Aphrodite's War

by Donna Milward

  “Manufacturing and dealing drugs with your sugar daddy?” Strife wanted to slap that smug expression from his face. “It is beneath you, Strife.”

  “You have nothing I want,” she said, crossing her arms in defiance. “I would not waste your time with petty offers.” A smirk tilted his lips. Strife couldn’t help feeling a twinge of anticipation. Chaos comes when Ares smiles. “How would you like to help me ruin Aphrodite once and for all?”

  At the sound of that name Strife’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER FIVE Poetry checked her watch. Jenny was early. And she looked gorgeous as always. Even her spearmint-green pin-striped uniform couldn’t spoil her beauty. Poetry smiled anyway. She hadn’t seen much of her roommate this weekend and the apartment was quiet without her.

  As expected, Gary trailed behind her, followed by Ranjan and Adrian. “Hey, Poe. I like the matching color,” Jenny said, indicating Poetry’s emerald bangs. “What section you working?”

  Poetry pointed her chin to a row of booths, counted out four menus and grabbed a coffee pot. “I got the wall today. When do you start?” “Six,” she said. “We’re not eating, just a quick coffee before my shift.” She wrapped her arm around Gary’s waist and squeezed. “So we can hang out before I say goodbye to my sweetie.”

  Poetry made no effort to muffle her gagging while she put the menus away. “Yuck. You two need a room.” “No kidding, eh?” Ranjan said. Poetry grinned in agreement and sat them in the corner. In the light of day she couldn’t help but notice Ranjan’s distinctive features; prominent nose, dusky eyes, and sienna skin. Pretty exotic. She wondered what part of India he came from.

  His eyebrows arched at her scrutiny. She stopped staring and shifted her gaze to the table before making eye contact again.

  “Make sure they don’t do any funny stuff,” she said with a wink. “We just had the seats redone.”

  She poured coffee for all, acknowledging grunted thanks, including the one Adrian grumbled over his shoulder.

  He busied himself inspecting the seams in the fabric, running fingers over the stitching like he expected it to tell him a story. Weird. Whatever. She made a loop with the coffee pot to other customers. She let Jenny’s entourage hang out undisturbed while she sipped roasted Columbian behind the waitress station. The scent soothed her while Jenny and her new jock canoodled across the room.

  Poetry ignored the twang of bitterness in her heart, not her coffee. They were a cute couple. And it wasn’t as if Jenny deliberately rubbed Poetry’s nose in her new relationship. Just because she’d suffered a nasty break up didn’t mean Poetry couldn’t be happy for them. Right?

  Whatever. She made another round with her carafe and poured refills for Gary, Ranjan, and Adrian but Jenny put her hand over her mug. On her return to the dish pit, Poetry heard slurpy smacking behind her. Jenny and Gary were kissing again. “Gotta go sweetheart,” Jenny said. “See you tomorrow?” “Looking forward to it,” Gary replied.

  Hidden by the partition, Poetry grinned at Jenny when she emerged to tie her apron.

  “Aren’t you two cozy,” she said. “Oh God, Poetry,” Jenny said. “He is such an awesome guy.” Her eyes were bright like Christmas tree lights and she squeezed Poetry’s arm with enthusiasm. “He has a condo on Jasper Avenue and he drives a BMW, and you know what? We were talking and he thinks I’d make a great legal secretary. They make decent money, you know?”

  Poetry nodded, almost listening. She had a few minutes left to her shift and most of her attention belonged to a table making ready to leave. “Not a bad idea,” she said, and strolled toward the till. She greeted the regulars with her usual friendly banter, accepting their money and pocketing the tip. She tried to be discreet, but considering they’d only ordered burgers and Cokes, five bucks made her grin.

  “Have a great day,” the gentleman said. If everyone else tips like you today, I will.

  From her periphery she noted Adrian going for the wallet in his back pocket but waved goodbye to the couple as they opened the glass doors…

  ...And let her nightmare inside. Kevin slithered forward, all piercings and attitude. Last night’s stubble peppered his face. Poetry could smell the booze, day old and recent, blending with the reek of leather and sweat. She supposed his smile was meant to be charming but it had the opposite effect. Her stomach shrank like crumpled paper.

