Aphrodite's War (2 page)

Sometimes Jenny’s vanity seemed over the top, but Poetry kept her
comments to herself. Just because Jenny obsessed over her appearance
didn’t make her a bad person. Poetry could relate, what with her body
issues.

The microwave beeped. “Love the dress,” she said. “It matches your
eyes.”

“Thanks.” Jenny smoothed the fabric down slender hips. “I got it on
sale. I figured, ‘what the hell?’ It’s just the kind of thing to wear to The
Rosemount.”

Poetry was enjoying the creamy sweetness of dairy and tomato when
she remembered her promise. She swallowed without enjoyment.
“You forgot.” Jenny’s tone exuded disappointment.
“No, no,” Poetry said. “I just, well…okay, I forgot.” Jenny’s lips
tightened and Poetry noted the exasperation in her eyes.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t go,” she said. “Just give me a few
minutes.”

Jenny brightened instantly. “Great,” She went back to brushing
lavender on her eyelids in the mirror of the compact. “It’ll do you good
to meet new people.”

Oh, for the love of God. Poetry tried not to let her irritation show as
she stabbed at dinner.
She’d broken up with Kevin two weeks ago and Jenny had been
trying to drag her back to the singles scene ever since.

So she’d only been with the guy for four months. That didn’t mean it
hurt any less. She wasn’t ready to date, and she definitely didn’t want to
go out with anybody Jenny picked for her.

“And The Rosemount is just the place to meet a good quality man,”
Jenny said. “You know, guys with jobs.”
“You mean like that line cook you tried to set me up with?” Poetry
couldn’t resist, especially when Jenny had the grace to look sheepish.
“Okay, that wasn’t a good idea,” Jenny said.
“You think?” Poetry asked. “He followed me around the dish pit like a
trained monkey for a week, asking me to do lines in his car.”
Jenny winced. “Sorry. We’ll do better next time.”
Right. Jenny went for suits. She pushed everybody else in Poetry’s
direction.
“Whatever.” Poetry grinned at her, taking the sting from the sarcasm.
“I’ll be a few minutes, okay? I need a shower.”

She stopped by her room long enough to pick out a dress, a basic
black tank that hugged her curves. She loved the way it made her
silhouette a bombshell, not fat and short-waisted. It worked for nearly
every occasion. She’d worn it so much she’d already had to re-dye it.

She hung it on the door of the bathroom, with its stacks of teal colored
towels and rows of girly products, and shut herself in while scooting the
cat out.

Poetry stripped quickly, shedding the odor of hot clay kilns and ovens
with her t-shirt and sweats. Sooty streaks covered her arms and darkened
the cracks in her hands. She’d have to scrub hard to get that out, couldn’t
go out wearing the grime of her passions. She adjusted the water and
ducked under the showerhead.

Only then did she let the tears flow.
Poetry rinsed them from her face, struggling to swallow the loud sobs
she didn’t want heard. Jenny wouldn’t understand.

Jenny never liked Kevin. Poetry thought she’d judged him by his
appearance. Granted bald metal musicians weren’t for everybody, and
Jenny preferred white collar.

But she could never see past the rock star image to the sweet creative
soul beneath. Not like Poetry could. With Kevin she’d found a kindred
spirit, a soulmate to share ideas and inspiration with. Him with his music,
her with crafting jewelry.

It bothered her how Jenny commented on his tattoos and piercings.
Poetry had just as many, if not more. Did Jenny secretly sneer at her
looks?

She longed for the smell of Kevin’s musk mixed with leather. She
remembered his nicotine-stained smile, big as the sun.

But then he started getting weird. Poetry sighed as a pang of regret
squeezed her heart. She’d chalked it up to stress; from the band, from
losing yet another job. Either of those would’ve been enough.

Toward the end she’d seen less and less of that smile as he’d become
more possessive and his appetites grew strange. He’d changed right
before her eyes.

Jenny didn’t believe it. “He’s finally showing his true colors,” she’d
said.

Poetry couldn’t tell Jenny, but a punch to the gut after too many beers
had been the last straw. Now matter how much she loved him, she
couldn’t stay with an abuser. No smart woman would.

The water cooled, bringing Poetry back to the present. She checked
her arms and hands for ash and metal shavings. Puddles from her hair ran
clear instead of purplish. Almost done, she had to get the crud out from
under her fingernails and then she’d be finished.

