Chapter 16 - Ares

16

Ares

I called her a good girl. As soon as I let the words out, I realized I’d fucked up. I let my urges get the better of me and I turned what was supposed to be a self-defense lesson into something… Well, something it shouldn’t have been.

Shutting myself in the bathroom, I tear off my clothes and jump in the shower before it’s warm. The cold water is enough to soften the hard-on I’ve got growing and I feel a little more clear headed as the lust subsides.

What was it that Sheriff Jackson said?

She can be a good girl when she wants to be.

That was the moment I knew what he had been doing to her. The disgust, the rage, all those feelings I felt in the trailer came rushing back when I said near the same thing to Delaney just now. Only this time I saw myself reflected back in her eyes and my surge of disgust was aimed back at me.

I’m supposed to be protecting her, not forcing her to touch me, getting hard while thinking about how it would be so easy for me to twist her hips and tug her close, get her to grind herself against my thigh. I can almost hear her breathy sounds in my ear as she turns into a whimpering, trembling, mess.

“Goddamnit,” I grunt, my cock pulsing.

I’m a perverted piece of shit, no better than Jackson. I turn the hot water off all the way and suffer under the frigid sting for the rest of my quick shower. I have to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret. I need to drink something. I need to smoke something. I need to hit something.

Not particularly in that order.

***

I step out of the bathroom, a towel around my waist. Delaney is perched on the corner of the bed, twirling the closed switchblade in her delicate fingers. Her eyes flash wide when she sees me and I notice her gaze dipping south along my bare chest. It sends another pulse to my dick and I growl, striding over to the bag of new clothes.

“I’ve gotta go out for a bit,” I tell her, as I fish my jeans and t-shirt out.

“But shouldn’t we stick together?”

I don’t risk a look back, afraid of the expression on her face. Probably that adorable pout she does when she’s pissed at me.

“I’m going to get us some wheels. Just keep the door locked and stay inside. You’ll be fine.”

When I do turn around, my clothes in my fist, she’s by the bathroom door, kicking off her sneakers and hugging a fresh folded towel to her chest.

“Fine,” she replies. Her expression is flat and controlled again. “Get some food, okay? I’m starving.”

I roll my eyes. “What do I look like? Your personal chef?”

“I can always call the front desk. See if Mr. Perv offers room service?”

I try to keep my face blank, but the mention of the leering guy at the front desk makes my jaw twitch. Delaney arcs a brow and I know she’s just fucking with me.

“Yeah, I’ll bring you some goddamn food,” I grumble. “Can you just get in the bathroom so I can get dressed, please?”

Her lips pull into a teasing smile and she swings into the bathroom, one hand on the door jamb. “Aww, you said please. Must mean you like me.”

The door clicks closed and I wait for the shower to go on before I drop the towel.

***

Summer heat radiates off the asphalt in the motel parking lot. Stepping outside feels like stepping into a furnace. I survey the area, trying to figure out my next move. Aside from the pool hall across the street, this area of town is pretty dead.

I consider the cars in the lot. There’s no point stealing one from here; too close to where we’re laying low, and I’m not confident in my hot-wiring abilities, anyway. When we walked in, along the main road, there were a few properties with cars out front, dusty FOR SALE signs in the windows. With the cash we have left, I can scrape together a one-off payment, but then we’re in the red and we still need money for food and gas and whatever teenage girl shit Delaney needs.

The thought of leaving Delaney behind wriggles in the back of my brain, a worm on the end of a hook. It would be a lot easier to avoid detection and to pay for shit if I only had to worry about myself. That’s what Griff wants me to do.

But I can’t. I know I can’t. Even the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Across the street, there’s a burst of laughter as two women come stumbling out of the bar, the door swinging closed behind them. Might as well head over, see if they have food. They definitely have something to drink. I glance back at the room to reassure myself that Delaney is safe inside, then I jog across the street.

***

“What can I getcha?”

The casual confidence of the guy behind the bar makes me believe that he’s the owner. He’s an older guy, gray hair pulled back in a knot, and he’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves torn off, some unintelligible metal band logo on the front.

As I sit on one of the worn leather stools, he pauses his work of unpacking a tray of clean glasses and lays his hands flat on the pock-marked bar.

“Tequila and coke, thanks.”

He nods curtly and scoops ice cubes into a short glass. I look around the bar as he works. It’s a far cry from the Wastelander club bar where the sleaze practically oozes from all corners. This place is clean and fairly busy for a weekday afternoon. A waitress shoulders her way through a swinging door, plates of burgers and fries balanced expertly in her arms.

“Anything to eat?” The owner asks, placing my drink on a paper coaster in front of me.

“Got a menu?”

“Sure thing, bud,” he answers, sliding one over. I look at it, but I might as well be looking a blank page. I feel paralyzed. All I’m doing here is stalling for time, for some new plan to fall from the sky and make everything better.

Sheriff Jackson won’t stop looking for Delaney and now he knows I’m with her. Griff wants me to abandon her to her father, but knowing what I know now, I can’t do that. Even if I hadn’t figured it out, I don’t think I could leave her. Not without protection.

That’s what I am. A protector. An enforcer. I take the battles of my brothers and make them my own. Right now, that battle is Delaney’s. She won’t survive this without me.

I pick up the glass, the condensation cooling my fingers, and take a sip. Even for a shitty bar in a shitty town, it’s pretty good, and I close my eyes to the spicy sweetness of it rolling down my throat.

“You a fighter?”

Takes me a second to figure out that the owner is talking to me. He moves back and forth behind the bar, popping caps off beers for customers and cleaning up empty glasses, but by the way he’s angling back, it seems I’ve caught his interest.

“Yeah, you look like a fighter,” he says, answering himself. “Been around fighters my whole life. You’ve got this look to you. That, or your plastic surgeon really fucked up your nose job.”

I don’t know how to respond, whether I should be offended or suspicious that this guy is asking so many questions, but then he swings back to me, bottle of tequila in his hand and drizzles another shot into my glass.

“Ah, sorry. My wife says I should mind my own business. I say, ‘What the hell I open a bar for if I wanted to do that?’”

I relax and tilt my refreshed glass to him before taking another, longer, sip.

“Wouldn’t call myself a fighter…”

The owner grins. “I’ve heard that before. I’m Oscar.”

He holds out his hand and I hesitate. Do I give a fake name, my real name, or my real name?

“Ares,” I say, shaking his hand firmly.

“Interesting name.”

“I’m an interesting guy.”

Oscar looks me over, dark eyes seeming to catalog me, taking in everything. I feel a tug of unease in my gut. Oscar is either sizing me up to fight me or fuck me, and I really don’t have the time or interest for either.

“So, Interesting Ares,” he says finally. He tosses a cloth over his shoulder and leans down, elbows on the bar. “You interested in a little fun tonight?”