Chapter 3 - Ares

3

Ares

Twenty Years Old

The tequila hits me a few blocks from home. I pull my bike into Gran’s drive — my drive — and it takes me a couple tries to get the kickstand down without falling on my ass. Gran’s voice is in my head, reading me the riot act, as I stumble onto the porch and let myself in.

I’ve never driven drunk in my life (and have no plans to again), but when I left the party at the Wastelander compound, I honestly thought I was fine. The buzz had long worn off from the weed and the shots I’d had earlier in the night. That swig of tequila as I walked out, however?

Yeah, I’ve never been one to say no to a bad idea.

I flip on the lights in the kitchen and chug a few glasses of water until the pounding in my head eases a little.

Should’ve stayed , I think to myself.

Not all Wastelanders have permanent rooms at the compound, mostly just the officers, but there are plenty available for guys who just need to crash… or who want a little space for their own private party. As a prospect, club pussy isn’t the easiest to come by. They make you work for it.

Rev, one of the other guys around my age who got patched in with me, told me that they use it as an incentive: stay loyal to the club, do what they ask of you, and all this warm, wet, delicious pussy could be yours.

Hey, it fucking worked on me.

So why am I here? At home, palming my hard-as-fuck dick, instead of nailing Lulu or Jody or Nadine to the fucking wall back at the compound?

My eye catches the scrap of paper by the phone and my booze-clouded brain reminds me why I decided to be an idiot and leave my own initiation party.

The kid.

I want to be home, to be awake and sober to hopefully catch her on her way somewhere in the morning. She rides her little purple bike up and down the street most Sundays, her mom poking her head out the front door to check on her every so often. It’s sweet, and I never thought I would be a guy who cared about sweet.

I fold the scrap of paper over in my fingers, then stick it in my pocket for safekeeping. It’s the number and address of Gran’s retirement home — along with Gran’s name, because I don’t think Delaney actually knows it.

When I called Gran to tell her about Delaney, she just gave this sad little sigh.

“That girl,” she mused. “A sad little thing. I feel so badly for her — stuck in that house, with that man and her poor mouse of a mother.”

Gran told me Delaney’s father was with the pigs, a deputy with his sights set on Sheriff, and was kind of an asshole. Not that it surprised me. I’d had my own share of asshole father figures in my life.

After all that, I’m standing in my kitchen, wobbling on my feet with tequila burning through my veins, because I need to be up bright and early to give a little girl my grandmother’s fucking phone number.

Maybe it’ll re-balance the scales. One good thing to make up for the shit I’ve done for my new brothers — deliver drugs and tail people and put my fist through some poor fuck’s face.

I flip off the kitchen light, shuck off my boots and pull off my shirt, dropping it in the hallway as I stumble to my bedroom.

Bed. Bed sounds good right about now.

I’m halfway there when I hear it.

Tap tap tap.

I freeze. My ears strain against the quiet, wondering if I’d just imagined it.

Tap tap tap .

My nerves suddenly on edge, I stalk to the front door and whip it open, ready to fight whatever dumb fuck thought it was a good idea to play ding-dong-ditch on a member of the Wastelanders.

Instead, Delaney screams and stumbles back so far she tips off the porch and lands on her scrawny little ass.

“What the— What the fuck, Delaney? “ I say, forcing my voice into a low hiss.

“Oww… S-sorry.”

I sigh. Shaking my head, it only takes me a couple steps before I’m towering over her. I grab her outstretched hand and pull her to her feet.

“Don’t be sorry,” I grumble, feeling bad for yelling at her. “The hell are you doing here?”

I cast a quick glance around the darkened street. The last thing I need is for somebody to look out their window and see me, a shirtless, tattooed biker, looming over a little girl in the middle of the night.

“I need to… to talk to you.”

When I look down at her, I notice that she’s not meeting my eyes. In fact, her shoulders are curled in, and her face is hidden by long, tangled brown hair. She looks fucking creepy. Hunched over in the dark, haunting me like one of those Japanese horror movie ghosts.

“It’s important,” she whispers.

