Chapter 18 - Delaney

18

Delaney

Ares doesn’t say anything. He just stares. Those cold, storm gray eyes bore into me. Heat prickles over my skin, followed by a bone-deep chill that makes me feel like he’s tearing at my seams, pulling me open and studying my insides. Seeing all the ugly, dirty parts of me that I don’t want him to know about.

“Anything else for you two?”

Shan’s already taking my plate and the empty beer bottle, not acknowledging that it’s on my side of the table. I offer her a strained smile.

“I’m good.”

“And you, handsome?”

Handsome. She called him handsome.

Ares relaxes, offering her a lazy, flirty kind of smile that I’ve never seen on him before. My insides go even colder as he says something back, but my brain glitches and I don’t catch it — instead I just focus on the way Shan props her tray on her hip and angles toward him. She was polite before, but now it’s different. Heated and flirtatious. Has she decided that me and Ares aren’t a couple, that maybe she has a shot with him?

Which, realistically, she does. She’s beautiful, confident, put-together. There’s no way she’s as much of a mess as me. And she didn’t get the whole town to believe he was some kind of pervert.

Next thing I know, Shan moves off, promising to return with the bill. Ares watches her go, his eyes flicking to her ass. When he turns back, he must know I’ve caught him, but he doesn’t react.

He wouldn’t care anyway, right? He has a right to flirt with anyone he wants, check out anybody. And Shan is… Shan is better for him. Shan makes sense.

“You ready to go?”

“What?”

Disappointment floods my heart. I’d been enjoying our time, with Ares talking to me like a normal person instead of snapping at me or ordering me around. But our night is over. Our date-that-wasn’t-a-date.

“It’s getting late. You should get some sleep.”

I don’t feel tired at all, but I can’t argue. I feel myself shut down and we sit in silence until Shan brings the bill. Ares pays, and then we both head out. The crowd has thinned out some in the bar, but the lot is still full with cars, even over at the motel.

At the door to our room, Ares unlocks it, flicks on the light and scans the interior before stepping back and letting me in first.

“You want to watch TV or something?” I ask, flopping on my bed. I start to toe off my shoes but stop when I see that Ares is still in the open doorway, his hands deep in his pockets.

“I, ah, I’ll be out for a bit longer. That okay?”

One sneaker tumbles to the carpet.

“Um… No?” I say, tilting my head. “What the fuck do you have to do?”

Ares huffs, nostrils flaring. “None of your business. You’ll be safe, just keep the door locked and the chain on. You’ve got the knife, right?”

I shake my head as I stand and take a few uneven steps toward him, one shoe still on. “Duh,” I reply. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re going to do . You’re just… leaving?”

“Here—” He stalks past me and grabs the pen and notepad from the phone between the two beds. He scribbles something down, then tosses the notepad on my bed. “There’s my number. Anything happens, you call. I’ll be close.”

I stare at his back in disbelief as he retreats to the door. “And what am I supposed to do? Sit here and paint my nails?”

Ares steps outside and makes an irritated noise as he swings back. “Lock the door, Delaney. I’ll be back when I can.”

He closes the door behind him. The silence rings in my ears. What the fuck just happened? I scurry to the door, about to throw it open, but instead I flip back the edge of the curtain on the window and peer out. Ares is already striding across the parking lot — back to the bar.

My gut clenches, anguished and angry.

Shan.

He’s going back for Shan.

“Asshole. Fucking asshole.”

I slam the lock on the door, but I don’t chain it. Already, a plan is forming in my head — the blurry shape of one, anyway. He’s supposed to be protecting me, and instead he’s trying to get laid.

Good luck , I think with a smirk. You’re going to fucking need it.

***

I give him twenty minutes, long enough to settle back in with a drink. Maybe Shan will have already come over, striking up a conversation about how he’s no longer tied down with his ‘little sister’ — or whatever excuse he gives her for my presence earlier.

I change back into my dress, which is a little rumpled from being tossed on the floor earlier. I don’t have any make-up with me, but I bought a hairbrush at the drugstore and I rake it through my tangles, hoping the final product comes across as ‘sexy and voluminous’ rather than ‘frizzy and unwashed’.

The switchblade is a whole other problem. I don’t have a purse, or a pocket. I try to hide it under my dress, tucked into the side of my underwear, but it’s too heavy and my plain cotton underwear is too elastic to keep it in place.

In the end, I grab a pair of thick socks from my backpack and put them on with my sneakers, tucking the switchblade against my ankle. It looks a little bulky and out of place for summertime, but it’ll have to do.

A few minutes later, I head over to the bar. The beer I finished earlier is still fizzing in my blood, making me feel giggly and untethered, which works for me.

