Ballad Ares

by Lulu M. Sylvian

  Copyright © 2020 by Lulu M Sylvian

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Full Bloom Editorial

  Cover by Laura Medeiros

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Need more Lulu

  Also by Lulu M Sylvian

  About the Author

  Thanks for your help, it never would have happened without you.

  One

  I doodled on my napkin— well, not my napkin, but a napkin. I didn’t have a napkin. I didn’t have a drink. I had been sitting in the same spot on the corner toward the end of the bar for forty-five minutes and I still had no drink. The people to the left of me had drinks, and so did the folks to my right, but not me. I ordered— or I thought I had. I distinctly remembered asking for a beer, and a little while later, I asked for a Coke. I was completely invisible to the bartender, something that, try as I might, I could not rectify. I waited for Trish. She was late.

  I’m usually the one who runs late. And so, since Trish was late, I surmised she stood me up, either completely forgetting about me, or because she finally scored a date with ‘that guy from accounting’ she had been chasing after.

  I doodled and watched the entrance to the bar. I was in some a hotel bar in West End, very popular with the mid-twenties, single working set, near Trish’s work. I left my cell on the bar next to me and tried not to watch it. Maybe she sent a text and I hadn’t noticed the vibrations. No such luck. A watched phone never rings. So there I sat, at a bar without a drink, doodling, when I first saw God.

  He walked in, paused just inside the door, and gave the place a quick survey. I hoped he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. He was tall, practically filled the doorway. Intimidating. He loomed, solid as a tree with shoulders a mile wide. The light was behind him, so I couldn’t see his face immediately, but he certainly broadcasted a presence. Backlit as he was, it looked like he was dressed in a long black leather jacket that grazed muscular thighs, and those thighs were wrapped in tight jeans. He had short, thick hair cut tight to his scalp. His silhouette suggested a broad chest and a narrow waist. For that moment, he was the most visible person in the bar.

  I know I stared, I just hoped I kept my jaw closed and wasn’t noticeably drooling. I didn’t understand how he didn’t leave a wake of admirers in his path, he should have. Half of those who bothered to notice were intrigued by him and the other half seemed intimidated. He towered over everyone he passed. He strode in my direction— which was, to be fair, in the direction of the bar. I positioned myself to be relatively visible from the door for whenever Trish arrived. But to my brain and my breathless chest, it felt like he walked toward me. That’s when the light finally hit his face. He wasn’t a god— he was an angel.

  His hair was black, his skin was pale. I was gazing at the embodiment of Heaven. Thick, black eyebrows slashed across a broad, square brow. His eyes were closed and long, heavy eyelashes fanned across cheeks that were accentuated by bones so sharp they could slice bread. Long sideburns emphasized his well-sculpted face. His nose was long and straight and on the large side, although everything about him was on the large side. It all fit together nicely.

  A friend once told me that I always noticed a man’s lips, and in this case, he certainly had nice ones. His mouth was wide and full, not a mere slash of a mouth. He had lips worthy of Elizabethan sonnets, the lower lip just a touch larger than the upper one. His were lips designed for licking, and biting, and sucking, and kissing. His face was defined by a strong, chiseled jawline with a square chin, all delectably covered with a hint of dark beard stubble.

  He took long, confident steps, and as he did, he reached up behind his head. He removed his hand and fanned out his hair with his other hand. His hair was not cut short as I had first thought— it had been pulled back into a ponytail. He shook his head to loosen his glorious mane of long, black hair.

  Can a man have tresses? This wasn’t mere hair— this was a thick curtain of heavy silk. It was long, falling past his shoulders. I had instant follicle envy, and I’m sure more than a few other women and the early thirties baldies did too.

  I don’t think I had ever been so instantly drawn to a man before, but how could I not? He had hair that cried out to be touched, lips that were made for kissing, and he was so tall, if allowed, I could climb him. As he continued in my direction, my mind raced. Maybe he was an underwear model going to show off his portfolio? Or better yet, Trish hired him to come apologize for her forgetting about me.

  Alas, neither gods nor angels see me. I was amazingly invisible, one of those people other people didn’t see. And if they did, I was easily and quickly forgotten. On good days, my hair was a riot of prehensile tendrils that seemed to move and coil on its own. This was not one of those days. This was a day of frizz and bland. While a respectable weight for my height, I had curves where the trends dictated I be flat. It had been a long time since I even wanted to put any of my assets on display. I was shrouded in shapeless out-of-fashion comfort clothes.

  God walked toward me, or rather the empty spot next to me. He leaned in over the bar and the bartender was instantly there, drawn like a moth to a flame. He ordered a Johnny Walker, straight up, and with time-warp speed, as if the drink had been poured before he ordered it, a napkin was down, and the drink placed on top. He picked up his drink with the longest, most graceful fingers I had ever seen, and turned, leaning his back against the bar.