I shake my head. I’m too drunk for this right now. I turn around, stomp back up the porch and grab the door. I’m about to tell her to get lost when I feel something brush by beneath my arm. Next thing I know, she’s inside my house, clutching a worn little book to her chest and looking around the front hall with big eyes.

“Fuck, Delaney,” I growl. “You need to leave.”

“Please, Airy,” she says, using the mispronunciation of my club name that made me laugh. Now it just makes me grit my teeth. “Just… give me a couple minutes. I swear, I’ll leave straight after.”

I know I should kick her out. I’m tempted to throw her over my shoulder and toss her out that way, if I could do it without her screaming up a storm.

But I swing the door closed, like a fucking idiot.

This is not good. Not. Good.

Delaney nods once, then seems to notice that she’s actually inside my house. I realize we’re standing in the dark, so I quickly flick on the lights, illuminating the narrow hallway and the small living room, still dressed up with knitted blankets and cat figurines like Gran still lives here.

Delaney slips further into the living room and trails her fingers along the little porcelain cats on the table beside the sofa.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs, then giggles. “It’s like my Grandma’s house.”

When she turns to me, she’s smiling. I think it might be the first time I’ve seen her smile — her big buck teeth taking up most of her little mouth, like she hasn’t grown to fit them yet. But that’s all of her — knobbly knees and bony elbows.

I take a deep breath and fold my arms across my chest. “You need to leave, kid. I mean it.”

“But I need to talk to you.”

“We can talk tomorrow, in the day time and not inside my house.”

Her mouth twists into a frown. She looks down, her fingers digging into the cover of the ragged little book she’s got. As I watch, I see her fingernails dig in so hard they leave little indents in the thick cardboard.

Plop.

One little tear hits the book cover. She hastily wipes her face, as if she’s surprised by the tear as well, and hides behind her curtain of hair once again.

“Okay. I… I’m sorry,” she says finally. “I’ll go.”

Fuck.

She moves past me, toward the front door, and I almost let her go. I know I should let her go.

“You want some hot cocoa or something?”

Delaney stops, her back to me, but she lifts her head.

“Do you have marshmallows?” she asks.

***

I scoop my shirt off the floor and slip it on as the milk simmers. Delaney sits at the kitchen table, swinging her bare feet. As I fix up the mugs with cocoa and sugar, I think about my mom, back before the drugs used her up and spit her out and I came to live with Gran.

“My mom used to do this,” I say suddenly. Delaney stops swinging her legs and cocks her head at me. “Make me hot cocoa when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

I pour in the milk, give it a stir and then place Delaney’s mug in front of her. Taking my own, I stay standing, leaning against the counter across the kitchen.

I shrug. “Nightmares, I guess. Kid stuff.”

All I know is that it made me feel better. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this right now, because I made her cry and now I need to make Delaney feel better. Because Gran feels bad for her too.

She stares into her mug. Studies it.

“No marshmallows, sorry,” I say, cracking a smile. She smiles back, small and sad.

“That’s okay.”

I should’ve had coffee instead. After the adrenaline spike of finding Delaney on my doorstep, the warm pull of tequila is back, making me feel queasy and not-quite-right. Like I’m watching myself from behind a hazy pane of glass.

“Okay, well… Drink up and then you gotta go. I can’t… It’s not good that you’re here, Delaney.”

“Why not?”

She takes a sip, then wipes off her milk moustache with the back of her hand. Fuck, she’s just a kid and I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to get into all the reasons why the world is twisted and dark and a little girl should not be in a strange man’s house in the middle of the night.

“Doesn’t matter,” I snap. “Tell me what you need to say, then you gotta go.”

She frowns again, but this time she looks annoyed, her brow folded in the middle with an angry crease.

“I got this out from the library.”

The book. She pushes it across the formica tabletop and I have to step closer to see it.

I study the cover. “Gods of Ancient Greece.”

“Mm-hmm,” she nods enthusiastically. Grabbing the book back, she opens to a page she’s marked with a pink bookmark. “It says here that Ares is the God of War. He’s super strong and fierce. He went into battle all the time and has this spear, and a helmet, see?”

