Dionysus (Greek God Romance Book 1) (3 page)

Rebecca asked, “A game?”

The patron responded, “Of sorts.”

“What are you playing to?”

He took a shot and finished his beer as she took a seat next to him. He made a face and gestured for another round. “We’ve lowered it. It’s to one million.”

“Long way to go.”

“I’ll say.”

“What’s the prize?”

Rebecca could see his face turn youthful, a mocking grin pointed at the bartender. “Hestia will have to marry someone.”

“And if you lose?”

“Oh—?”

“I assume, you’re Dionysus.”

Dionysus swung his stool around. He looked her up and down with his purple eyes—appreciating the view. Rebecca stared back at him, gazing into his eyes noticing how exotic his eye color is, then thinking they must be contacts. “Clever. If I lose, I have to spend some time as her assistant.”

They were not contacts. They were his real eye color, impossible for a human to have.

The bartender said, “I will not allow such a thing.”

Rebecca asked, “You won’t allow him to be her assistant? Are you his lover?”

Dionysus roared with laugher, slapping the counter. The bartender’s nostrils flared and a deep breath ensued but he made no further remark.

Rebecca tried to look at the bartender but could only make out his blond hair—the sun gleamed too brightly off his face. It was like staring at a mirror with the sun directly upon it. She moved her head around to see where the sun could be coming in.
There are no windows.
Attempting to ignore the impossible, she adjusted her stool, shifted her body and put her arm on her beautiful olive face—staring more directly at Dionysus. She could not allow this place to be immediately sullied by the insanity of her day.

The bartender looked around then repeated himself, “I will not allow Hestia to marry someone else.”

Dionysus said, “Oh, get off it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re still so
damn
juvenile. This is why I implored everyone in Olympus to explore the world, see the wonders, experience life and liberty and the illusion of freedom.”

Rebecca asked, “Why won’t you allow her to marry someone else?”

“Because an oath was made. Oaths cannot be broken.”

Dionysus stood up, gesturing around. “Everything can be broken. . . Look at us! The years wane and
still. . .
you act like you’re in the old country where women’s rights were a joke and male dominance ruled the world.”

The bartender said absently, “Those were the days.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that expression, ‘the old country.’”

Dionysus looked over at the bartender, a stolen glance that she missed. “Just a saying with us older fellows.”

She pointed at the bartender, making the mistake to behold him once again then squinting and shading her eyes with her other hand. “He doesn’t seem that old.”

Dionysus snorted. “You’d be surprised.”

The bartender asked, “What brings you in?”

This stumped Rebecca. She had entertained the thought of bringing up her desire for employment casually as she flirted her way to their hearts. “I—Uh—”

Dionysus responded for her, “She wants a job.”

The bartender sounded shocked. “You want a job?”

She nodded and looked at Dionysus with eyes wide in wonder.
Am I that readable?

“Give her a job.”

The bartender furrowed his brow, or at least, as much as Rebecca could gleam from within the light. She was about to ask why she couldn’t stare directly at him when Dionysus said, “What do you want?” This had her forget entirely as she tried to follow along.

“Oh. . .?”

“Don’t bullshit me. I smell it on you. You want something.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“You see—” He scratched at his beard, irritation spewing from his pores. He started scratching all over his head like fire ants had invaded his scalp.

This was a tick that Dionysus had from an early age when Ares had poured a viciously bred species of ant called lava ants—they had roamed the Earth millions of years prior. Dionysus and Ares mutual hatred for each other ran long and deep, like most things between the gods and goddesses of the like. He now did this tick, whenever he had to do something for another god or goddess he
really
did not care to. “I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?” The bartender suddenly had a wicked grin.

“Because you don’t learn.”

“I learn.”

“No, you don’t. You’re sister thinks being a virgin allows her to act like a spoiled fanatic that eradicates anything she feels—”

The bartender interrupted, “You had a bit of a soiree in your youth.”

“No shit. . .” He slammed his hand on the counter then leaned on it while pointing his finger, shaking with anger and irritation. “And I took my wrath out, all the same, like we all did. But I left that back there, I grew up.”

“Ariadne left you.”

“And I wish
someone
would leave you.”

“They have.”

“Not like that. Fine. Fine.” He gestured wildly in the air with his left hand. “Take it off—”

Rebecca interrupted, “So I have a job?”

They both said, “Yes.” Dionysus stormed off into the bathroom—his grumpy rage almost comical as he stomped his feet.

The bartender smirked. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, should I?”

He shrugged. “Guess not. I am Apollo.”

“Does everyone here get a Greek god name?”

He chortled. “Just about.”

She decided not to pursue, mostly because at what angle seemed to elude her. “When do I start?”

He thought for a moment. “Tomorrow.”

“Day shift?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, you’ll be on nights.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “We’ve been closed on nights. Now we can have the bar open.”

That may have been the craziest thing Rebecca heard all day—
may have
. “Eh? You’re not open at night? How can that be?”

He simply said, “I sleep at night.”