  “Hey, baby,” Kevin sauntered to the till as if he belonged there. Arrogant prick. But she was too scared to say the words out loud. “Miss me?”

  “What are you doing here?” A tremor betrayed her fear. Poetry straightened her spine in defiance, edging away from the cash register. “You need to leave.”

  “Aw baby, don’t be like that.” His sweet tone didn’t match the fury in his sun-stung eyes. “I just want to talk.” “There’s nothing to say,” She started to back away. “It’s over.” She couldn’t do this right now. Time to retreat to the pit until Kevin left or someone called the cops, whichever came first. His dirty fingers fastened on her wrist, preventing her escape. His touch was hot and clammy. Feverish.

  “C’mon baby,” Kevin said. “Don’t I get a second chance?” He squeezed tighter and Poetry cringed in pain.

  He wouldn’t do anything to her right here in front of the entire restaurant? Would he?

  “She told you to leave.”

  # # # I must be out of my mind, Adrian thought. Assholes like this were processed through the courtroom, whack-a-mole style. This skinny loser had nothing on him weight-wise, but Adrian never underestimated anyone under the influence. The sour smell of rye alone gave him pause. This creep had the strung-out demeanor of a hardcore drug user, like the twitch in his hollowed cheeks. That upped the ante.

  Lucky me. Adrian arranged his legs in his Kendo stance, feet parallel and his balance forward on the balls of his feet. What he wouldn’t give for his shinai right now. This guy could use a bamboo sword cracked against his skull. Still, his training might give him an edge in a scrap. Or maybe he should just let the guy hit him and have his ass thrown in jail.

  “What part of ‘leave’ didn’t you understand?” Adrian hoped he sounded braver than he felt.

  “What are you, her bodyguard?” the loser asked. Welcome bulk arrived at Adrian’s shoulder. “No, I’m a lawyer.” He jerked a thumb behind him where Gary waited for action. “He’s the bodyguard.”

  Ranjan sidled up on his left. “You need to get lost, buddy.” This guy had no balls. “Buddy” let go of the girl’s arm and backed off, mumbling something about not being afraid of them. Yeah, sure. The cave dweller wasn’t so brave against his own gender. He hated guys like that. He glanced over at Jenny’s friend as the Neanderthal made a loud exit, trying in vain to slam a hydraulic door.

  Adrian wouldn’t admit it, but it felt damn good to go up against one of these guys instead of defending them.

  Her face had paled and she shook visibly, obviously terrified. What possessed women to date jackasses like that?

  A green blur with blonde highlights flashed past Adrian, nearly toppling him, and Jenny latched onto Gary.

  “You’re so awesome, sweetie,” she said with a squeal. “That was so cool of you to stand up for my roommate.”

  “It was nothing,” Gary said. Adrian snorted and tossed a ten on the counter.

  Jenny’s friend inched to the register, rubbing her arms. She took his money with twitching fingers.

  “You alright?” he asked, taking his change from her unsteady grip. “Sure,” she said. She sounded okay. She’d arranged her face into a mask of indifference, but her color hadn’t returned. “I told you he was an asshole, Poetry,” Jenny said. She didn’t sound too sympathetic. “Now what if he’s waiting for you outside? How are you going to get home?”

  The girl, Poetry, placed a shivering hand over her mouth and turned an unflattering shade of pale yellowish-green. Geez, she looked pathetic. Like a Tim Burton movie extra.

  “Did you walk here?” he asked. She nodded,
swallowing hard. “Jen’s right,” Ranjan said. “What if that creep is still out there?”

  Adrian sighed. He had a bad feeling about this. In fact, he didn’t see how this chick and her dumb choices were any of his business. But when he peered into Poetry’s frightened brown eyes, it seemed like the right thing to do.

  He sighed heavily. “Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.” CHAPTER SIX Fifteen minutes later, Adrian trudged up the rubberized steps behind Poetry. He hadn’t lived in an apartment like this since university. He’d forgotten how the stairways smelled in these cheap buildings, like old mud mixed with a variety of starchy and ethnic foods. He could detect Ichiban on one landing and spicy paprika on the next. Poetry’s floor reeked of macaroni and cheese.

  If I never eat boxed noodles of any kind ever again I can die a happy man.

  When Poetry unlocked her door Adrian got such a lungful he could almost taste it. Nice. Maybe I could die now.

