He assessed her before nodding.
Her shoulders relaxed, though she didn’t realize they had been tense. “Come, sit with me.”
They sat under the shade of the tree, and Dita smoothed her robes out. She fought the urge to touch him, and instead ran her fingers over the gold trim of her robes to keep them occupied.
Adonis sat across from her and waited, his body tight, the silence deafening while she sorted through all she wanted to say. She didn’t know where to start, so she began with the simplest statement, the heart of the reason she was there.
“I am sorry.”
“That is not enough,” he clipped.
Her cheeks flushed. “I know. I understand—”
“You do not understand. If you did, you would not have betrayed me.”
She chose her words carefully, hardening at his words. “No, I suppose I don’t fully understand or agree. But I admit that I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry for that.”
“But you are not sorry for helping Apollo. How I can forgive you?”
She had to convince him, couldn’t let him shut her down again. “Adonis, Apollo has suffered for thousands of years. I know you do not feel this time has passed, but it has. He has been kept from Daphne all this time, and she has been trapped, helpless. You must understand—”
The tendons in his neck tightened. “You betrayed me, Aphrodite. You betrayed us. He stole my life, stole you from me—”
“No, he did not. You are in Elysium. You have me, though now you ignore me, and had you taken the nectar as I had asked—”
Adonis stood, his forearms and biceps rippling as he clenched his fists, but his voice was cold and calm. “We will never agree.”
“How can we come to an agreement if you won’t speak to me? Please. We must discuss this.” He turned to go, and her words caught in her throat. He can’t leave, not like this. “I don’t want to live without you.”
He turned his hard eyes on her. “That is something you should have considered. You knew what I wanted, and you knew this would happen. This is your doing.”
Her hands went numb as her anguish fell away, and anger filled her heart. She stood and matched his, her words low and biting. “You are single-minded, like a child throwing a tantrum. Do not lay blame on me when it is you who is being unreasonable.” She took a step toward him, her fists balled at her side. “No one tells me what I can and cannot do, not even you.”
He squared his shoulders. “I never told you what to do, Aphrodite. I only hoped that you would respect my wishes.” He turned away again and didn’t look back.
Dita opened her eyes, back in her room as an angry, frustrated tear slid down her cheek and onto her pillow.
She did the right thing by freeing Daphne, but Adonis was behaving horribly. He felt betrayed, and she understood that on some level, but he wouldn’t even talk about it. She wondered if he would ever get over it, and if she wanted him to. Shock shot through her heart at the thought.
The elevator pinged, and a moment later, Ares sauntered into her room. His wet hair shone, eyes sparking when he saw her chin quiver, and when she opened her arms, he yanked his shirt off and dropped his jeans to the ground.
Ares slipped into bed with her, and she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the crisp scent of his soap as he trailed small kisses up her neck, asking into her ear, “What’s wrong?” Dita shook her head, and he leaned back, searching her face as he held her chin, looking in to her eyes when he made her a promise she hoped he could keep. “I’ll make you forget him.”
He covered her mouth with his, and she lost herself in him, wishing she could forget, wanting to burn down her love.
Day 4
THE AFTERNOON SUNSHINE POURED IN through Kat’s open garage door. She knelt down, her hand on her tire gauge while the air hissed out, bringing the pressure to the sweet spot. Hitting it just right would give her more traction on the pavement, and every fraction of a second counted. She was going to beat the shit out of Dillon on the quarter.
She rested her hand on the glossy gray door and smiled. Sheila had been with her through so much of her life, a constant in a world that seemed bent on pushing her down. Her father had given her the car on her sixteenth birthday, and she would never forget the feeling when she turned the key in the ignition for the very first time.
Katsu loved cars, muscle cars especially. When Kat was a little girl, she fell in love with them too, with their bright colors and crazy paint jobs, the way they rumbled as they drove up and down the strip. When she got older, Katsu taught her the ins and outs of an engine by rebuilding an old Chevy with her, and the chance to be with her father, to share his hobby with her and only her, was the highlight of her childhood.
But when he gave her the Camaro … that was when life really began.
She had a natural talent for racing, with instincts that she inherited from her father. Her entire body tuned in when she raced. She didn’t have to think. It was the most peaceful high, and she was addicted to it.
Katsu would take her to the drag strip and race her, to test her mettle, to push her. And once she turned eighteen, they put her skills to work.
Kat remembered how her hands sweat like crazy as she pulled up to her first race, even though the desert night was crisp and cool. She looked in the rearview and smoothed her hair, telling herself, “You can do this, Kat. Just keep your shit together.”
Her reflection blinked back, her green eyes narrowing as she put on bravado she didn’t feel. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the car.
Her shoulders were back and her chin was high as she walked up to the small group of people waiting at the end of the line for the race to start. She scanned the crowd and saw Shinji, one of her father’s enforcers. With it being her first race, being so young, and being a girl, they hadn’t known how people would react, so they agreed that Shinji would watch over her. Just in case. As much as Katsu wanted to come, he couldn’t. He was too important. Showing up to a low-level drag race would be suspicious, and dangerous.
