Читать книгу Desire - Cindy Jacks - Страница 13

But Now Can See

Pan’s voice dragged Bacchus from his slumber.

“Sire, it’s two in the afternoon.”

Bacchus rolled over and put a pillow over his face. “One more hour.”

“Sire, you have to leave by three-thirty. Now, come on. Up, up, up.” Pan clopped away toward the master bath.

“No.” Limbs heavy, eyes drifting shut, Bacchus gave over to the warm pull of sleep.

The covers flew away, and cold water rushed over Bacchus’s bare body. He sat up, heart racing, teeth clenched. “You are the most vile, contemptible, uncivilized—”

“Cruel, heartless and unloved soul that ever existed. Yes, sire, I know. We go through this every morning.”

Bacchus dried his face on his duvet. “Well, as long as you know.” Pain and nausea racked his body. He rubbed his eyes and temples. “Did you bring my morning kit?”

Pan handed over a grocery bag with a sports drink, Advil, and Alka Seltzer. Bacchus dissolved the seltzer tablets in the sports drink and washed down four ibuprofen with the foul-tasting concoction. In about twenty minutes, he’d be right as rain.

Pan had researched the cause of hangover symptoms and formulated the restorative combination.

Now that Bacchus had somewhere to be every afternoon, he couldn’t afford to lounge in bed all day, lamenting the night before. The club had been a positive influence in many ways. To his surprise, Bacchus enjoyed his newfound business owner status. He’d made some rookie mistakes, like placing his first order with the liquor supplier under the assumption the club goers would drink at the same rate he did. But hey, now he had back stock that would last for a couple years, so no biggie, right?

The employees were a source of endless fascination for him. All the lovely young women dressed in tight satin dresses, flirting with clients they’d rather spit on all in the name of good tips. The young men who worked security at the bar tried they’re damnedest to get those same young women to leave with them each night. Few of them possessed the skills to seduce a woman. Bacchus could leave with any of them at any time, but since he dreamed nightly of the beautiful Ariana, and awoke often enough screaming her name, he forwent the pleasure of nightly company.

Ariana, Ariana—she proved a constant distraction. If only she’d acknowledge Bacchus’s existence. Since their meeting on the yacht, she had barely spoken three words to him, unless he solicited conversation. Even then, she was polite, but never warm or welcoming.

Shaking away thoughts of his unrequited love, Bacchus pulled himself out of his soggy bed. “How was your night?”

“Fine, sire. Thank you for asking.”

“I don’t know why you don’t sleep here.”

Pan shook his head. “Thank you, sire. Not to complain, but it’s hard for me to be so far from nature and in human form. I’m struggling enough with the long hours at the club. The last one of your employees who saw me in my true body ran screaming. The swamp suits me just fine at night.”

“As you wish.” Bacchus trudged into the master bath of his beachfront condo. Catching a glimpse of his torso in the mirror, he paused. With a flex left and a flex right, he admired his sculpted abs. He’d been no fatty in the many millennia he’d spent as a god—despite the manner in which that cheeky bastard, Cornelis de Vos, had portrayed him—but Bacchus’s mortal form possessed an amazingly lean firmness. He’d never known the body encompassed so many individual muscles. As a god, he’d never gained, lost, or expelled anything for that matter. Urination and defecation had been adventures to master. He flexed his obliques again and marveled at his resemblance to a marble statue.

“Vanity, thy name is Bacchus.” Pan appeared behind him and nudged him toward the dressing area. “Please, sire, you must get dressed.”

“Right, sorry. I got caught up in my reflection. Am I very handsome?”

A sincere expression crossed the satyr’s features. “You are as beautiful as I’ve ever known you to be, sire, which means you’re stunning.”

“What would I do without you, old friend?”

“Show up late every day to the club. Now hurry, hurry.”

Bacchus donned a garment known as a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from some singularly talented tailor named Calvin or was it Klein? First and last names still confused him. Though the clothing lacked the grace of a chiton, he had to admit the vestments accentuated the positive. He checked out his buttocks in the mirror.

