Heat for Hephaestus

by Sotia Lazu

  “It’s the alternator.” I nod gravely. “I can fix it so it gets you back on the road, but you’ll need to replace it if you’re planning on going out of town. Or you can leave the minibus here, and I’ll have a replacement part delivered by tonight and installed by noon tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two - Laura

  “WHAT’S HE SAYING?” Noella climbs down from the minivan.

  “That we’re screwed,” I tell her. I wait for Maria and Sylvie to join us before telling them what the guy said. I close with, “We need to have him change it, no? So we don’t have the same problem in a couple miles?”

  Truthfully, we don’t need to have the minivan fixed. We can leave it here, for insurance to deal with, while we rent a new one. Hell, I could buy one, and not make a dent in the sum I got paid for next week’s shoot. But we’re supposed to be sightseeing around Greece this week, and I can’t fathom a sight I’d rather be seeing, than the topless man leaning easily against the bumper.

  Gesù, his muscles have muscles. I’ve never been with a man this big.

  Is everything... proportionate?

  When Noella scrunches her nose and says she needs a shower and a salad, I see an opening to maybe finding out for myself. “Why don’t you three get a cab to the hotel, and I’ll stay here and sort things out with the Greek?” I ask the girls.

  “The delicious Greek,” Noella purrs. She stretches her arms over her head, making her breasts pop.

  It looks innocent, but it’s her trademark swim-wear pose, and I’ll make her nose pop. I saw him first.

  I take a slow breath and calm the wave of irrational possessiveness rising in my belly. In my most reproachful tone, I say, “He may be delicious, but we need him to be a mechanic, not dinner.” From the corner of my eye, I see the Greek smirk and shake his head.

  Can he understand what we’re saying?

  Noella straightens, blows a dirty-blond curl off her face, and gives me the timid smile of a scolded child. “You’re right, Fuoco. I’m sorry.”

  I usually hate it when the girls treat me like the den mother because I’m a decade older than them, but I don’t mind it this one time. Anything that keeps them from going after the Greek works for me. I’ve seen them flirt before, and they do it like piranhas.

  “No, forgive me. I didn’t mean to snap. I just want to have the minivan in working condition as soon as possible, so we can hit the beaches,” I say with a smile of my own. The lie stings my tongue. For a moment there, I was ready to fight for this stranger. Did the bulging pecs and washboard abs mess with my mind? In my line of work, I see sculpted pecs and abs—never mind glutes—on a daily basis. Only, they usually come with leaner, more... refined packaging. Nothing as powerfully masculine as this male specimen, watching me with undisguised interest.

  “Will we find a taxi here?” Maria hugs herself and looks at the freeway behind us. She turns to the Greek and repeats her question in English.

  “I’ll call for one,” the man says.

  And I swoon. The man could read me a grocery list, and I’d swoon. His gravelly voice matches his looks perfectly, emanating the same kind of easy power his every movement broadcasts. He’s like that actor from the movies with the cars, but taller. Bigger. By a lot. And that scar by his right eye gives him an extra layer of mystery. The air around him tastes of danger, and I’ve never felt more like taking a risk.

  Noella used the perfect word for him. Delizioso.

  “Where should I tell them you’re going?” he asks.

  Nowhere for a while, if I get any say in it, but I give him the address to our hotel in Palea Fokea, and he goes inside. “Wait here,” I tell the girls and follow him, pretending not to hear their teasing comments. I’m lucky he doesn’t understand Italian, because they’re being pretty graphic.

  I inhale the air I’m so familiar with. Car exhaust and motor oil. Like Papa’s shed, where I spent my afternoons throughout high school. Car parts, tires, tools, and consumables are strewn around the workshop, but there seems to be order in the chaos if I squint my eyes just right.

  I point at the gutted Mercedes elevated on a hydraulic lift. “Is this what you’re working on?”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. Doesn’t even slow down. “I’m done with this one. Need to close it up. Have a couple of antiques in the back yard that I’m restoring.”

  “For a client?”

  His massive shoulders rise and drop. “For fun.”