My plan is patchy and admittedly pretty juvenile. I just want to mess up Ares’ little date however I can. I already know this dress attracts pervy scumbags, so what if I just sit at the bar, minding my own business, and Ares is forced to come save me? His job is literally to protect me, not leave me alone in a motel room while he goes and gets his dick wet.

As I push inside, I’m caught off guard by how empty the place is. There’s a few scattered patrons and the music pumps loud through the room, which feels odd — like you’d have to shout over it to be heard in the near-empty bar.

Ares is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Shan.

“I guess the dinner rush is over,” I mutter as I hop onto a stool at the bar. The bartender, an older guy with a sleeveless metal band shirt, places a fresh coaster in front of me.

“What was that, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. I try my luck and order a drink and the bartender immediately scoops ice into my glass before splashing in vodka and spritzing in the soda. I feel little surge of triumph as he places it down on the coaster.

“Enjoy,” he says, flashing me a smile, before moving on to help somebody else.

I sip my drink, the tangy lighter-fluid concoction warming my belly and take another look around for Ares, checking the darkened corners of the room.

There’s a burst of noise from across the room. Three guys come stumbling through a plain, unmarked door. They’re clearly drunk and they shuffle over to the end of the bar, shouting obnoxiously for service. The bartender grimaces and strides over to the drunks.

I look around for Ares. Could I have missed him in a dark corner somewhere? Maybe I’m too late and he and Shan have already disappeared to be together. Bitter jealousy stings in my gut.

“Another, sweetheart?”

The bartender is back. I nod and push my empty glass toward him.

“Yes, please.”

“You waiting on someone?” he asks as he dumps out my glass and refills it with fresh ice and a slice of lime. “Let me guess, blind date?”

“Something like that,” I reply. I’m tempted to ask if he’s seen Ares, or even Shan, but that’s going to look way too suspicious. I land on a question that might get me a little closer to what I want to know.

“Are you guys still serving food?”

The bartender puts my drink down in front of me and shakes his head. “Nope, kitchen’s closed for the night. Everyone’s gone home.”

“Except you.”

“Except me, yep.”

I pick up my drink and take a sip. He’s gone home with her, then. The realization is painful, like a knife slipping between my ribs. I take another mouthful and nod, my cheeks bulging with drink.

“Mmm-hmm.” Swallow. Cough. Sputter. “That’s good. That’s great.”

The bartender eyes me carefully. “You alright there? Need a glass of water?”

Maybe. Yes. My head is swimming, the alcohol is hitting me too hard and too quickly. It forces my true feelings to rise to the surface is ugly, shameful clarity: I thought that Ares kind of, maybe , was starting to like me, but I was an idiot.

I shake my head.

“No, I’m good. But, I was wondering if you had… Is there a phone around here somewhere? Like a payphone?”

Screw Ares’ rules. If he lied to me about what he was doing tonight, he probably lied about putting Lilly’s number in his phone. If I asked to call her, he’d probably say no.

Asshole.

“Well, there’s no payphone,” the bartender says, scratching his bearded chin. “But, here— How about this, I’ll let you use the landline. Free of charge.”

He steps away for a moment, then returns with a cordless phone. He holds it out, offering me a small, pitying smile. As I reach for it, he pulls it back. “Is it long-distance?”

“Does Omaha count?”

I must look pathetic — drunk and pathetic — because he smiles kindly as he hands the phone over. “Take as long as you need, sweetheart.”

He walks away, leaving me to stare at the phone in my hand. It takes me a second to remember Aunt Judith’s number, and I dial with clumsy fingers. I listen to the ring and down another mouthful of vodka soda.

“H-hello? Who is this?” Aunt Judith’s voice is rusty with sleep.

“Fuck, sorry, I forgot it was late. I— Aunt Judith, it’s me. It’s Delaney.”

“Delaney? Why on God’s earth… Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry. Really. Can I speak to Lilly, please?”

“It’s— Gosh, it’s gone eleven!”

I roll my eyes. Aunt Judith probably tucked herself in as soon as it hit seven fifteen. I hated visiting her as a kid — too many rules, always desperate to have everything appear perfect, even if it wasn’t. I hate that Lilly’s been stuck there for so long, but at least living with Judith is better than living with Dad.

“Does your father know you’re placing calls this late at night?” Aunt Judith asks, as if making telephone calls after dark is in the same league as selling drugs on street corners.

“No, yes—” I stutter. “Just… can I please speak to Lilly? It’ll only be for a minute. I just want to make sure that she’s okay.”

“And why wouldn’t she be okay?” Aunt Judith squawks. “I am all that child has, and you’re accusing me of—”

“All she has?” I snap, stunned. “I’m her fucking sister, you old bitch.”

Aunt Judith makes a series of incomprehensible sounds. I jab the phone to hang up and set it down. Blood whooshes in my ears.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I screw everything up?