The temperature plummeted as Poetry cleansed the eyeliner rivers she
knew would leave tracks on her cheeks. Kevin was a jerk. But it didn’t
make breaking up with him any easier.

Poetry half-assed dried off, the heat outside would evaporate the rest,
and shimmied into her outfit. She opened the door to let the steam out
and wiped condensation from the mirror before checking her eyes. They
were red as coals from crying. Better get the drops.

She opened the vanity to find another reminder of her ex. He always
kept at least three bottles of Visine around: one for his place, one for
hers, and one in his pocket; for getting rid of the hung over appearance
when they’d stayed out too late. Poetry sighed. Now she used it to wash
away the tell-tale signs of missing him.

She steeled her resolve. What kind of dweeb hides his nights out so
often that he needs more than one bottle of eye drops anyway?
The kind that smacks women around when he drinks.

Bolstering her confidence, Poetry brushed and preened until her hair
lay sleek and shiny. She applied her make-up like war paint, with dark
eyes and plum lips. Poetry reached for a green bingo dauber, but changed
her mind. Red. Today felt like a red day. She gave the bottle a good shake
and began striping her bleached bangs with it.

She chose a braided chain with sculpted silver daisies dangling at
various lengths with pearly beads to represent baby’s breath; one of her
most feminine necklaces. After adorning her neck, she owned her style
with an appraisal in the mirror.

The familiar padding of tiny paws on the linoleum announced Amir.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Rowr.”

“I think so too,” Poetry said, placing her hands on her hips and
striking a haughty stance. “Kevin who?”
“Ready!” She meandered to the kitchen with Amir trotting behind.
“How do I look?”
“That’s what you’re wearing?” Jenny asked. “You have other clothes,
you know.”
“You think the guys at the Rosemount won’t like it?”
Jenny shook her head, but her lips betrayed her humor. “More for
me.”
Poetry gave Jenny’s arm a swipe. “Nice.”
“Nice, nothing. You can borrow my patent pumps. At least you’ll
somewhat resemble a lady that way.”
“Whatever,” Poetry said, covering her cat with kisses. “Give Amir
lovins before we go.”
Jenny took him from her arms while Poetry searched for shoes that
matched.

Time to have some fun. No more sitting at home feeling sorry for
herself. This would be the first night of the rest of her life, and Poetry
intended to make it a good one.
CHAPTER THREE

Poetry stifled a groan. She’d envisioned a local hangout where coworkers and friends shared a few quick brews over a game of darts. This
place featured a lacquered bar with polished chrome stools and the scent
of genuine leather chairs permeated the air. The work of a painter she
didn’t recognize decorated the walls in black and red.

At least she matched.

How much would a beer cost in a pub like this? She cringed. Maybe
she shouldn’t order beer. Not fancy enough. The men were strictly suit
and tie. Not a hockey jersey in sight. The women…well, needless to say
Poetry felt underdressed and over-pierced. People stared. Her favorite
little black number suddenly looked too cheap and showed too much ink.

She leaned toward Jenny’s ear. “You could have warned me.”
“I did,” Jenny’s tone was insistent. “I told you not to wear that,
remember?”
Poetry cursed inwardly. She’d taken the comment as a ribbing.

“Check it out.” Jenny motioned to the corner next to the patio with
her chin. Bright sunlight poured in from patio doors, showcasing three
men and an older woman.

The woman had obviously had more than she could handle. She
pawed at a guy with a brown brush cut and biceps that strained the
sleeves of his jacket. The lady’s voice carried throughout the room,
announcing her interest. Poetry was embarrassed, even if she wasn’t.

Jenny marched straight for her.
Oh God, what’s she going to do?

“Hi, honey,” she said with a wave. Who was she talking to? Poetry’s
jaw dropped when Jenny leaned over to Mr. Biceps and pecked him on
the lips. “Sorry I’m late. Is this woman bothering you?”
She didn’t.

The cougar glared at Jenny. Her gaze drifted to Poetry with the tattoos
crawling down her shoulders and arms. Apparently not liking the looks
of them, the woman excused herself in a hiss.

When her rival was out of earshot Jenny flashed a charming smile at
Mr. Biceps again.
“I always wondered if that would work. I’m Jenny.”
Poetry clenched her teeth in a phony smile. Only Jenny possessed that
kind of nerve.

“Well, Jenny.” The jock motioned to the now empty spot. “I’m Gary.
Why don’t you and your friend have a seat? You never know…She might
come back, right?”