Rebecca burst out laughing, putting a hand to her forehead. “This place is original.”

Dionysus came back. “One of a kind. . . What will you be having?”

“I should rest. . .”

He chuckled. “Rest? You’re young and beautiful. Rest when everything sags and nothing is left.”

“Like yourself?”

Apollo said, “Got you there.”

He grinned. “I wish everything sagged, and I could rest that would be a terrific day. Let’s cheers to that.”

Apollo put down two empty mugs and two shots glasses. They both looked at Rebecca. She said, “What?”

“Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“M—a—g—i—c.” Dionysus flicked his hands and a liquid appeared in each. The mugs contained an almost blood red liquid, and the shot glasses seemed to be empty from how clear the liquid was inside.

“How did you do that?”

He grinned. “She doesn’t know.”

“Going to fill her in?”

He snorted. “What’s the fun in that?”

“Fill me in on what? Why is this whole
fucking
town one big bizzaroland?”

“It’s because you don’t want to believe.”

“Eh?”

“Believing is everything. Where do you think the placebo effect comes from?
Faith. . .
and a splash of fate.”

“What’s that have to do with this?”

He swung back around to stare at her again, tapping at his eyes. “Ever see these?”

“
Purple. . .”
she said, it came out of her mouth uncontrollably.

“You know our names.”

“So?”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You are. . . unbelievably stubborn”—he laughed—“lots of humans carry this trait. I always felt like it was
her
doing.”

Rebecca’s ire was growing. She could not, would not believe in the fantastical. “What are you babbling about?”

Dionysus turned back to Apollo. “I’m not sure if I regret my earlier decision or if I’m even more intrigued.”

Apollo grabbed another glass and polished away, another blinding gleam gushed from the glass as he rubbed. “You’ve always been odd.”

“Do you remember the last time I was drunk?” Before Apollo could reply, Dionysus said, “I’ll fill you in. You should listen to this. . . uh, what’s your name?”

“Rebecca.” She wanted to say more but only less came to mind. She figured she would stay a little longer to be polite, then get some sleep and see if the world changed with a new sun on the horizon. She wanted to leave, to run as far away from this place as possible. But the fact remained, she had a car and a purse—nothing else. She could only go as far as her gas would take her and that wouldn’t make it to Chicago. She decided, like so many humans have before her, that the almighty dollar took precedence.

“The last time I was drunk, I invented the drink that is in front of you. I remember because I was a boy and I cannot forget. A devastating thing not forgetting. You should always forget. It keeps you sane. Look at Apollo, he hasn’t forgotten and so, he acts like a child. Do you remember your childhood?”

“Somewhat.”

“Perfect.”

“What?”

“That.”

“That?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s perfect. Everything should be somewhat and vague as time marches on. I went insane for a time because of my earliest memory.”

“What was it?”

“You don’t know?”

“How would I know?”

He looked at Apollo. “She doesn’t know.”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t know.”

He turned back to Rebecca. “What do you know?”

Her hands shook vehemently, gesturing at the bar counter. The seemingly only reasonable thing in the bar. “How the
hell
would I know?”

“I guess you wouldn’t know.”

Apollo shook his head. “Education these days.”

Rebecca paused, stared at the magical drink in front of her. “I’m thinking I went insane coming here.”

Dionysus threw up his hands. “Beautiful.” He gave her a splendidly inquisitive look. “First time?”

Rebecca thought about this. She didn’t know why she thought about it, but for some reason, she emulated some of the insanity around her. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a good answer.”

Apollo agreed, “One of the best.”

Dionysus said, “Anyone who thinks they lived life without moments of insanity is in a moment of insanity.”

Rebecca said, “That’s almost profound.”

“Almost is sometimes just as grand.”

There was a long pause. Apollo picked up another glass to shine and blind Rebecca with. Dionysus scratched his beard and spun his glass round and round and round. Rebecca looked down, trying to devise a way to leave, when Dionysus said, “So, Rebecca, where you been? What have you done?”

She gawked, snapped out of her escape. She almost threw out her hand at her phantom self.
No, take me with you!
She managed to say, “What?”

“What’s life thrown your way?”

Apollo sighed. “Here we go.”

“What? I love a journey.”

“You’re aimless.”

“My aim is just fine. I’m working on my direction.”

“What am I doing here?”

“What got you here?”

“A series of bad events.”

He filled another glass and tossed it her way. She now had two untouched glasses filled with a maroon substance in front of her. He said, “A series of bad events describes the start of almost every journey.”

Apollo said, “Almost?”

“Well, I imagine some journeys start on a whim and end all the same.”

“Hmph.”

“You’re right, Apollo. Maybe it’s always. So our fine damsel in distress. . . Correct usage?”

Apollo nodded.

Rebecca shook her head—the insanity was growing, not diminishing. The glasses stood there, beckoning her, demanding to be consumed. She caved and started on the first.

“I’d take that slow.”

She finished a few gulps then set it down. “Why?”

“It is
very
strong.”

“You seem fine.”

“I’ve been practicing.”