  I yearned in my core to be touched by those fingers. It had been entirely too long since I had feelings like that. These were not emotional feelings— these were giddy hormonal rushes of lust, a desire to touch and be touched. Pure physical reaction to a purely physical being, I had an instant hard-on for this guy. Okay, whatever the female equivalent is— I am aware that I don’t possess that specific piece of anatomy. Oh, but I wanted to possess his anatomy.

  I had as much of a chance with someone who looked like him as an ice cube in Hell. He filled the space next to me, becoming all I was aware of— every breath, the smell of his leathery coat, the clean smell of his hair, every movement. It felt as if his presence merely crowded and blotted out everyone else in the place. I glanced out to where he was looking, and I was amazed. Why wasn’t every other pair of eyes on him? They should have all turned and knelt in supplication to his beauty. Then it occurred to me, he wasn’t their kind of god. He wasn’t a money god, but he was a sex god.

  At that moment, the angel-god spoke. His voice was sonic sex. It was low and slow and deep, like slow-moving liquid dark chocolate.

  “Not exactly what I was looking for,” he muttered as he sipped his drink and sighed.

  I blew air out my nose, not exactly a giggle or a harrumph but a noise.

  “You scoff,” he commented.

  I was in shock that he talked to me, or at least, I thought he directed that to me.

  “It looks like everyone her
e is trying to relive their frat party days, picking up sorority chicks. First or second job, just out of school. All about making the money.”

  I was entranced by his voice, and reeling from the actuality of him speaking to me. I didn’t have quite a full profile view of him, but I noticed he was not young. Not old by any measure, but seasoned. I would have put him at slightly older than myself right then, and I was on the downhill side of thirty-something.

  “Different priorities,” I managed to squeak out.

  He didn’t respond. I sighed. He must not have heard me. Should I repeat myself?

  He didn’t say anything more, sipping his drink. I tried really hard not to stare, then I checked my phone again. Trying to keep myself occupied, I attempted to doodle more, but I had no concentration. So then I did just stare at him, masked by the dim lighting of the bar, willing him to notice me, willing him to speak again. I struggled to think of something witty to say, so I didn’t sound like a dork, so I didn’t just blurt out something like, “Can I lick you?”

  My phone finally buzzed. Just over an hour after the arranged time, standard Trish time, she finally sent me a text. I was right, she had gotten the guy from work to take her out. I didn’t know if I was more mad for being stood up, overlooked for something better, or because she could actually get dates. Not like me. I mean, there I was with no date, alone in a bar, silently worshiping the man next to me, hoping he would say something, even to the bartender, so I could hear his sexy masculine voice for real and in person. I felt like I faded more and more into the background every day, like my world was going dark around me. I slammed my phone down and grunted in frustration.

  “Not good news then?” He was talking to me! Although he was mostly turned away from me, he was actually talking to me.

  My brain couldn’t register it and my voice could barely function. “What? You’re talking to me?” I was more than a bit amazed, in utter shock that he could have been talking to me.

  “That or myself, which would you prefer?” The sound rolled over me.

  “Friend just stood me up, after making me wait almost an hour,” I complained.

  “Good friend, and do we forgive him, or…”

  “It’s a she. She’s a her. Friend. Female,” I stammered, unable to speak properly. Great, I tripped over my own tongue, advertising I was nothing more than a complete dork.

  “Ah, female friend. Is she now forever to be known as…” he paused. “Standup Woman? No, no, Inconsiderate Friend. Now what?” He was conversing with me. I felt like I was sixteen and a boy, an extremely pretty boy, was talking to me.

  “Now, I either sit here and continue practicing my superhuman powers, or I go home,” I said gloomily.

  “You have superhuman powers?” His voice had a delightful lift and carried with it a touch of a grin at my words.

  “Yes. I’m invisible.” I made my serious ‘I’m not joking’ face.

  At that point, he turned toward me and looked right over my head.

  “So you’re invisible? How’s that working for you?” A slight smile pulled on the corners of his lips.

  Great, I entertained the god. I guess it’s better to be laughed at than ignored. Then again, maybe not. I sighed. Yes, better. He was actually grinning.

  “Well, you don’t see a drink in front of me, do you? Proof my powers are working amazingly well, at least as far as the bartender is concerned. Problem with that is I’ve attempted to be visible long enough to order a drink.” I paused, calming my frustration. “More than once.”

  He turned his head, hair cascaded over his shoulder, and made a clicking sound, and as if summoning a genie, there was the bartender. “My friend needs a drink.”

  ‘My friend.’ He called me ‘my friend.’ I know polite bar manners and all, but it was still an instant thrill to be acknowledged by a man like that. If being called ‘friend’ felt like that, what would it be like to hear him say my name?

  The bartender looked at me with a burdened glance. I ordered a soda. True to form, I got a coffee. Perfect confirmation that I was not only invisible, but apparently I couldn’t be heard.

