Page 42 of God of War

That was the moment I knew what he had been doing to her. The disgust, the rage, all those feelings I felt in the trailer came rushing back when I said near the same thing to Delaney just now. Only this time I saw myself reflected back in her eyes and my surge of disgust was aimed back at me.

I’m supposed to be protecting her, not forcing her to touch me, getting hard while thinking about how it would be so easy for me to twist her hips and tug her close, get her to grind herself against my thigh. I can almost hear her breathy sounds in my ear as she turns into a whimpering, trembling, mess.

“Goddamnit,” I grunt, my cock pulsing.

I’m a perverted piece of shit, no better than Jackson. I turn the hot water off all the way and suffer under the frigid sting for the rest of my quick shower. I have to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret. I need to drink something. I need to smoke something. I need to hit something.

Not particularly in that order.

***

I step out of the bathroom, a towel around my waist. Delaney is perched on the corner of the bed, twirling the closed switchblade in her delicate fingers. Her eyes flash wide when she sees me and I notice her gaze dipping south along my bare chest. It sends another pulse to my dick and I growl, striding over to the bag of new clothes.

“I’ve gotta go out for a bit,” I tell her, as I fish my jeans and t-shirt out.

“But shouldn’t we stick together?”

I don’t risk a look back, afraid of the expression on her face. Probably that adorable pout she does when she’s pissed at me.

“I’m going to get us some wheels. Just keep the door locked and stay inside. You’ll be fine.”

When I do turn around, my clothes in my fist, she’s by the bathroom door, kicking off her sneakers and hugging a fresh folded towel to her chest.

“Fine,” she replies. Her expression is flat and controlled again. “Get some food, okay? I’m starving.”

I roll my eyes. “What do I look like? Your personal chef?”

“I can always call the front desk. See if Mr. Perv offers room service?”

I try to keep my face blank, but the mention of the leering guy at the front desk makes my jaw twitch. Delaney arcs a brow and I know she’s just fucking with me.

“Yeah, I’ll bring you some goddamn food,” I grumble. “Can you just get in the bathroom so I can get dressed, please?”

Her lips pull into a teasing smile and she swings into the bathroom, one hand on the door jamb. “Aww, you said please. Must mean you like me.”

The door clicks closed and I wait for the shower to go on before I drop the towel.

***

Summer heat radiates off the asphalt in the motel parking lot. Stepping outside feels like stepping into a furnace. I survey the area, trying to figure out my next move. Aside from the pool hall across the street, this area of town is pretty dead.

I consider the cars in the lot. There’s no point stealing one from here; too close to where we’re laying low, and I’m not confident in my hot-wiring abilities, anyway. When we walked in, along the main road, there were a few properties with cars out front, dusty FOR SALE signs in the windows. With the cash we have left, I can scrape together a one-off payment, but then we’re in the red and we still need money for food and gas and whatever teenage girl shit Delaney needs.

The thought of leaving Delaney behind wriggles in the back of my brain, a worm on the end of a hook. It would be a lot easier to avoid detection and to pay for shit if I only had to worry about myself. That’s what Griff wants me to do.

But I can’t. I know I can’t. Even the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Across the street, there’s a burst of laughter as two women come stumbling out of the bar, the door swinging closed behind them. Might as well head over, see if they have food. They definitely have something to drink. I glance back at the room to reassure myself that Delaney is safe inside, then I jog across the street.

***

“What can I getcha?”

The casual confidence of the guy behind the bar makes me believe that he’s the owner. He’s an older guy, gray hair pulled back in a knot, and he’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves torn off, some unintelligible metal band logo on the front.

As I sit on one of the worn leather stools, he pauses his work of unpacking a tray of clean glasses and lays his hands flat on the pock-marked bar.

“Tequila and coke, thanks.”

---