  Hot air blasted him like a furnace. No air conditioning either. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way up. But I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Adrian shrugged. “I feel better knowing you’re home safe. That guy was an asshole.”

  Poetry sighed as she kicked her flats across the tile. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  A streak of black skittered across the living room and latched pointy teeth into Adrian’s toes. “Ow! What the?”

  “Amir,” Poetry lifted the tiny ball of fur to her chin. “Guests’ feet are not for playing with.”

  “Meow?” The kitten’s motor-like purr demonstrated no remorse. “Bad kitty.” And her voice had all the rancor of rainbows and ice cream. She retrieved a stuffed white mouse from the top of the refrigerator. It jingled as she shook it, and the cat’s blue eyes riveted to the toy held in her fingers.

  Poetry carefully placed the cat back on the floor, tossing the mouse into the living room. “Go play with your friend, Amir.” “Strange name for a cat,” Adrian said. Poetry’s eyes never left the tumbling chunk of lint, but she smirked.

  “I named him after my favorite rock star, Amir Derakh, lead guitarist of Julien K.” Poetry made eye contact with him. Her grin grew wider still. “He’s Persian-American.”

  Adrian snickered. Of course he is. “You’re funny.” His flat tone denied his statement, and she laughed.

  An awkward moment passed as she glanced around the small space. “Listen, since you’re here do you mind, uh…”

  “You want me to check the rooms?” he asked. “Does your ex have a key?”

  “No,” Poetry shook her bangs into her eyes, pushed them back. “I never gave him one, it’s just…”

  “Got it.” She thinks he’s dangerous enough to break in. Lucky me. Adrian took off his sneakers just inside the kitchen area. He didn’t want to lose them in the pile of women’s footwear strewn in the foyer. Women and their frickin’ shoes.

  “I wouldn’t put it past the guy to do something stupid.” He grabbed the nearby broom and twisted the bristles off the bottom.

  “Exactly,” Poetry stepped aside, letting him pass. Adrian took a deep breath and went into kamae. He placed his right foot parallel in front of his left, with his improvised weapon held an inch from his belly button.

  The stick wasn’t a shinai but it would suffice. A good ‘men’ strike on the head would fix that shithead. Bright sunlight from the west-facing windows caught floating dust and cat hair as he slid across the dingy carpet. This is why kendokka practiced barefoot on hardwood floors. Maintaining strict form here could put holes in his socks and give him rug burn on the balls of his feet.

  He edged to the hall with three doors. Poetry kept her distance. First stop, Jenny’s room, or so the Hello Kitty sign on the door informed him. Adrian wanted to gag. How old was that girl? Twenty-one going on twelve?

  The door creaked open with a nudge, and Adrian’s eyes were assaulted with unicorns on the walls and stuffed animals on the bed. He didn’t quite stifle a groan.

  “I know, right?” Poetry said. “If it’s sickeningly cute, she collects it.” She punctuated the statement with a quirk of her lips that Adrian returned before poking his head in. Not many places to hide. “All clear,” he said. Poetry sighed, but retreated to the living room. He prodded the next door open with the broomstick. Must be Poetry’s room. No mythological creatures or fluffy bunnies. A cluttered desk in the corner displayed mason jars of beads and fasteners surrounding a laptop. Haphazard rolls of wires lay next to boxes of Slow-Dry art clay.

  Adrian stepped in for closer inspection. Only two things decorated the walls. One was a certificate from a school called Valentin Yotkov Studio in New York for metal sculpting. Impressive. Adrian developed a bit more respect for Poetry and her claims of artistry. No doubt she took her career seriously. The other picture appeared to be a massive collage, under construction and growing. He hadn’t seen one of these since grade five art classes.

  Photos of seascapes with quaint villages, Greek if he identified the white buildings and blue domes correctly, mixed with brochures for other art academies. She’d glued in magazine pictures of designs and techniques. The whole vision came together with strategically placed beads and chains to bring them together like a dream.

  It hit him. Not a dream. A timeline. This paper tangle represented Poetry’s life plan. And she aimed high. She wanted to study and learn her craft before moving to Greece someday.