Satisfied with his appearance, he swept into the living room.

Pan had prepared a platter of fresh fruit, a green salad with feta cheese and honeyed walnuts, and fresh coffee.

Another result of daily hangovers, he’d developed a taste for coffee. Miraculous potion. “This looks wonderful, Panny.”

“Thank you, sire. You need to replenish your body.”

Munching on a fig, Bacchus mumbled his agreement.

After breakfast, Pan shaved him with a straight razor and slapped cologne on his master’s baby smooth face.

Bacchus collected his wallet, keys, and a bottle of eighty-two Lafite-Rothschild he’d purchased while in Paris. No special occasion. Really, did one need a special occasion to enjoy a gorgeous vintage such as this?

Jingling the chain holding the key to his Alpha Romeo 8C Spider, Bacchus turned to Pan. “Are you ready to ride with me to the club?”

Blanching and turning a little bit green, Pan gave his lord a forlorn look but didn’t object. Instead, he assumed his squat, troll-like human form and walked with his master to the parking garage.

* * * *

Going from zero to a hundred kilometers per hour in less than five seconds always gave Bacchus a rush. Even if Pan constantly questioned the wisdom of tearing down Ocean Drive at breakneck speeds.

At his club, Eliseo, the driving hip-hop beat made Bacchus want to take off his clothes and pulse around the nightclub. How the music captured his fancy remained a mystery, though he wasn’t alone. Glittering, coiffed, and bejeweled revelers pulsed with him. They packed themselves in by the droves, just to flail around to the pure rhythm.

Bacchus pasted a toothy grin on his face, slinking around the steel and glass fixtures that separated the crush of bodies. Summer in Miami drew all walks of life from hookers to heiresses. Streetwise veterans of the scene to fresh-faced twinks. Every shade of skin color, every nationality represented. He watched them all come together on the burgundy leather of booth benches and scattered chaises. Flashing disco lights erased all flaws until there was nothing but music and lust and drinks. Luscious, colorful drinks that servers in the shape of nymphs and adonises ferried to patrons. A more glorious temple to his gifts had never been built, not even when he had been a god and the alter upon which the most devout worshiped, the VIP lounge.

Bacchus sauntered up to one of the counters serving the VIPs. “How’s it going tonight, Fede?”

“Very good, Mr. Sabazios.” The young Cubano bartender filled a tray with shot glasses.

A stream of nubile cocktail waitresses dropped off orders and ferried a rainbow of mixed drinks to clients.

Ariana. His dark beauty Ariana. She barely gave him the time of day. One would think, having thrown up on him and all, she’d feel a bit more familiar in their relationship.

“Hello there, Miss Ariana.” Bacchus bowed.

“Hello, Mr. Sabazios.” She avoided his gaze and focused on loading glasses on her tray.

“You’re looking lovely this evening.”

A simple pink, satin slip dress hugged her curves regally. “Thanks.”

Bacchus leaned down and spoke into her ear. “You all right, love?”

Ariana skittered away and cast a shifty look at him. “Everything’s fine.” She hoisted the tray and hurried across the floor to a red velvet chaise where a predatory peacock of a man lounged, surrounded by a group of thugs.

One of Santos men, the one who’d tried to intimidate Bacchus that night on the yacht. He frequented the club and spent his time shooting dirty looks at Bacchus.

Bacchus had it on good authority his boss had forbidden him to start any trouble with the new proprietor of Eliseo. Amazing how much respect one point five million dollars could buy.

The man’s hands roamed all over poor Ariana.

Bacchus’s stomach churned. Motioning to a member of the VIP security team, he set his jaw.

A wall of muscle packed into a teal polo shirt appeared at his side. “What’s up, Mr. Sabazios?”

Bacchus subtly pointed toward the chaise. “Cliff, warn our friend over there to keep his hands to himself, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Cliff strolled to Ariana’s side.

Arm hooked around Ariana’s thighs, the man glared at Cliff and pulled her tighter. More words were exchanged, and with a smirk, the man pushed Ariana away.

