Page 43 of God of War

He nods curtly and scoops ice cubes into a short glass. I look around the bar as he works. It’s a far cry from the Wastelander club bar where the sleaze practically oozes from all corners. This place is clean and fairly busy for a weekday afternoon. A waitress shoulders her way through a swinging door, plates of burgers and fries balanced expertly in her arms.

“Anything to eat?” The owner asks, placing my drink on a paper coaster in front of me.

“Got a menu?”

“Sure thing, bud,” he answers, sliding one over. I look at it, but I might as well be looking a blank page. I feel paralyzed. All I’m doing here is stalling for time, for some new plan to fall from the sky and make everything better.

Sheriff Jackson won’t stop looking for Delaney and now he knows I’m with her. Griff wants me to abandon her to her father, but knowing what I know now, I can’t do that. Even if I hadn’t figured it out, I don’t think I could leave her. Not without protection.

That’s what I am. A protector. An enforcer. I take the battles of my brothers and make them my own. Right now, that battle is Delaney’s. She won’t survive this without me.

I pick up the glass, the condensation cooling my fingers, and take a sip. Even for a shitty bar in a shitty town, it’s pretty good, and I close my eyes to the spicy sweetness of it rolling down my throat.

“You a fighter?”

Takes me a second to figure out that the owner is talking to me. He moves back and forth behind the bar, popping caps off beers for customers and cleaning up empty glasses, but by the way he’s angling back, it seems I’ve caught his interest.

“Yeah, you look like a fighter,” he says, answering himself. “Been around fighters my whole life. You’ve got this look to you. That, or your plastic surgeon really fucked up your nose job.”

I don’t know how to respond, whether I should be offended or suspicious that this guy is asking so many questions, but then he swings back to me, bottle of tequila in his hand and drizzles another shot into my glass.

“Ah, sorry. My wife says I should mind my own business. I say, ‘What the hell I open a bar for if I wanted to do that?’”

I relax and tilt my refreshed glass to him before taking another, longer, sip.

“Wouldn’t call myself a fighter…”

The owner grins. “I’ve heard that before. I’m Oscar.”

He holds out his hand and I hesitate. Do I give a fake name, my real name, or my real name?

“Ares,” I say, shaking his hand firmly.

“Interesting name.”

“I’m an interesting guy.”

Oscar looks me over, dark eyes seeming to catalog me, taking in everything. I feel a tug of unease in my gut. Oscar is either sizing me up to fight me or fuck me, and I really don’t have the time or interest for either.

“So, Interesting Ares,” he says finally. He tosses a cloth over his shoulder and leans down, elbows on the bar. “You interested in a little fun tonight?”

17

Delaney

I sleep most of the day. It’s a surprise to me. I thought maybe I would be too wired up, my body wanting to just keep chugging. But after my shower and after Ares comes back with a bag of greasy food from the bar across the street, we both collapse on our separate motel beds and pass out.

I try hard not to think about him sleeping only a few feet away. Something happened when he was showing me those self-defense moves. That familiar bubbly feeling awakened inside — butterflies flapping wildly in my belly. A tiny part of me thought — had hoped — that he might kiss me.

Then I went and fake kneed him in the balls and ruined the whole goddamn thing.

I’m still thinking about it, even now as we head across the street to the bar. The night is humid, sweat already sticking to my skin and making me feel even more clammy and uncomfortable. I should’ve worn my dress, but instead I grabbed something from my thrift store haul — denim shorts, a ribbed tank, and a gray checkered flannel shirt. It’s too hot to wear the shirt, so I’ve tied it around my waist and I feel it flapping against the back of my legs as I walk.

Ares strides in front of me. He seems tense, his body a solid mass of black as he cuts through the lone streetlight. His new jeans fit a little too well, and the tight black t-shirt is one of the ones I grabbed for him. I feel weirdly pleased that he chose it, even though it’s just a dumb shirt and it doesn’t mean anything.

Some rough-looking guys mill around outside the bar, smoking and talking. They quiet down as we approach and Ares slows, slipping to my side like he’s done this a million times before. He flattens a hand to the small of my back and urges me forward, shouldering the door open so that I have to squeeze past him to get inside.

It’s hot and crowded, the bar’s AC pumping overtime to try and cool the place. It’s also impossible to hear anything over the music, the chatter, and the loud crack of pool balls breaking.

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