I fold forward, my head thunking on the bar.

“I wouldn’t do that,” comes the bartender’s kindly voice. I roll my head to the side and blink up at him through my curtain of hair.

“My face is sticky,” I reply dully.

“Yeah, that’s why I said I wouldn’t do that.”

I sigh and force myself back up. Okay, I’m definitely a little past tipsy now. I look around the bar a final time — my weird longing for Ares pulsing in my chest — and spot the unmarked door, the one those drunks came tumbling out of earlier. It’s cracked open and strangely dark inside. It’s the only place Ares could be.

“I think I’m gonna go,” I say, sliding off the stool. I pull a crumpled bill from the front of my dress and toss it down.

“Keep the change.”

“You’re actually short,” the bartender says, punching some keys into the register. “But don’t worry about it. You get home safe, okay, sweetheart?”

I snort. Where I come from, home and safe aren’t words that belong in the same sentence. I nod and thank him anyway, then pretend to make my way to the front door. Glancing back, I see him move off down the bar, so I take my chance and dart for the mysterious door.

I reach for the handle and almost get my head knocked off when it comes flying open again. I jolt back as a man and a woman come sweeping out, mid-conversation. The swampy smell of sweat and booze — as well as something coppery and sharp — exits with them, along with the noise. A distant roar.

I don’t give myself time to think, to even consider what I could be walking into, and I dart around the couple and through the door. I let it bang shut behind me.

I blink into the murky darkness. The walls feel close and I place my hand out to steady myself as my eyes adjust. A dim lightbulb hangs a few feet ahead, lighting the way down a set of cement steps. Heat and light pulse up from the bottom.

The roar is even closer now, muffling all other sound. Now I know why the music is so loud out in the bar; it must be to cover this other noise — whatever it is.

My feet carry me down the steps, my heart jack-hammering all the way. I’m almost at the last step when I realize what that smell is. The one mingling with B.O. and beer. It’s a tangy, sharp smell that connects to some primal kind of fear inside me, telling me to turn around and get the fuck out of here.

It’s blood.

The stairs open up into a basement. Wooden crates are stacked in the corners and pipes hang from the ceiling. Oh, and it’s packed with people. Drunk, shouting, screaming people. Some asshole jostles into me and warm beer sloshes down my arm.

“Watch it!”

My words don’t even make it to my ears, that’s how fucking loud it is down here. The crowd surges, all cheering at something in the center of the room. Suddenly I’m pushed from behind. A wave of people press me forward, sweeping me off my feet. Panic claws at my chest. I try to suck in a breath but my lungs are tight, unable to expand.

Crowd crush. I’d read about it, seen it in the news when some concert venue didn’t take the necessary precautions to keep people safe. I never thought it’d happen to me. As dark spots start to dance on the edges of my vision, I summon all my strength and jab my elbow into the gut of the person behind me. The pressure eases up, just a little, and my thankful feet find the floor.

I suck in a breath, sour air filling me, and I wiggle my way through the crowd, looking for an exit. I push forward, easier to work with the crowd than to fight it, and I find myself moving towards a noise I hadn’t noticed before. A repeating wet thwack.

Light. Brilliant, beautiful light. I stumble to a stop, suddenly at the front of the writhing audience, and my brain grinds to a halt. I can’t move, can’t blink. I just stare, slack-jawed, at the sight in front of me.

Sweat rolls down his naked back, his inked skin glistening with every flex of his taut and primed muscles. His jeans hang low around his narrow hips as he bounces barefoot across the scuffed floor. His mouth is a grim slash, his jaw sharp, his eyes shadowed by his furrowed brow.

I hated Sunday school when I was a kid. Was never interested in learning about Bible stories or the Ten Commandments. But I still know a sin when I see it, and Ares’ body is all sin.

He pulls back his fist, his knuckles raw and bloody, and lets fly, connecting hard against the jaw of his opponent in the makeshift ring. The sound is stomach-churning — wet and fleshy.

The other guy stumbles and the crowd Ooohs in anticipation, but he recovers fast and swings back, his hit just as hard against Ares’ jaw. Like he’s made of stone, Ares doesn’t even flinch. He snaps forward, pummelling his opponent with a flurry of razor-sharp jabs until the guy’s face is a mask of blood. He struggles on wobbly legs — one last hit knocking him clean out — and lands with a heavy thud on the cold floor. The crowd explodes — both with cheers and howls of frustrated defeat. Money passes hands.

Ares stands in the middle of the ring, oblivious to the chaos his win has caused. His hands are still curled into fists at his sides. His chest heaves with jagged breaths. He swipes at the sweat on his brow with his wrist, letting his golden hair fall to obscure his eyes.

I can’t stop staring.