Shinji nodded to her, and she hoped that she didn’t look as scared as she felt, relieved that at least one person there had her back.
They stood around chatting, and Kat tried to look relaxed as she tamped down her nerves, unable to concentrate on anything anyone said. Bookies collected money for last-minute bets while they waited for the race to start. The promoter said the word, and they walked to their cars to drive to the other end of the deserted street where the starting line was marked. Kat’s heart drummed in her chest as a scantily clad girl in plastic platforms took tiny steps, shuffling between the cars. She turned in the wedge of light cut by their headlights and held her arms up.
The minute Stripper Heels dropped her hands, Kat’s nerves fell away, and her instincts took over. The meathead she was racing never had a chance. They barreled toward the line of headlights at the end of the track, and he never caught up enough for her to see him out of anything but her mirrors.
Kat pulled up to the crowd, trying to wipe the grin off her face, but it kept creeping back. She stepped out of the car, feeling like her heart was going to explode from adrenaline, disbelief, relief, and a hundred other emotions. But as she walked up to the crowd, her smile slowly faded.
The guy she raced stood in the street, his muscles straining, bulging out of his tank top. He was red from his face to his bald head and down to his shoulders.
“Where the fuck did she get a car like that?” He screamed at the promoter, the tendons in his neck taut as he pointed at her car. “No eighteen-year-old rich bitch kid is going to fucking take my money.”
The promoter put his hands up. “Calm down, Andy. She beat you square.”
Andy turned on Kat and arched over her, fuming. His eyes had gone almost completely black as his pupils dilated, and she took a step back. “No way.” He shoved her shoulder with his meaty hand. “No fucking way.” He pushed her again with enough force that she stumbled back.
She saw Shinji
move out of the corner of her eye, but her fear had snapped out of her, and cold determination had taken its place. Her lip curled as she reached into the back of her jeans for her Ruger and pulled it out, looking down the barrel at him.
“Listen up, Andy,” she said, leering. “I did beat you. In fact, this little eighteen-year-old rich bitch just beat the shit out of you.” She poked him in the shoulder with the barrel. “Why don’t you fuck off,” she jabbed him again, “and pick on someone your own size.” She gave him a final jam with the gun, and he backed away with his hands up.
“What the fuck?” His mouth hung open, and he shook his head with his hands up. “You’re crazy.” He looked around at the crowd. “She’s fuckin’ crazy,” he said, pointing at her before skittering to his car.
Shinji had moved around the crowd to get closer to her, and as they made eye contact, his hand slipped out from inside of his coat. He gave her a nod and a small smile. She smiled back, took her money, and walked to her car, everything in a blur, her hands shaking from adrenaline as she turned the keys in the ignition.
As she drove back to the city, she played it over again, everything she had trained for, everything she knew. She had been prepared, theoretically, for someone to threaten her, but she didn’t know if she could actually stand up for herself. But now I do.
Kat popped her pressure gauge off the tire and screwed the cap back on. The testosterone-fueled antagonizing hadn’t ever stopped. She raced and won, which pissed the men she raced off to no end. A few of them made it their purpose in life to find new and creative ways to provoke her. Her mother had asked her more than a few times why she didn’t just quit, and Kat would answer, Because that’s what they want.
The truth was, she loved to race, more than anything. No one would take that from her because they were threatened by her. Because they lost to her. Because they couldn’t get a visible rise out of her. It was something she shared with her father, and it was something she was good at. The fact that they wanted her to quit, to fail, just fed her desire to win.
Kat stood and dusted her hands off, then placed them on her hips as she looked over her car.
Spark plugs, checked fluids … she was pretty sure she had covered everything. It was almost time to race the jerk. She really hoped that he wouldn’t throw a titty fit when he lost. That level of awkward wasn’t something she was quite prepared to witness, but she smiled wickedly at the thought anyway.
Dillon sipped stale coffee from a Styrofoam cup as he sat in a cold, hard chair. A waitress named Melanie, who was part of his anger management group, sat with her arms folded across her chest as she spoke.
“Then, that fucker had the nerve to tell me he didn’t want onions on it. I almost lost it.”
Dr. Lovell adjusted reading glasses low on his long nose. He tipped his bearded chin down and peered over the tops of his glasses at Melanie. “You say almost. What happened?”
“I practically bit my tongue off trying not to cuss him out and then found the manager so she could deal with the asshole.”
“That’s great, Melanie. You took time to think things through, and you routed the negative attention to someone who was better equipped to handle the issue.”
“This is the first job I’ve held for more than two weeks in the last five years.”
The group congratulated her, and Dr. Lovell shifted to Dillon, his arms crossed over the legal pad in his lap. “We haven’t heard from you in a while, Dillon. How are things with you?”
Dillon took a deep breath. “A little confusing. I met a girl.”
Dr. Lovell’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows raised a hair. “A girl you’re interested in?”
Dillon nodded.
“You don’t date much. What makes this girl different?”
Dillon ran a hand over his mouth before answering. “She’s intense and independent, passionate and competitive, stubborn. Suspicious. She’s beautiful and mysterious. I haven’t been able to get her off my mind.”
“She sounds a lot like you, Dillon.”