  Sounds like something he’d say to impress a lady, although— “I know someone else who still restores cars for fun at seventy-five.” I smile automatically, like I always do when I think of Papa, before I remember he doesn’t speak to me anymore.

  I wait for Hephaestus to ask whom I’m talking about or offer to show me his love-project, but he doesn’t. He heads toward a glass-separated space on the right. The sign by the open door reads Office and what I assume to be the same word in Greek. I enter after him Only this place smells of something else too—him. This man whose eyes I could get lost in.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m not a girl any more, to be infatuated within moments of meeting someone. “I don’t even know your name,” I mumble.

  He spins on the ball of his foot, hand hovering over the cell phone on his desk. “I’m Hephaestus,” he says. “Hephaestus Olympios.”

  I know that last name, but can’t remember where I’ve heard it. Most men I meet already know who I am, but he’s different. Probably hasn’t been in the same room as a fashion magazine in his life. “Fuoco,” I say. Means fire in my language, and it’s the nickname my followers voted on, when my livelihood depended on my social-media presence. When I first started hiding who I really am.

  He tilts his head and studies my face. “That’s not your real name.” Does he know he’s purring? Is he doing it on purpose? The sound makes me want to run my fingers through the short dark hairs on his chest, like I’m scratching a large, lethal cat.

  I take a slow step closer and lean my hip against his desk. He towers over me and makes me feel small. I’m a meter and eighty-two centimeters; I never feel small. Never feel like pressing my nose to a stranger’s neck and breathing them in, either, but I barely hold back now. “You can call me Laura.” I lick my lips and watch his gaze flick to them. It’d be so easy, to rise on tiptoe and kiss him. If it were anyone else, I would. I’ve never been shy about my desires. But I’m used to having the upper hand, and my gut tells me that wouldn’t be the case with this man.

  “Hephaestus,” I muse, because I don’t know what else to do, when I’m this close to him. “Like the god?”

  His face darkens, and the smile he gives me is bitter. “Like the god.”

  “He was always my favorite.” It’s true. “He created and fixed things, while all the others were only interested in drinking and fucking.”

  Hephaestus swallows audibly and clenches his jaw. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Works his jaw. Clenches it again. “I will call you a cab,” he finally says. He rounds his desk and motions for me to sit on the single chair on this side, but I’m fine where I am.

  He picks up the receiver of an old corded phone and taps a five-digit number on the keys. His brows scrunch together in a frown. The expression seems at home on his face. What would he look like if he grinned? If he laughed?

  God, I want to see that.

  While he sinks in his desk chair and leans back, I take in the mess on his desk. Stacks of papers. Half a dozen pencils, lying next to the empty pencil holder. A bunch of keys as large as both my fists put together. And on a corner, holding in place a heap or receipts, sits a carved wooden cube. From this angle, one of the etchings on it looks a lot like the tattoo on the small of my back. Like a heart made of flames—a broken one at that. Don’t know where I saw it, but the shape floated in my mind for years before I had it done. Tramp stamp, my last lover called it, moments before he found himself out of my hotel room. Nobody calls me a tramp, even in jest.

  Greek isn’t one of the fo
ur languages I speak, so I don’t know what Hephaestus is saying, but his gruff voice resonates in my core. I reach for the cube, so I don’t reach for him.

  The wood is warm in my hands. Feels familiar. Up close, I see the carvings are lined with gold foil. I trace one of the heart’s edges with my thumb, and something clicks deep inside. It’s not a cube; it’s a box. I start to repeat the gesture, but Hephaestus snatches it from my hand and places it back on the desk.

  “Not a toy.” The warning in his tone makes me wet. I can imagine him telling me to be a good girl in that same tone.

  I give him an impish grin. “Didn’t mean any harm.” Though I’m game if he wants to spank me for touching his stuff.

  Chapter Three - Hephaestus

  THIS IS THE WRONG DAY for me to be understanding Italian, because the pictures those three girls out there painted are now playing on a loop in my thoughts. The images are like stills from a porn movie, starring Laura Freaking Rossi, the one woman I’m not supposed to fuck if I know what’s good for me.