I shake my head. “Delaney, that’s interesting and all, but is this really why you knocked on my door in the middle of the night? To tell me you looked up my name? You know I’m not really an ancient Greek god, right?”

She rolls her eyes like I’m the idiot. “Of course not. But it made me think.”

“Think about what?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. I put my mug in the sink and sit down at the table across from her. My hands itch to reach out, to touch her, and bring her back from wherever it is she went.

“If you’re named after him, the God of War,” she says finally, her voice not more than a whisper, “Maybe that means you are like him.”

“Delaney… I don’t… I don’t understand, kid.”

She meets my eyes. Hers are green, sparkling bright with tears.

“Maybe you can kill like him too.”

It feels like she’s slapped me in the face.

“You… You want me to kill somebody.”

She nods, like I’ve asked her a question and not just stated it outright. I don’t know why I feel like this… ashamed, disappointed, angry. Maybe it’s because, just for a few moments, I had thought of Delaney like I think of Gran — somebody who can see beyond the tattoos and the club shit and all my screw-ups.

But no. Delaney sees me like the rest of the world sees me. A monster. Or a guy who’s capable of being one, anyway.

I suck in a breath.

“Sheriff’s Department! Open up!”

My heart jolts and I leap up, my chair clattering down behind me. Delaney gasps. She’s gone totally white and her eyes are huge and round in shock.

A heavy fist pounds on the door.

“I know you’re in there, Warner! Get out here or I break the door down!”

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

This isn’t happening. I shouldn’t have let her in. I shouldn’t have let her stay .

Equal parts terrified and enraged, I stalk around the table and grab her arm, hauling her little body to her feet.

“Go out the back,” I say, shoving her in the right direction. “Don’t ever come back.”

“B-but—”

“ Now .” Delaney flinches back like I’ve hit her, but does as I say, scurrying down the hall and to the back door. Once I hear the screen door squeal closed, I move.

Deputy Jackson, Delaney’s father, is on the front porch and there’s a patrol car on my fucking lawn. Jackson’s not in uniform, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but he’s got his badge clipped to his belt and his gun in his hand like he’s ready to use it.

“Where’s my fucking kid?” he growls when I step outside.

I let my face go blank. “What kid?”

There are two uniformed deputies by the car, eyeing the scene, but I stay focused on Jackson.

“Someone called in,” he says. “Heard a scream, looked out their window and saw my fucking kid going into your house, you piece of shit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply. I step back, ready to swing the door closed. “Unless you’ve got a warrant—”

Deputy Jackson lurches forward. He grabs my throat and shoves me hard, propelling me into the house. I hit the wall, my head cracking hard against the plaster.

“I’ve got probable cause, you sick fuck,” he spits in my face. He looks past me. “Delaney? You in here?”

“She’s not here. Told you.”

God, I want to hit him. Badly. My hands curl into fists at my sides, but I force them to relax.

The other two deputies walk in and Deputy Jackson jerks his head at them.

“Check the house.”

They follow orders and stride past me. I’m sure Jackson can feel my pulse pounding under his hand as he tightens his grip around my throat. His eyes narrow on mine.

“I knew you were scum. But I was willing to let it slide, some biker trash living so close to me and my family. Live and let live, they say.” He leans in close. I can smell his sour breath. “But now you’ve touched what’s mine, Warner, and I don’t take kindly to another man touching what’s mine.”

A chill ripples down my spine.

This isn’t right. None of this is right.

“She’s. Not. Here,” I grind out.

“Jackson?”

One of the deputies leans into the hallway. Deputy Jackson looks over and I see his eyes darken. His fingers flex against my throat.

“You’re under arrest, you piece of shit,” he says as he turns me face first against the wall. My hands are dragged roughly behind my back and I feel the painful bite of the cuffs as he ratchets them closed.

With my cheek pressed against the wall, I’m facing the other deputy. The one leaning in from the kitchen.

There’s something bright in the deputy’s hand. Pink.

It’s Delaney’s bookmark, her fucking initials bright as day in sparkly bubble letters.

Fuck.