Page 27 of God of War

11

Delaney

The beans are lukewarm at best. And they have little chunks of sausage in them. The orange fleshiness makes my stomach churn, so I push them around my bowl, digging for more beans.

“Are you going to eat that or are you just going to play with it?”

Ares watches me from across the room. I served up dinner, heated on a little camping stove, and Ares took the only seat at the table, leaving me with the choice of the floor or the lumpy couch. I fold my legs under me on the couch cushion and hold out my bowl.

Like a cautious Rottweiler, Ares considers me for a moment, then gets up from his seat. He takes the bowl and tips it back into his mouth, slurping up my leftover sausages.

“That’s disgusting,” I mutter as he lowers the bowl. He keeps his eyes on me and, like he’s trying to prove something, chews, swallows, and swipes his tongue over his lips to collect the last of the sauce.

It shouldn’t make my lower belly clench like it does.

It’s late. I can’t be sure of the exact time, and I can’t check my phone because it’s in my backpack, all the way over by the door. Over by Ares. My fingers itch to have it in my hand. To see if Aunt Judith has let Lilly call today. We don’t have a set schedule for calls, but it’s usually just before her bedtime, when Aunt Judith gets sick of Lilly begging to talk to me.

Ares tosses the plastic bowl in the sink and sits back down in his chair. He kicks back and thunks his feet on the table. Dried mud crumbles off the soles of his boots.

“How long are we going to stay here?” I ask.

“Until we’re told not to.”

“Do you always do what you’re told?”

“When it’s Griff doing the telling, yeah.”

I have so many questions that they’re bubbling up in my throat. I had been so curious as a kid, about Ares, his life, the big world beyond my own little front yard.

“What’s it like?” I ask. “Being a Wastelander.”

“Why do you want to know?”

I shrug. I shift my leg, unfolding it from underneath my butt, and lean against the back of the couch. “I just don’t see why anybody would want to be in a biker gang.”

“Motorcycle club.”

I snort. “Sure. You came together because of your shared interest in Harley Davidsons.”

“I don’t ride a Harley.”

The way he’s looking at me feels heated. Not in a bad way, just like he’s studying me. Trying to figure me out. Warmth creeps up my neck and I force my eyes down to the hole in the knee of my jeans. I pick at the loose threads.

“They were there for me when I needed them,” he says finally. “When I needed… I don’t know… something. It’s not that complicated.”

“What’s an enforcer?”

Ares goes tense and I motion to the vest he retrieved from the car, now hanging from a hook on the wall.

“The patch on your vest.”

“It’s called a cut.”

“Okay,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The patch on your super adorable leather cut—” He makes an annoying growling noise that I ignore. “It says that you’re an enforcer. I googled it.”

“Google, huh? You’ve come a long way from your library days.”

Memories flood back — knocking on his door in the middle of the night, my hands clutching my dog-eared book about ancient gods. Me, terrified but hopeful.

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