Chapter 21 - Ares

21

Ares

I yank my jeans open and shove them down my thighs. Wrapping my hand around my cock I jerk myself off with sharp strokes, chasing the release that’s Right. Fucking. There. All it takes is the memory of Delaney, spread out for me with her fingers shoved so deep inside that pink, glistening cunt that it was like she was fucking herself with her whole hand.

I tense, my teeth grinding, and cum splatters across the wall in a rush of ecstasy. The relief is a blip, followed almost immediately by regret.

What the fuck did I just do?

I promised myself I wouldn’t be that man. That she would be safe with me. That I wouldn’t touch her… But I didn’t touch her. Not technically.

I crank on the shower and shed my clothes, jumping in to wash off the sweat and cum and shame. I try not to think about Delaney’s naked body, or those big green eyes, or that choked little gasp that left her as she climaxed. By the time I step out, I don’t feel any better. In fact, there’s one thought that I can’t shake: that if I’m given the chance, I’d do it all over again.

***

Delaney gives me a meek little smile when I emerge from the bathroom. I ignore her, going over to my bag and rifling around for some underwear and sweats I can exchange for my jeans, which cling uncomfortably to my damp skin. I find what I’m looking for and glance at her over my shoulder. Raise an eyebrow. She huffs and flips on the couch, giving me her back for some privacy as I change. Luckily I don’t get a view of her naked ass, as she’s slipped into a pair of shorts. Still wearing my t-shirt, though. A low hum of pleasure rises in me, seeing her like that. Wearing my stuff like she’s… Like she’s mine or something. I bite back an annoyed growl and turn my back on her.

Later, after I’ve made a makeshift pillow from our extra clothes, I settle down on the floor beside the couch. Moonlight streams through the dusty windows, casting everything in a dull silvery glow.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” I tell the ceiling. Delaney makes a non-committal noise.

“What? What’s that for?”

She sighs. “Nothing. Just that you seem to like saying that after the fact. Like after you kissed me, after you made me come…”

“I didn’t make you—”

“Oh, trust me. That was all you,” she purrs.

I clench my jaw and huff out my nose, ignoring that hum again: pleasure, triumph, pride.

“Does it make you feel better? Saying that you shouldn’t have done it?”

“Fuck off,” I snap.

“Make me,” she replies.

I know I’m not going to be able to fall asleep now. Not with her there beside me; even with the space between us, I feel her. It pisses me off and there’s nobody to blame but myself. Okay, maybe I can blame Delaney a little bit as well. But if I really wanted her gone, Griff has given me permission. Hell, he’s ordered it. I could slip out while she’s sleeping, leave her with some money, ask Oscar to drive her to the bus station…

“What are you thinking about?”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, rolling over on the hard floor. “Are we really doing this? What, you want to re-live your high school slumber party days or something?”

Delaney laughs softly. “Want to braid my hair?”

Even in the low light, I see the smile melt on her lips. She frowns as she stares up at nothing, deep in thought. I should stay quiet. Just let her drift off to sleep. But I can’t fucking help myself.

“What is it?”

“I never had one of those,” she admits quietly. “A slumber party. I didn’t really have any friends at all, really. After my mom died, it was… I was just a kid, and I don’t think any of my friends knew what to say. And then my dad…” She swallows hard. “It was just easier to be alone. Except for Lilly.”

She feel her brighten, like just the thought of her sister lifts something inside her. I realize I like it when she’s happy. I want more of it.

“Tell me about her. About Lilly.”

Delaney hesitates in surprise, then rolls over on the couch, her hands tucked up under her cheek. “Really? You really want to know?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“She’s seven, turning eight this fall,” Delaney says, launching into it as if every little fact about her sister has just been sitting there on the tip of her tongue, ready to come out when someone asked.

“She’s quiet, y’know? Shy around most people. My Aunt Judith thinks she’s, like, challenged, but honestly she’s just sick of Judith’s shit. She’s fine with me. She’s so smart and bubbly. And funny ! God she’s so fucking funny. She does these little sketches, like she’s on SNL or something. Have you ever known a seven-year-old to have bits? I think she’s going to be a comedian one day. Maybe have her own show.”

“Carol Burnett,” I blurt out.

“What?”

I grimace. “She’s this actress, comedian, whatever. She had her own show in the seventies. My Gran loved her. Used to have the re-runs on all the time when I was a kid.”

Delaney is quiet for a moment and I wait for her to make fun of me, what a tough biker I am, watching The Carol Burnett Show.

“Was she funny?”

I blink in surprise. “My Gran or Carol?”

“Either.”

The thought of Gran is a little pin-prick in my chest. “They both were,” I reply. “Are. I’m not sure if Carol Burnett is still around.”

Delaney laughs. “Wow, so you grew up with two funny women and you still didn’t develop a sense of humor. That’s sad.”

