Читать книгу Desire - Cindy Jacks - Страница 10

Lost at Sea

One year after exile…

Laughter jolted Bacchus awake. Why was the earth moving? His brain sloshed around his head, or maybe it had been pureed. Once his eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming through a picture window, he found himself in a strange bedroom.

When he reached for the brass and ceramic lamp, another wave of dizziness hit him, and he tumbled out of bed. His hands and knees sunk into plush ivory carpeting. Desperate to steady himself, he reached for a column of polished wood to no avail.

He listed forward and smacked his forehead into a rum bottle. By Zeus, that’s where he’d put it. A vague memory of playing a game called Find the Rum Bottle swam around his liquefied mind. He uncorked the bottle and swigged. Brown sugar, sweet and smooth, the liquor warmed his throat and chest. He struggled to his feet, walked to the window, and squinted to focus on the scene outside. Tears stung his eyes.

Water the color of Neptune’s limpid eyes sparkled in the sun. A pod of dolphins swam along side the vessel, arching in and out of the wake. How the hell had he wound up on a yacht?

Laughter rang out from another room. Simone. Oh, yes, Simone. Wild, golden hair encircled her head like a mandorla. Eyes black as the night sea trimmed in long, arched lashes. Her cappuccino satin skin had captivated him. He longed to run his hands, his fingertips, and his tongue over every inch of her. He had done just that in the last forty-eight hours. What a lovely, giving creature.

He’d met the young woman in the streets of New Orleans, at a festival known as Mardi Gras. It was the only party on Earth that came anywhere near a proper Bacchanal, though Vegas used to be crazy fun before it went all corporate.

The trip to the territory known as New Orleans had been a wild one. When he’d first landed on Earth, he’d planned to stay in his beloved Greece until old age and death allowed him to return to the Elysian Fields, but the best laid schemes of mice and defrocked gods often went astray.

First, he’d met a belly dancer named Kristina—an exotic tattooed beauty—who’d taken him to Paris to be something that translated roughly into “boy toy.” And when she’d tired of him, he’d taken up with a stunning young German woman who was backpacking through Europe. In the British Isles, now known as the UK, he parted ways with Dieta and met an American writer on vacation. Laney said she hailed from a town known as the Big Easy, and she invited him to come home with her.

How Bacchus had come to love New Orleans, and he loved it even more once Mardi Gras began. Which was where he met la belle Simone. On the solemn Wednesday that marked the abrupt end to the festivities, Simone made Bacchus an offer he couldn’t refuse. Her friend owned a yacht and would be in port the next day to pick her up. The boat turned out to be a floating palace of debauchery.

More giggling in the hall drew his attention. Now, where had the little minx gone?

Rum bottle in tow, he trotted out of his stateroom. The laughter grew louder. At a room farther up the passageway to his left, he knocked and called, “May I gain entry, pretty please?”

An athletic woman with dark chocolate curls and skin to match opened the door and grinned at him. “What?”

“May I come in?”

“Oh sure.” She pulled him by his neck and murmured, “Aren’t you a tall drink of water, sailor?”

“Funny you mention that. I spent quite a lot of time sailing around the Mediterranean. This was back in 500 BC when—” A kiss cut off his mindless rambling.

Oddly enough, the woman tasted like chocolate, too. She broke away from his lips and offered him a cocoa-colored drink garnished with three white chocolate truffles on a toothpick. “Godiva martini?”

Well, that explained that. A beautiful woman with a beautiful drink. Was there a more fantastic sight in all the world? “Thank you, love.” He winked, accepted the glass, and threw the rum bottle aside. “Seems we won’t be needing this.”

Another nubile woman appeared beside the ebony-skinned beauty. They looked at him as though he were the prime rib at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Two beautiful women and a beautiful drink. Indeed, he had found a more fantastic sight. Bacchus stood corrected.

“I’m Billie,” the dark woman said. “This is my friend Layla.”