  “Wow.”

  Okay, I never thought that would be a particularly sexy word, but the way he said ‘wow’ made me want to crawl inside of him. His lips sort of started to pucker, then spread into a half grin, returning to that almost pucker. Wow. I think I could watch him say that word over and over again for hours, maybe days. Would it be rude to offer to pay him to say ‘wow’ just so I could watch?

  “You’re right, invisible. Well, it’s nice to meet someone with real superhuman powers.” He stuck out his hand as if to shake mine, but he was about two feet too far to the left. He then shook it up and down as if he shook an invisible hand. “Nice to meet you, Invisible Girl.”

  “Ah, call me Invisagirl,” I said, playing along. I was gonna die— there I was verbally playing with this guy, and he kept smiling, which caused slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes. I still couldn’t tell what color they were. They were pale, that’s all I could tell. The neon over the bar wreaked havoc on color. It made my hair appear blue, and my hair was not quite any color easily described. The color of hair, that dark blond, light brown color that wasn’t a color. Sometimes if the light was right, my hair could almost have a hint of auburn.

  “So what brings you here, since this is obviously not your scene either?” I asked, searching for anything that would keep him talking to me.

  He resumed his position leaning his back against the bar. “Hotel bar,” he said. “I decided I did not want to get ass-raped by mini bar prices. Might as well have witnesses to my financial violation and have it done in the main hotel bar.”

  I stifled a giggle. “Oh, so then you are in town for…” I paused, letting him fill in the blank.

  “Business. I’m checking out recording studios. Nashville has some of the best sound engineers and studios in the country, and I’m shopping around for our next record. I like to meet the people I’m going to work with first.”

  “You said next record? So you’re a musician then? You don’t look country.” I had no idea who this guy was, but I seriously hoped he was not some wannabe. Mixed in with the legitimate musicians, Nashville had plenty of those rich kids with more money than talent buying their own recording time. Not to mention the starving artists looking for someone to support them. He had a lovely speaking voice, so he probably sang like Barry White. Or a croaking frog.

  “Yeah, I’m sort of a rock star.” He emphasized rock star with dripping sarcasm.

  “Have I heard of you?” I asked. My brain screamed, ‘Who are you?’

  He didn’t look familiar.

  “Probably not. We’re a little insignificant band that makes bad music, but some coked-up record label exec has decided to pay us occasionally to record. Here I am, looking to spend their money.”

  “Sounds like you have a plan of sorts.”

  “No, not really, just an excuse to get away from Seattle for a bit, and, like I said, spend someone else’s money,” he sighed. He sounded weary.

  He threw down the remainder of the drink he had been nursing and signed the bar tab. I guessed he signed it over to his room, but I had no idea how those things work.

  “It was interesting to meet you, Invisagirl. I feel immensely violated, and now I’m going to go sleep off a bad flight.” He gave the space next to me a slight bow and he strode out of the bar and out of my life.

  “Bye, Rockstar,” I said to his back.

  I sneered at my coffee. I was starving, and the sudden rush of adrenaline leaving my body made me feel like crying. At least my attempt at a night out hadn’t been a total loss— I had spoken to an angel. I tossed five bucks on the bar, and following his lead, I left.

  Two

  The air was crisp but not cold. The leaves had turned but not fallen. The trees looked like they were on fire. Lydia and I sat on the porch at The Pig and Pen, a wanna-be Irish pub, mostly designed for tourists. The patio was sep
arated from the sidewalk with a low brick wall. The outdoor braziers were lit, keeping us plenty warm, not that they were needed. I aired the grievances of my life and all of the daily drama my night out with Trish was supposed to have helped alleviate, but had not.

  Cars zoomed past. The tourists were obvious because they would drive really slow, gawking at everything, and driving around the base of Musica, a large bronze statue of dancing nudes representing the embodiment of music, more than once. We were having a late lunch just off Music Row. I was living the high life, not a chicken nugget insight. Lydia said I seemed down after my encounter with the flirting angel-god, so she treated me to a special lunch.

  My best friend already raised her child. She survived the toddler years I was currently entrenched in. This resulted in her being everything I was not. She was always well-groomed whereas I was happy if I had a shower in the past two days. Her hair was long and golden compared to my disheveled mess. I was not having a good hair day. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t having a good hair year. She was petite and delicate.

  I wasn’t actually tall, just not short, but I did have decent boobs, even if they weren’t store-bought. The fashion industry and the entertainment gossip magazines would have called me a cow. They could all bite my cow-shaped butt as I flipped them off with my unfashionably short, and polish-chipped nails.

  Lydia’s one boy child was already grown and out on his own. She was on several “MILF” lists. I had even seen friends of her son try to pick her up. I certainly wasn’t on anybody’s “ILF” list. We kept each other sane, sisters separated by different parents.