I snort. Fucking brat.

“I can see you smiling,” she whispers in the dark.

“I’m not fucking smiling,” I reply, reaching up to drag a hand over my face. I feel the exhaustion creeping in now, but the last thing I want to do is sleep. To end this moment with Delaney. Delaney goes quiet. “Is your Gran… Is she…”

“She’s dead,” I reply. “Five years now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too… But thanks.”

“What was she like?”

She unfolds her slender arms, letting one hand drop to trace the knots in the wooden floor. I could reach out if I wanted. Take her hand. I push down the urge and instead I search my memory, filtering out the bad flashes — Gran angrily flushing my stash of pills, patching up my cut knuckles with a slash of disapproval on her face.

“Decent,” I say finally. “She was decent.”

There’s a burst of noise from outside: the patrons from the fight letting out, laughing and cursing and stumbling on gravel.

“She remembered you, you know.”

Delaney goes still, her fingers freezing in the middle of the little circles she’s making in the dust on the floor. “What do you mean?”

This time I do reach out. The tips of her fingers are cold, so I wrap my hand around them and let my warmth seep into her. “Just that she remembered you. The little girl who lived down the street. You liked watching her work in the garden, she said. I was going to give you her number in the retirement home.”

“What? When?”

She sounds stunned. Like it’s insanity that someone cared about her.

I swallow. “The night you came over.”

She knows what night, same as me. When she asked me to do something for her. This little kid, with her big eyes and tears, that fucking book about the God of War clutched in her bony hands.

“Oh,” she says softly. Her fingers slip out of my grasp. “She probably hated me after that, didn’t she? Because of what everyone thought.”

“Never told her.”

“Oh,” she says again. There’s a quiet beat, then she takes a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

We lie there for a long time. So long in fact that I wonder if she’s fallen asleep. The sounds of the bar patrons downstairs fade into the night. Car engines growl to life, then disappear into the distance.

“She was good at gardening,” she says suddenly, startling me.

More silence and there’s a stab of fear, like we’re running out of things to say. I feel the pull of sleep and roll over, forcing pain to streak through my sore muscles and jerk me back to life. I don’t want to sleep. Every crumb from Delaney is making me feel so good, filling me up with warmth and this fucking wholeness that I never knew I was craving. I want to know everything about her, what she thinks about, what she loves, what she hates.

“What are you good at?” I ask.

Delaney snorts bitterly. “Aside from screwing up?”

Now I’m wide fucking awake. I pop up on my elbow. “Stop,” I growl. “Stop doing that.”

She blinks back at me in surprise. “Doing what?”

“Talking shit about yourself, acting like you’re worthless.”

“What do you care?” she replies, shrugging one shoulder. “You’re always telling me the same thing.”

Fuck, is that what she thinks? That I think she’s worthless? “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I get pissed at you when you do stupid shit and don’t listen to me. There’s a difference.”

Delaney pauses. She folds her hands over her stomach and stares up at the ceiling.

“Oh,” she says.

I huff and settle back on the floor. “That’s all you got to say?”

“What if I’m not good at anything?”

Christ. Her words are so small. A tiny, trembling fear, eked out and offered up to me like some vulnerable, fragile thing. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to leap off the floor and wrap her in my arms.

“That’s not true,” I reply softly.

I feel the sharpness of her glare in the darkness. “How do you know? It’s not like we’ve spent a whole lot of time together before this. How would you know what I’m good at?”

“Because I look out my window every day and see what you’re good at.”

She sucks in a breath. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, I might not know a daisy from a whatever, but I know that gardens don’t just look like mine. Not without someone putting the work in.”

She nibbles on her lip. “How long have you known?”

“From the second time your scrawny ass dragged a bag of fertilizer over at two a.m. First time I thought a cow had just taken a shit in my yard.”

She laughs and it echoes in our little dim hiding place. “Why didn’t you ever tell me to stop?”

I was waiting for this question. I take a deep breath. “Two reasons. One, I didn’t want to talk to you, figured it’d get me in more trouble. And two… I didn’t want you to stop.”

“Oh,” she says. I want to tease her, tell her that ‘Oh’ is quickly becoming her favorite word. But I think I hear a little smile in the sound, so I focus on that. That even though it’s dark, that smile shines like a beacon.

I’m not trying to fall asleep, but I do. I think maybe I dream of Delaney, of what life could be like if I wasn’t a Wastelander and a killer, and if she wasn’t some desperate girl on the run.

When I open my eyes, the sunlight making me squint, I don’t remember my dream. All those good feelings vanish like smoke, replaced by a shock of sudden adrenaline.

“Wakey-wakey,” says Deputy Flores, grinning down at me. I look to Delaney, her eyes round with fear. I can’t move, can’t go for my own weapon, because the barrel of his gun is aimed directly at Delaney’s head.