Layla fluttered her fingers to say hello. She was tall with legs that stretched into the Afterlife, hair the color of harvested wheat, and so many dangerous curves.

He tossed back the martini in one gulp.

Giggling, Layla pushed him onto the bed and knelt beside him.

His lips crushed against hers.

Laughter rose from Billie, and she settled on the other side of him. Hot flesh pressed against him, the women stroking his skin.

His body melted against the mattress. What sweet surrender. Dizziness slowed reality, not the heavy, sickening dizziness he’d awoken with. This reeling was airy. Disconnected. Pleasant.

In slow motion, Billie slipped the spaghetti straps of Layla’s babydoll nightie down milky shoulders. For a moment, the garment fluttered to the ground. Or had an hour passed, the nightgown rippling mid-air?

The soft smack of someone’s lips became loud as Billie suckled Layla’s breast while removing her own bra and panties. Their laughter echoed as they reached for Bacchus.

One removed his shirt as another stripped his pants and underwear.

He felt fuzzy and light as a feather, as if he were hovering near the ceiling. But he must still be on the bed, because the satin sheets felt like a river of liquid silk.

He rubbed the nearest woman’s backside and chuckled. “What was in that drink?”

“Something to make you feel good all over,” Billie murmured.

That he did. Not that he needed any help to enjoy sex, but still, it was thoughtful of the women to heighten the experience. Pleasure coursed through his veins.

The dark-skinned beauty worked her way up his body and straddled his face Her musk ignited his loins and drew his core tight. Bacchus held her hips, devoured her clit and labia, and gorged himself on her tart juices. Her moans sounded like the music of angels.

Layla straddled his lap, rolled a condom over his hard cock, and slipped him inside her. Bacchus groaned. Finding Simone would have to wait.

* * * *

Bacchus awoke parched in a way he’d never before experienced. Olympus help him, he might have to resort to a glass of water. A sad state of affairs indeed.

He disentangled himself from…oh dear, what were the lovely ladies’ names? No matter. He kissed each of them on the cheek and bade them goodbye, though neither stirred from their slumber to return the farewell.

Staggering around the room, he sorted through the scattered clothing and found his. His head felt as though it’d been wrapped in freshly sheared wool and then encased in a ceramic urn. His thoughts echoed with alarming volume. Shh, he told himself to no avail.

Bacchus had been to the dining room on the yacht only once, when he’d first arrived. And he hadn’t had time to explore the various levels the ship offered. In fact, his venture into the Nubian princess’ room was the first time he’d left his cabin since Simone had pulled him below decks three nights ago. Was it three nights ago? It felt like only three, but it could’ve been a year for all that time and space had melded together.

He trudged into the glass-paneled elevator and slapped the buttons. One of the levels had to have an eatery of some type. Food, yes. That was what he needed. Food and water. Maybe a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Something nice and light. He swayed as the glass box halted, and the doors dinged open.

Emerging from the elevator, he wandered into yet another party that encompassed the entire deck. A glistening pool filled with revelers surrounded a bar shaped like the front end of a speedboat. Scantily clad waiters and waitresses ferried drinks on lifesavers-turned-serving-trays. With every passing moment, Bacchus gained more and more respect for the owner of this floating den of iniquity.

Every fiber of his being begged him to stay, to take part in the festivities, but his mortal needs won out. He stooped, yelling over the blaring music, and asked a waiter in the pool where he could find a meal. The young man, chest glistening with droplets of oil in his sparse chest hair, barked vague directions and pointed at a passageway to the right. Bacchus thanked him and headed down the corridor.

Unmarked doorways lined the hallway. None led to a room large enough to accommodate diners. He walked to the end, testing entryways as he went. The hall dragged on and on, but at last ended outside double doors covered in cream leather and brass studs. A porthole showed a group of men seated around a felt covered table.

He stepped through the swinging doors.