When Cliff returned, he folded his arms over his chest. “His name’s Alonso Desiderio, works for Santos and thinks that makes him untouchable. He says she’s his girlfriend, and she confirmed it, but I told him hands off during work hours or he’s out.”

“Really? He’s her boyfriend?” Well, that explained a lot. He’d never have guessed a relationship existed between the two. She never seemed particularly happy to see him. And if she were his girlfriend, how could he have let his employer treat her like chattel? A vile man, indeed. “How dreadful for her.”

“True, but not a security issue.” The bouncer took his leave.

Still and stiff as stone, Ariana stared vacantly at the marble wall.

Slime ball continued posturing and never spared a glance beyond her shoulders.

If Ariana responded to this man at all, her quaking would indicate revulsion. And something else—fear maybe? Bacchus couldn’t see her being moved by the man’s looks alone.

Ariana appeared at the bar and ordered another round of drinks for her section.

Bacchus scooted next to her. “Now, I know you told me you’re okay, and I don’t mean to pester you, but you don’t seem to be enjoying that man’s company.”

She wrung her hands. “No, he’s fine. I’m sorry he’s all over me at work. I’ve told him he can’t do that here, but he doesn’t listen.”

Bacchus placed his hand in the small of her back, but she stiffened, so he pulled it away. “I’m not scolding you, Ariana. I’m concerned.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sabazios. But really, I’m fine.” She chewed at her bottom lip, her brow furrowed.

He opened his mouth to say more, but she turned and walked away with her tray of drinks. As soon as she approached Mr. Desiderio, he rose, shouting, and pointed at Bacchus. She shook her head, tried to talk, but her boyfriend snatched her by the wrist, spilling the entire tray of drinks. The entourage around him broke out in mocking laughter.

Pulling free, she placed a hand to her mouth and hurried toward the back stairwell.

The man stormed after her.

Cliff hurried to intervene, but Bacchus stopped him. “I got this. See housekeeping gets to that spill.”

“Yes, sir.” Bacchus sauntered after the pair.

Shouting resonated into the hallway leading to the back alley. Bacchus opened the door.

The weasel was inches from Ariana’s face, spewing insults at her.

Though every fiber of Bacchus’s being longed to flatten the man, he leaned against the wall, arms folded. The time to act would come.

“You fucking little whore.” Spittle dripped from his lip onto his black Armani suit.

“Please, Dezi, calm down.” She peered up at him, eyes wide, whole body trembling. “I didn’t do anything. Mr. Sabazios didn’t do anything. He was checking on me.”

“You think I’m fucking stupid? I know you fucked him that night on the boat, and don’t give me that bullshit that you didn’t. And I saw him touch you now. I swear, if you’re still fucking that faggot, so help me—” He grabbed her throat.

“Don’t.” She clawed at the hand.

Bacchus grabbed Dezi’s arm. “Why don’t you let her go and throttle me?”

Dezi glanced at him then cocked a fist. “Isn’t that cute, your little maricon boyfriend is here to protect you.”

Bacchus pulled himself up to his full six feet five inches, caught the hand about to crash into Ariana’s cheek, and glowered at the despicable man. “I take exception to the word little. In case you’re too stupid to understand what I meant, I’ll make it simple for you. Let the young lady be and leave my establishment.”

With a vicious shove, Dezi pushed Ariana away and turned on Bacchus. “You sure you want to get mixed up in this?”

“Quite.”

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, pretty boy.”

“Nor do you. I’ve sat at the dinner table with Darkness and dined with demons. I assure you, there’s nothing about you that inspires fear.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You mental or something?”

“Or something.”

The slime ball tried to wrest his hand free of Bacchus’s grasp, but Bacchus held fast. At least The Council had blessed him with a strong, capable mortal body.

Pan appeared in the doorway. “Everything all right, sire—uh sir?”

“This man and his friends were just leaving.” A drop of sweat trickled down his temple.

“Of course, sir.”

The old goat, in full human form, grabbed Dezi by the neck and pushed him toward the door. “Let’s get your friends and walk them out, too.”

