Page 5 of God of War

“S’cool. You don’t have to tell me,” he says, shaking his head. His hair flops in front of his eyes and he pushes it back.

If he didn’t have all those tattoos, he could be in magazines. Nancy has a poster in her locker of a bunch of guys with surfboards at the beach. I can only glance at it before I feel my cheeks get too hot. It’s so embarrassing. Why would she want to see a bunch of shirtless guys every time she opens her locker? And why am I even thinking about that right now?

“I was just going to tell my grandma about you when I call her. Tell her someone misses her.”

“Oh.” I kick at the pavement. It feels rude now, not to tell him my name. And I kinda wouldn’t mind finding out how his grandma is doing. If she’s planted another garden at her retirement home. It probably wouldn’t be as nice as this one was.

“Delaney,” I say finally.

“Hi, Delaney. My name’s Airy.”

I scrunch up my nose. That’s a name?

“Airy?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “Like… the air?”

He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that’s bright and warm. Not mean and sharp, like the way Daddy laughs. Or some of the kids at school.

The guy — Airy, I guess? — digs in his back pocket. He pulls out a marker and motions with his fingers. I don’t know why, but I hold out my arm to him.

Strong fingers wrap around my wrist and hold my arm steady. He bites off the cap of the marker and writes in heavy block letters on my arm: A R E S.

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I pull my arm back and run my fingers alongside the letters, careful not to smudge them. He puts the cap back on the pen. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

“Google it,” he says as he stands. “It’s interesting stuff.”

He waves with two fingers, like he’s saluting or something, and smiles.

“See ya round, Delaney.”

He’s back on his side of the street before I think to speak.

“Bye, Ares.”

I go home, feeling weirdly lighter. I tell myself that I feel happy that the old lady isn’t dead, but I also kind of think I feel like this because of him.

Ares.

The first thing I do when I get home is change into a long sleeved shirt so Mama won’t see the marker on my arm and make me wash it off. I lie on my bed and stare at his name on my arm for a long time, running my fingers over the now-dry ink.

My skin hums.

3

Ares

Twenty Years Old

The tequila hits me a few blocks from home. I pull my bike into Gran’s drive — my drive — and it takes me a couple tries to get the kickstand down without falling on my ass. Gran’s voice is in my head, reading me the riot act, as I stumble onto the porch and let myself in.

I’ve never driven drunk in my life (and have no plans to again), but when I left the party at the Wastelander compound, I honestly thought I was fine. The buzz had long worn off from the weed and the shots I’d had earlier in the night. That swig of tequila as I walked out, however?

Yeah, I’ve never been one to say no to a bad idea.

I flip on the lights in the kitchen and chug a few glasses of water until the pounding in my head eases a little.

Should’ve stayed, I think to myself.

Not all Wastelanders have permanent rooms at the compound, mostly just the officers, but there are plenty available for guys who just need to crash… or who want a little space for their own private party. As a prospect, club pussy isn’t the easiest to come by. They make you work for it.

---