Three men with arms as thick as Bacchus’s two legs put together set upon him like Cererbus upon the souls of the damned. Lips drawn into flat lines, chests puffed out, the men formed a wall in front of Bacchus. Gone were the days when he could drive men to the brink of insanity with rage and passion. Best not to engage them.

“Did I interrupt something?” Bacchus threw in a smile for good measure.

“This party is invitation only,” said the shortest. A Spanish accent of some kind thickened his pronunciation of English vowels.

“My apologies, I’m looking for somewhere I might get to eat.”

A man, whose short-sleeved silk shirt hung off him in volumes of fabric, stood and walked over to Bacchus. Narrowing one golden eye, he gave Bacchus a once-over and nodded. “You lost, pretty boy?”

Bacchus arched an eyebrow. “Apparently.”

He spoke with the same accent as the other man. “You think you’re funny? What’re you doing on my boat?”

“This is your boat? I have to say, you, sir, know how to throw a party. And believe me, that’s a lot coming from me.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought of my entertaining skills. I asked what the fuck you’re doing on my boat.”

“Well, lots of things, but a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Simone invited me.”

She waved from the lap of a man seated at the table.

“Oh, Simone, there you are.” Bacchus returned the wave. “I’ve been looking for you all over. So, I suppose, then, I’m not lost at all.”

Silk shirt shook his head and ran a hand through wisps of curly gray hair. “You know this maricon, Simone?”

She nodded and grinned. “He’s all right, Santos. This da one I been tellin’ you ’bout.”

Santos relaxed and gave a yellowed smile. “’Ta bien, muchachos,” he said to his bodyguards who released Bacchus. “I think our new friend here should join our game. Everyone good with that?”

The men at the table nodded and chuckled.

“Are you gentlemen engaged in a game of chance? I’m just learning this game. It’s called Texas Hold ’Em, isn’t it?” asked Bacchus. “You know I’d love to join you after I get a bite and something to drink.”

With surprising strength for a man of such slight stature, Santos pressed Bacchus into an empty chair. He snapped his fingers. “We can take care of that here.”

A young woman hurried to his side. Silken black hair hung down to her waist. Clad in a bra and skirt uniform, she jiggled in all the right places.

Despite the vulgarity of her outfit, Bacchus was taken with her elegance.

Yes, elegance. Perhaps it came from her aquiline nose or the curve of her neck into her delicate collarbone. Her eyes, too—dark and complicated—showed a defiance for her current situation. Springtime emanated from her aura.

A white linen stola would dazzle against her skin the color of fine bourbon, nearly as bright as diamonds woven into her raven hair. The opulence of his former palace would dim compared to her, if only he could take her there.

“Maybe you ain’t no maricon after all. You gonna answer the woman?” Santos laughed without humor.

“I’m sorry?” Had the man just called him queer?

“What would you like to order?” Her voice tinkled soft as silver bells.

Thoughts about food had escaped him. “Please, bring me whatever the kitchen is serving and a bottle of white wine.”

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a curt nod and glided out of the room.

“So.” Santos took his seat. “What’s your name?”

“Bacch—” He caught himself. How difficult it had been to adjust to his mortal pseudonym, to be burdened with a surname. Couldn’t he be known by only one moniker like Cher or Madonna. Or perhaps, The Former-God-Formerly-Known-As-Bacchus. Oh well. Pan had advised he blend in as best as possible. “I’m Bach Sabazios.”

“Mucho gusto, Mr. Sabazios. I’m Santos. This is Pops, Nakamura, Tito, Billy, and Jean-Claude.”

Men of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds flipped a brief wave or head nod. “Nice to meet all of you as well.”

“We do this game a few times a year. We start in Miami, cruise around Florida and the Gulf, picking up players. Once we’re in international waters, we can do what we like, right?” Santos gave a savage laugh. “You enjoy yourself this time, maybe you come back next time, ey?”

“I might just do that,” said Bacchus.

