with raw burger. Margarine adorned the walls like abstract art. The word ‘slut’ and a ‘c’ word she found too disgusting to say out loud were traced in mustard and ketchup across the refrigerator.
As she inched inside she realized she didn’t trip over any shoes. All of them, runners, pumps and boots lay in a charred pile in the center of the living room rug. Soot blackened the ceiling.
Jenny perched awkwardly on the arm of the gutted sofa, Gary’s arms secure around her. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes. She glanced up with her tear-streaked face and a lump of guilt wedged in Poetry’s throat.
“We tried phoning you,” Jenny said. “The landlord called me home from work. We had no idea where you were.”
“I know,” Poetry shied away from the aggravated confusion in Jenny’s eyes. “It was off. In case Kevin tried to call.” An officer meandered toward Poetry. When she moved to address him, she saw the contents of the cat box spread over the kitchen floor. Amir. “Amir?” Panic seized her. All other thoughts washed away as she pushed Adrian aside.
“Where’s my cat?” She stomped to the bathroom, ignoring the cold water seeping into her shoes from the cracked toilet. Shampoo and mousse slimed every surface; the chemical stench teased her nose. Eyeshadow made pretty puddles of pink and blue.
What bedroom door? It lay in separate pieces on each side of the room.
“Amir!” “Poetry calm down,” Jenny said. But Poetry heard her like a distant shout from another reality. She flicked the light switch and stomped over what remained of her scattered possessions. She slipped and skidded over a lake of beads. “Amir baby, where are you?”
“Mew?” The muffled response came from her end table. Poetry nearly collapsed with relief. “Where are you, sweetie?”
She clambered over her slashed mattress and pillows, through a cloud of feathers to the dim corner, noting the shattered glass of her reading lamp.
If he hurt my cat, I’ll kill him. Poetry had no doubt in her mind that Kevin had done this. No one else could be capable of so much hatred. And Jenny didn’t have any weirdoes in her past.
Why hadn’t she seen this coming? She carefully squeezed her way into the tiny space between her bed and closet, listening for Amir.
“Mew.” His call was faint. She strained her vision scanning the shardstrewn carpet.
She hunched, careful not to kneel in the sharp mess or place her hands in the black and gold splinters remaining on the nightstand. Amir languished in the corner like a discarded stuffed toy, his halfshut blues gazing at nothing. Joy mingled with intense terror. “Oh my poor angel,” she said, picking him up with as much tenderness as she could with shaking hands. “Are you okay, baby?”
But it wasn’t her trembling like that. It was Amir. His fluffy body felt feverish and frail. His breathing seemed labored. The taste of regurgitated shrimp and beer hit the back of Poetry’s throat.
She’d only had him a few weeks. She’d been stupid to leave Amir so vulnerable. She should have had a neighbor watching him. Or a babysitter. Maybe she was a shitty mommy and shouldn’t have brought him home at all.
Fresh tears gushed. That bastard will pay. “Miss Manousakis?”
Aphrodite's War Page 4