  Gaia, she makes keeping my distance so difficult. Couldn’t she stay outside, with her friends? Where I couldn’t see her or hear how Hephaestus—how I—was her favorite Greek god. Delicious was the blonde’s word for me, and glimpsing how Laura looks at me, I’ve never felt more like a snack.

  No luck with the first taxi company. Thanks to the suburban railway strike, they can’t send us a car for another hour, and I can’t stand Laura’s scrutiny for that long without my self-control waning. As I dial the number for a second company, hoping for a shorter wait, I check my cell phone. I forgot all about the text that arrived when Laura and her posse landed on my doorstep. It’s from Sei. Guess who’s here, it reads.

  You guess who’s here. As in, I’m looking right at her, I send in reply, while a recorded message telling me to please hold alternates with the annoyingly flat tune playing in my ear.

  The Read notification barely has time to appear on the screen, before my cell phone rings. I take Sei’s call and replace the receiver of my office phone in its cradle. No reason to stay on hold, when Sei has a fleet of cars and drivers. He can make himself useful and send one to pick up the gaggle of models waiting outside my shop.

  “Yes?” I draw out the word.

  “Seriously? You got to her already?” My brother’s exuberance may as well be broadcast into my head. His giddiness is disconcerting, when he’s been all business most of our adult life. “That was fast. Thought you’d be rustier.” He lets out a chuckle that grates on my nerves.

  So does Laura’s messing with my box again. I watch her nimble fingers caress the wooden surface, and get another of those shivers rolling down my spine. Didn’t I tell her it’s not a toy? “I didn’t get to her,” I whisper, though I probably don’t need to. Laura doesn’t speak Greek. Yet. Though if I understand her language... “Her car broke down outside my shop, and I’m pretty sure C had something to do with it.” I keep my voice low, just in case.

  There’s a short pause on the other end of the line, and then Sei says, “He probably had everything to do with it, but after what he told us last week, I can’t say I blame him. He needs us at our best, if Nyx is set on destroying the world.”

  I snort. “He’s got four of you at your best. How powerful is this Nyx, anyway?”

  “The mother of all creation? I don’t know. Powerful, I guess. You’ll have to go through with bonding with the supermodel.” Another chuckle. This isn’t funny. He knows where I stand when it comes to binding Laura to me—far, far away from it.

  I grit my teeth, managing a smile for Laura’s sake.

  Sei’s not done hammering in his point. “You know, the bonding isn’t exactly hardship. You’ll be happy with her. Love is an awesome feeling.” He’s constantly gushy over Irine. It’s adorable, bordering on nauseating.

  He doesn’t get it, though. Love won’t break my heart again. C and Circe have said so. And the reason is obvious—I won’t feel love again. Ever. Besides, even if I did fall for the majestic woman touching things that don’t belong to her, she wouldn’t return my feelings. Not really. Her free will is tampered with by this thing we call destiny, but which I know to be the will of someone who fears us. Why else would someone build a failsafe in our resurrection? My brothers view the bonding as a means to regaining their powers, but I see it for what it is. Love weakens you, and whoever decided we can only ascend if we bond, did so to rein in those powers.

  Sei is obviously the wrong guy to be talking to. He’s found his happy ever after.

  “Bet the bonding’s life altering,” I grumble. “Anyway. Got to go.” Not giving him time to protest, I hang up and call Hades.

  And Laura is still pawing at my box. I clear my throat, but she doesn’t spare me a glance, her brow furrowed and her nose scrunched.

  She’s gorgeous.

  Hades doesn’t waste time on menial things like greetings. “What’s up?”

  Everything is. All up in the air. And about to fall on my head. “She’s here.” I can’t use Laura’s name, or she’ll know I’m talking about her. “My... soulmate.” My lips find it hard to form the last word. “Can you come over? She and her friends need a ride to their hotel, and I need some time to collect myself.” He’ll understand. It’s why I called him, and not one of the others. I don’t know his reasons any more than he does mine, but he’s reluctant to bond with his soulmate.