A barmaid came forward and took their order. Poetry followed Jenny’s
lead and ordered a vodka-Seven. She squirmed in her creaking chair as
introductions were made.

“This is my roommate, Poetry,” Jenny said with a vague sweep of her
hand. “We work together.”

Gary-with-the-beef nodded to his dark friend. “This is Ranjan.” He
indicated the blonde man closest to Poetry. “That’s Adrian. We work at
the same law firm.”

“Oh, you’re lawyers.” Jenny beamed while Poetry suppressed a sigh
of annoyance.
Lawyers. Great. Should be a fun night.

Intuition told her the guy sitting next to her felt the same way. While
Gary and Ranjan devoted their attention to the effervescent Jenny, he
slouched and stared at his glass.

What was his name? Adrian. Girl’s name. Not bad looking, though.
He wore his hair short and spiky. Just enough product to make it sit still.
His face had that sexy chiseled bone structure that makes for pretty
men--square jaw and high cheekbones.

But his eyes were the striking part. Such a light shade of blue they
were almost grey. Icy. He must be Scandinavian.
Not her type at all.
Especially since he wore a sport coat. No doubt it cost more than your
average off-the-rack kind. Were those pink pinstripes in his tie?
She glanced up to see him staring at her. A blush warmed her face as
she concentrated on keeping her expression neutral.
# # #

Drinks arrived, and Adrian broke eye contact with the olive skinned
girl. He took a long pull from his Guinness and braced himself for a dull
evening.

What was he doing here? He’d rather be at home, fixing the splintered
board in the hardwood floor he’d installed a few weeks ago. Stupid
miscalculation. His head throbbed from dwelling on it. Best think about
something else.

As the bitter brew and creamy foam washed over his teeth he
appraised the woman, as he’d seen her doing to him.

Not much to look at. She smelled odd, like baby powder and iron.
Adrian suspected that if it wasn’t for her bubble-puppy friend over there
that she’d never set foot in a place like this. Goth girls with rainbow hair
and tattoos never did.

And he’d caught the contempt for his tie. Not that he’d do her, either.
He liked his women a tad bit thinner. And more conservative.

She fiddled with the rhinestone embedded in her cheek. Why would
anyone do that to their face? Bet she had tribal markings across the small
of her back like he’d seen on so many hookers and junkies he’d
defended. What were they called? Oh yeah, ‘Tramp Stamps’.

He spared a glance at his friends. Gary and Ranjan were talking over
each other, competing for the other girl’s attention. She just sat there,
smiling like an airhead.

He glanced at the misfit and experienced a pang of empathy. She
sipped and chewed at her straw, obviously uncomfortable.

At least we have that in common. She had intelligence in her eyes, a
wariness no doubt borne from others making assumptions about her
appearance. Maybe he’d been too critical.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.
She took the straw out of her mouth, splashing him with drops of
soda. “Poetry.”
What kind of hippie names their kid ‘Poetry’? A distasteful thought
hit him. Maybe it’s a stage name.
“Uh huh, and what do you do, Poetry?” Adrian took another pull of
his beer. Not like he had anyone else to talk to. Could be interesting.
“I create jewelry,” she said with a tilt to her chin that dared him to
comment. “I’m an artist.”
Adrian almost choked on his Guinness, fizz burned the back of his
throat.
An artist. Named Poetry. Lucky him. Who breeds these people?
CHAPTER FOUR
“I choose him,” Ares rubbed his greasy hands together. “The blonde
man.”

Aphrodite rolled her eyes. She expected no less. Ares decided on the
one person at the table who found Poetry distasteful. But brutal rogues
like Ares could not see the warm hearts of men.

“You lack subtlety,” she said. “But it does not matter. I will defeat
you.”

“You must admit, I have a good start.” He planted his dusty sandals
on the polished floor and stretched until his joints cracked and popped
like autumn leaves.

“The champions have been chosen,” Zeus said. Mutterings and
whispers quelled and the courtyard fell silent except for the wind.

“Rule number one: aside from your champions, you must not interfere
with humankind.” Zeus employed a meaningful stare as he pointed to
both of them in kind. “I want no repeats of the ‘Troy’ incident.”

Zeus raised another finger. “Rule number two: no outside help. You
may use minions and demigods of our community. You may not ask for
assistance from the Egyptian, Asian or Indian deities.”