  For a strange moment Adrian shared her hopes. He found himself glad he hadn’t brushed her off. Maybe they did have some common ground. The difference between himself and Poetry was she’d taken her hobby and made it her life’s work and he’d gone to law school instead.

  He hadn’t zoned out long, but he realized he stood alone in a stranger’s bedroom. Thoughts of forgotten aspirations left him with a gaping emptiness.

  And the realization of his mistake. No jackass here either. Good thing too, Adrian had let his guard down.

  Bathroom next. He crept past hair appliances and products on the sink and pulled the shower drape back. The squeal of metal curtain hooks scraping across the rod coaxed a yelp from Poetry somewhere behind him. Nothing and nobody. Outside the bathroom pattering paws and claws made little tears in the rug and the ringing of the mouse’s bell continued. Poetry shut both bedroom doors.

  “He’s not here,” Adrian said. He hoped Poetry didn’t notice the embarrassing way he let his breath out. He left the cluttered space and headed through the living room to the exit, peeking in the kitchen to be sure. Poetry followed, still trying to act brave.

  Adrian handed her the broomstick and retrieved his footwear. “Thanks so much,” she said again. “For coming up here.” She kneaded her multi-colored forearms. He tied his shoes and straightened before meeting her gaze. “Not a big deal. I’ve seen guys like him come through court all the time.” Usually on assault charges.

  She scrutinized the kitchen floor as she hugged herself. Her shiver brought another of those annoying pangs of sympathy. She couldn’t be cold in this brutal heat. He’d worked up a sweat in the five minutes he’d been there.

  You cannot leave her like this. The thought came like a whispering voice inside his head. Take her away from here. Perhaps for dinner. Yeah, right. But his stomach rumbled on cue. “Have you eaten yet?”

  Why he was he doing this? He had no interest in this girl. But he could tell by her anxious expression that she’s rather be anywhere but here.

  She glanced at him sideways, suspicion pinching her lips. “No, I haven’t.” “I know this great Cajun place not too far from here.” “Louisiana Purchase?”

  “That’s the one,” he said, and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging grin. “You been?”

  “They make a mean shrimp po’ boy.” Poetry’s lips twisted in a good way. “That’s my favorite. Get your shoes and let’s go. I could use a beer.” A smile burst across her face. “Me too. Let me get changed.”

  Adrian’s happy face tightened. Wonderful. Should be as mu
ch fun as writing the bar exam. Whose dumb idea was this anyway? # # # Strife stared at Ares’ toes as her aching hips slipped up and down his cock. Her mind focused on his stunning girth, an immense size that Earth girls paid for in tawdry shops with frosted glass windows. It hurt at first, such a long time since she’d had this enormous flesh, but an orgasm was already building.

  She could still taste his filth, smell his clammy sweat. It didn’t matter. She’d almost unhinged her jaw sucking him stiff and now she would take her pleasure. She rolled her head back while her steady rhythm propelled her to gasping, ferocious joy.

  She yielded to it, dimly aware of her squeals echoing off the high ceiling of her loft, of the creaking of her mattress springs as she exploded in ecstasy. She ground her pussy down, savoring the waves of gratification and squeezing every sunburst of intensity from the moment. The black and white prints on her walls dimmed and blurred when her vagina clenched, and she cried herself hoarse.

  A final sigh left her lips. Sore but sated, she crawled forward with trembling arms.

  She got what she wanted. Ares could jack himself off for all she cared. He wasn’t her master. His pleasure wasn’t her concern. She should have known he wouldn’t let her go that easily. Even as she attempted to elevate herself off his dick he sat up. “We are not finished, whore.” He shoved her forward, forcing her to her hands and knees. His fingers dug into her hips as he jammed his massive prick in once again.

  She screamed. Too hard. Too deep. Too fast. Ares ploughed her relentlessly, his thickness stretching her as he spread her thighs wider. “You are nothing but a common slut, Strife,” he said through his teeth. “You think you can use men for your own, but you need to be fucked like a rented cunt.” He delivered a stinging slap to her ass.

  Strife moaned and shut her eyes as her traitorous body pushed against him. Another shockwave of wet desire rippled through her with each pounding stroke. Animal grunts that shouldn’t belong to her tore from her throat. Another spanking smarted her skin. She wouldn’t let him make her come. He had no power over her. But her body tightened in anticipation.