  For brothers who grew up sharing such a huge secret as impending ascension into a new Pantheon, we’re all pretty stingy when it comes to sharing our feelings or anything to do with our original lives. It may be because the men we were back then weren’t always on the best of terms. Still, Hades knows I catch glimpses of that past in my dreams sometimes, and I know his gift—if you can call it that—is a kick in the nutsack. I suspect his unwillingness to approach his mate has something to do with it.

  “Sure, man. I need half an hour, though. Twenty minutes, if I get Hermes to fix the traffic lights.” He ends the call, and I’m left gawking at Laura’s hands. I heard a click coming from the cube. Did she break it?

  Before she can do worse damage, I grab it from her grasp. “I told you it’s not a toy,” I growl.

  It’s supposed to sound like a warning. To make her wary. Not invite a crooked smile to dance on her lips.

  Laura holds up both hands. “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t seem sorry. She seems amused. Her eyes sparkle, and she bites her lip, tilting her head to study me. She flicks her gaze to the puzzle box. She must see me notice, because she asks, “What’s in it?”

  “In it?” I arch my eyebrow. “How do you know it’s not a paperweight?”

  She matches my expression and snatches the box again, before I can move it out of her reach. “Because I almost opened it before you manhandled me. I’m good with these things.”

  Right. She almost opened the box I’ve been working on for decades. Sure. “You can’t open it.” I clasp her wrist and pry said box from her fingers, trying not to focus on how her pulse races beneath her skin. How it calls to my blood. “I’d hardly call that manhandling.”

  Goosebumps rise along her forearm, and her nipples visibly push at the thin fabric of her blouse. She’s not wearing a bra. Fuck.

  Laura leans back on her elbow, almost lying across my desk, gaze locked on mine. “Maybe you could show me what you would call manhandling, then, so I learn the difference.”

  Gulp. Her words travel straight to my cock.

  This isn’t me; it’s the bond. I am not a slave to my urges, and I don’t sport random erections because I see the outline of a nipple, damn it.

  She’s so close and looking up at me with dilated pupils. This position is stretching the fabric of her top, pulling the neckline down and revealing a strip of paler flesh, where the sun hasn’t kissed her breasts. No strap marks are visible. She arches her back, and I want to trace the edges of her tan with my tongue.

  But I won’t. The bond is winding it’s sneaky tendril around us both, feeding us desire
s that aren’t our own. She doesn’t know it, so she can’t resist, but I do, and I will.

  I roll my chair back half a meter. Need some space between us, possibly a ten-meter-thick wall, before I fall into fate’s trap. “I couldn’t get a cab out here, so my brother will come get you. He’ll be here soon,” I tell her. Once she and her friends are gone, I can fix the existing alternator, and send Laura Rossi on her merry way first thing in the morning, none the wiser about the risk she ran by being this close to me.

  “Oh. Okay.” She sits up, her back to me and shoulders slumped. She must be tired.

  Why do I care if she’s tired? She means nothing to me. But I roll my chair closer. “Have you had a long drive?” I ask.

  She hops up and faces me. “Today? Three hours. We spent last night in Patra.” She grimaces. “Yesterday’s drive was six hours long, though. No fun.”

  Doubt the trip from Patra to Athens was much fun either, but if I say that, she’ll reply with something charming, we’ll start bantering, and by the time she’s out of here, I’ll be smitten. No, thank you. Being horny like a teenager is bad enough.

  “Tell your friends to come inside. It’s hot out there.” I stand and go to the fan. Fidget with its controls, for show, while I use my talent to set it to a notch below the strength of a plane turbine. Only way to cool this room down. When I step out of the way, a strong stream of air picks up the papers on my desk and sends them flying all over the room. “Ah fuck.”

  Chapter Four - Laura

  PIECES OF PAPER ARE tossed about carried on a gust of wind. I catch a receipt that’s flying straight to my face, and then scurry to help Hephaestus get everything together. The girls can handle the sun a little longer. We’re models. We’re used to working in less-than-optimal weather conditions. Plus, Hephaestus’ muscles are flexing and coiling, and if I stay here, I get to see more of that.