Judging from the glazed look on the greasy man’s face, Bacchus could tell Pan had taken control of Dezi’s mind. How Bacchus missed pulling tricks like that on his adversaries. He turned to Ariana, his heart seizing as soon as he set his gaze on her. “Are you all right, love?”

All the blood had drained from Ariana’s face, and she trembled. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Bacchus walked over and took her by the hand. “There’s nothing to worry about now.” He led her into the club and to his office. After he settled her in the black leather sofa, he poured a glass of Sandeman for him and two fingers of rum for her.

“Thanks.” She took the glass and twirled it between trembling hands.

He knelt in front of her. “Drink this. It’ll calm you.”

She took a small sip, then sputtered and coughed. “Strong.”

“It’s one-fifty-one rum. I find it an efficient libation.”

Tears welled up, and her lower lip shook.

“Don’t cry.” Bacchus stroked her hair. “Please don’t cry. As well you know, I’m not very good with crying women. I don’t have much experience with them.”

A halted chuckle shook her chest. “No one’s ever stood up for me like that before. Of course, you’re a dead man now.”

As if. And what if he did die? Hades had always been a friend. It would be good to see him again. “There are worse things than death, love.”

“No, I mean it. He’s part of the Cuban mafia.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, squeezing shut her eyes.

Mafia. A derivative from the Italian adjective mafioso, perhaps, which meant bragging. Hardly worrisome.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Bacchus studied her shifting gaze. “What is a ‘mafia’?”

“Some very bad people. How can you not know that?” She threw her hands in the air then wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her arms as if to warm a chill that could not be warmed.

He brushed a stray curl from her face. He longed to wipe away the small creases around her eyes, the one between her brows. “My apologies. I’m lacking in current events.”

She blanched. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my God.” Her voice rose an octave. “I can’t go home. He’ll be waiting for me.”

“Don’t worry. You can come home with me.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. If this man is so dangerous, you need to be rid of him. Make a clean break.”

“I can’t—I can’t.” Ariana got to her feet and paced.

He stepped in front of her and clasped her hands. Breathing in the calm beneath her storm, he focused on the sweetness of spring, the golden sunshine buried beneath layers of her fear and shame. She could be reborn, reclaim her goodness and pride. It was in there somewhere, he could feel it in his very core. He had to make her see.

“You have to. You’re too good a soul to be trapped by someone like that. You’re coming home with me, and that’s final.”

“And what is it you think you know about my soul?”

Cupping her face in his hands, he met her gaze. “I can see you as a very little girl, with a sunburned nose, missing a front tooth, but you smile anyway. You liked to curl up on your mother’s lap, and she would sing you songs about Cuba. Songs her mother used to sing. The fuzzy dandelions in your front yard were your favorite feature of your new home. That little girl is still inside you, and she tells me you are a good person. Perhaps one who’s made some ill-advised choices, but still good.”

She searched Bacchus’s eyes, mouth parted. “What kind of devil are you?”

“I’m no devil I assure you. Quite the contrary. I only want to help.”

“Why?”

Bacchus shrugged. “It makes me happy to lend you a hand. It reminds me of someone I used to be.”

“I can’t repay you, and I won’t—”

“I’m not looking for payment in any form. I’ll send Pan to get your stuff from your locker and take you to my place.”

“What if Dezi shows up there, too?”

“Then I’ll beat him down like I wanted to a few minutes ago.”

“He has friends—lots of nasty, dangerous friends.”

“I have a few friends of my own. Don’t worry, Ariana. You’re safe with me.” He handed her a tissue.

She huffed, wiping tears and her nose. “You’re really not afraid of him.”

“Not a bit.”

She leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You were very brave. Muy macho.”

Warmth flooded his chest. “Was I?”

“Oh yeah.” She nodded. “Well, except that part about having dinner with demons. That sounded a little fruity.”

“Really?” Maybe she didn’t understand he was being literal. “Because that’s actually true. I have. Nasty sons-a-bitches, that lot.”

Ariana shook her head. “You’re so strange.”

He reached for his glass of port and took a long drink. “You don’t know the half of it.”