Dillon chuckled. “Yeah. It’s kind of scary.”
Dr. Lovell smiled at him. “How are you feeling about pursuing her?”
“Uncomfortable.”
“What makes you uncomfortable?”
He rested his elbows on his knees, his coffee cup hanging in his hands. “I’m afraid that if we get involved, we’ll fight. A lot.” His brow dropped. “Every conversation we’ve had to date, we piss each other off and end up getting into a yelling match. The first time I started it. The second time, I finished it. I just couldn’t shut up and let it go.”
“Why do you think the two of you argue?”
“I know I’m not the best communicator, and apparently I assume a lot.”
“Why do you say apparently?”
Dillon sighed and sat back. “Owen pointed it out, and he’s right. But the bottom line is that she could be bad for me. If I can’t have a conversation with her, how could I have a relationship with her without snapping on her at some point? When it turns on, I can’t turn it off. I can’t control it. What if I hurt her?”
“That’s valid, especially if you have an antagonistic relationship so far. How does she react to you when you argue with her?”
“Defensively. I keep saying things that piss her off, but I don’t mean to. I blew it from the beginning because I didn’t trust her sister with Owen. I’d do anything to stop him from getting hurt. It didn’t help that I was exhausted and didn’t want to be there.” Dillon shook his head. “It’s like she’s trying to figure out my angle. She hasn’t figured out that I don’t have an angle. I’m just an unintentional jerk.”
“If your problems have been caused by miscommunication, then the best thing would be to try to talk to her and explain.”
“How can I do that without fighting with her?”
“Stop thinking of her like she’s your enemy. Make a decision about whether or not you’re going to pursue her, and then own that decision. Be honest with her. Do you think you can tell her who you are and about your past?”
“At this point? No. Maybe if I can earn her trust, though.”
“Well, Dillon, I’d suggest you start there.”
He moved on to another member, and Dillon looked down into his coffee. He thought back to his dad, and to the real reason that he couldn’t pursue Kat. The reason why he couldn’t control himself, and the reason he didn’t know if he could ever change.
Thunder boomed outside, and lightning lit up the small living room. Owen scooted a little closer to Dillon on the worn, tweed couch. The room was dark, other than the flickering of the television.
Their father left an hour before, drunk and raving. One minute he had been sitting in an armchair, staring at the television with a drink in his hand, and the next he was mumbling while he pulled on his boots and left without a glance at the boys as a storm raged outside.
Headlights swung across the wall through the window, and the brothers looked at each other in silent agreement before switching off the television and running to their room. Owen climbed into Dillon’s bed, but Dillon waited by the door, left open only a sliver.
The front door opened, and Jimmy’s bulk stood in the frame, the world behind him shining in the driving rain. Lightning flashed, and Dillon’s heart stopped when he saw that his father was covered in blood.
Jimmy stepped inside and slammed the door. His boots tracked mud through the living room as he walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. His shoulders were wide and sinewy, his skin visible through his wet, white tank. He turned on the water and rinsed his blood-soaked arms off, then took a stack of towels from the linen closet and went back outside. When he came back a few minutes later, he took all of his clothes, the towels, and his shoes, and dumped them into a trash bag.
Owen sat in Dillon’s bed, the covers gripped in his fists, unable to see what was happening. “Dillon,” he whispered.
Jimmy froze in the kitchen, his hands stilled as he tied a knot in
the bag. He looked over his shoulder at the boys’ door. Dillon’s heart was in his throat as he ran to bed and threw the covers over them both, pressing his mouth to Owen’s ear. “Pretend you’re asleep. Freeze.”
The sliver of light opened into a wide rectangle, and Jimmy’s shadow stretched long in the center. Dillon heard Jimmy’s footsteps on the hardwood and squeezed his eyes closed. He tried to melt his face, tried to slow his racing breath. He could smell the drink on his father, his breathing loud in the quiet room, towering over the bed for what felt like an eternity.
“Fucking queers,” he spat, then turned and left, closing the door solidly behind him.
Dillon took a breath.
“Can I sleep in your bed, Dillon?” Owen whispered.
Dillon hugged the small boy to his chest. “Sure, buddy. Just try to go to sleep.”
But sleep never came for Dillon. He stared at the square of twilight on the rug until it turned from blue to purple to yellow, listening to Jimmy clamor around the house through the night.
When Owen woke, he looked up at Dillon, bleary eyed.
“I’m hungry,” he said and yawned.
Dillon’s voice was raw. “Well, then let’s go get you something to eat.”
The boys slipped out of bed and into the kitchen. Jimmy sat on the couch, staring at the wall in fresh clothes with his hair combed. He didn’t register the boys as they walked into the room.
Dillon climbed onto the counter to get them two bowls and cereal. He made them each a bowl, dipped two spoons in, and carried them to the table. He had just taken his first bite when the doorbell rang.
Jimmy stood, unfazed, as if he was expecting someone. He walked to the door and opened it to two policemen.
“Mr. Malloy?”
“Yes,” Jimmy answered.
“Mr. Malloy, may we come in for a moment?”
“Of course.” He moved aside, and the police walked in. Dillon’s hands went numb.