“’Ta bien. All right, enough talk. Let’s play some cards, muchachos.”

Bacchus laid paper currency bearing the image of some mortal named Ben Franklin on the table. “Is this enough to get started?”

“Put your cash away, Mr. Sabazios. Simone mentioned you are good for a lot more.” Santos nodded to the dealer.

The dealer gave Bacchus twenty-five grand in chips. The table buy-in was a hundred dollars, which didn’t seem like a lot, but what did he know about money? He’d had the hardest time figuring out monetary denominations. A fifty looked so much like a five except for the little circle at the end of the number. Who had time for such details?

Speaking of details, Bacchus peered at his cards and the flop or the river or whatever in Hades the features of this game were called. Not like a simple game of Tabula or Knucklebones. Eager to learn, he bet with abandon. His first defeat cost him fifteen hundred dollars.

The second hand he lost because he was more interested in wolfing down the pork sandwich his dark beauty had brought him than keeping his head in the game. “What is this delicious wine?”

She presented the label to him. Bacchus ordered two more bottles.

When she brought his drink order, he took her hand and asked her name. The meanest-looking of Santos’s thugs bristled and glared at Bacchus, but Santos waved off the man’s annoyance.

“Ariana,” she replied.

Ariana. Her name washed over him, a gentle wave cooling hot sands. “Lovely to meet you, Ariana.”

She nodded and disappeared behind the galley door.

By the last hand of the night, Bacchus was nearly a hundred grand in the hole. Not that it mattered to him in the slightest. Every time Ariana entered the room, all he could think of were dandelions and buttercups, her red lips puckered, white fluffy seedpods spinning in the wind, and yellow flowers braided in her hair.

While most of his godly powers were lost to him, he could still read the aura and memories written on the human soul. Perhaps his retained skill had been an oversight on the Mother and Father’s part, but Bacchus doubted this was so. He suspected they’d allowed him this gift as protection in the unfamiliar world he inhabited. Humanity could be surprisingly deceptive and cruel. At times, more evil than Lucifer himself.

For instance, the stocky thug in the far corner had taken a special dislike to Bacchus. He had a gaping hole where his spirit should be, yawning like an open grave, sucking light and happiness from auras around him. Sure, he was handsome—chiseled jaw, stylish black waves, striking emerald eyes. No doubt, the man had begun as an innocent baby boy, but life had decayed him. A legacy of pain had stolen the man’s soul, twisted him into something grotesque. No amount of physical beauty could cloak it.

The last hand ended as the first had, in disaster. A small price to pay for the pleasure of her company.

As though the aged man had read Bacchus’s mind, Santos said, “It seems lady luck was not with you tonight, muchacho. I’ve never seen a man so happily lose this large a sum of money.”

Bacchus drained the last of his wine. “Good drink, good company. It makes the loss more bearable, don’t you think?”

“Sí, I do. Maybe you could use a little more company tonight? Maybe in your private quarters to help ease the pain of your loss?”

“I’m always up for some private amusement.”

For the umpteenth time, the shortest henchman set his jaw, eyes narrowed, hands clenched in fists. Nonetheless, no objections spilled from his thin, tight lips.

“What do you say, mi’ja?” Santos asked Ariana. “Does Mr. Sabazios deserve some tender, loving care?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

How wonderful, the night had not been a complete wash after all. Excitement rippled through his abdomen, and Bacchus tried to catch the woman’s eye.

She focused on clearing away the men’s glasses.

One by one, the poker players dispersed. Santos headed to his stateroom with a lovely lady on each arm. Bacchus lingered. Pouring himself a drink from the rum left on the card table, he waited for his dark beauty to emerge from the galley again, but she didn’t. The only person he saw on the way back to his berth was the man with the void inside. Arms crossed, the minion stood immobile in the second deck passageway. Bacchus flipped the man a friendly wave. The soulless one didn’t return the greeting.