Rush (Gods #2)(12)

Not really. My dad was hardly ever home to share his love of football with me.

Of course, I don't say that. I don't want to get into the specifics of  that with him. And it's not that I don't like football per se. It's just  that I resent the fact that my dad chose it over his family.

"It's just not my thing."

"So, what is your thing? Painting?" He nods his head in the direction of my easel that's sitting in the corner of the room.

"Oh." I swallow. "No. That's just a … hobby."

I don't know why I lied. I guess … I just don't want to tell him about another thing I've been failing at.

Ares stares at me for a long moment, like he's trying to see what's  really inside my mind. "Hmm," he murmurs. "Well, I guess I'll have to  see what I can do to change your mind about liking football."

"Ha!" I laugh. "Good luck with that."

"That sounds like a challenge, Jailbird. You should know I love a challenge."

Jailbird. Ah, so he's back to calling me that. I guess not everything has changed then.

"So, what do you want to watch?" I ask, changing the question, trying to hide my disappointment.

His eyes assess me. Then, he shrugs those big shoulders of his. "I don't mind. What are you watching at the moment?"

"Riverdale."

"What's it about?"

"A bunch of high school students who-"

"Pass."

"I didn't even get a chance to tell you what it's about!" I laugh.

"You lost me at high school students."

"Okay. So, no shows about schoolkids," I say, scrolling through the  listings. "Oh, have you seen Dexter?" I ask, coming to a stop on it.

"Nope. Is that the show about the serial killer who's a cop?"

"Blood spatter analyst, but yeah. I've not seen it, but I've heard it's  amazing. I've wanted to watch it for a while, but I've been too chicken  to watch it alone," I admit on a laugh.

"Okay, put it on. We'll watch the first episode and see if it's any good."

"You want anything to eat before I put it on?"

"Whatcha got?"

"Chips, um … some cookies, I think. Oh, and ice cream."

He looks at me. "Chips are good."

I push out of my chair and head into the kitchen. I grab the two bags of chips that I have in my cupboard.

"Which do you want?" I ask him, holding them up for him to see. "Cheetos original or Doritos Nacho Cheese?"

"Doritos."

"Good. 'Cause I want the Cheetos."

"I could change my mind."

"Too late." I toss the bag of Doritos to him, and he chuckles.

I sit down in my chair and press play on Dexter.

"How many seasons are there of this?" Ares asks as I open my bag of chips.

"Um … eight, I think."

"Fuck. That's a lot of TV." He laughs.                       
       
           



       

"Don't worry; I'll only make you endure this first episode."

He glances over at me, giving me a steady look. "I'm not worried." His voice is deep and sure.

I try to ignore the shiver I feel and fail miserably.

We don't speak for the whole episode, both too engrossed. When the pilot  ends, we both look at each other, wide-eyed, and Ares tells me to put  on the next episode.

Before I do, I go for a bathroom break and grab us both a couple of sodas on the way back to the living room.

I grab the blanket I have from the back of the chair and cover myself with it before putting on the next episode.

We're on the fourth episode, and I can feel my eyes getting heavy with  sleep when I glance over at Ares and realize that he's asleep.

He's slouched down, head tipped back on the top of my sofa, long legs  sprawled out on the floor. It does not look comfortable at all.

I look at him for a moment. He looks so much younger in sleep. Face  relaxed. Dark lashes shadowing his cheekbones. His hair falling onto his  forehead. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks.

I turn the TV off midway through the episode and push my blanket aside, climbing off my chair.

"Ares?" I say softly.

"Mmhmm?" he mumbles.

"You've fallen asleep."

He makes a sleepy sound. It's actually pretty cute.

"If you're tired … you can stay here, if you want?" I bite my lip.

"'Kay … " he mutters, eyes still closed.

I grab the blanket off my chair, and when I turn back to him, he's  shifted. Head on the arm of the sofa, long legs dangling off the other  end, and he's already snoring lightly.

I smile and then cover him with my blanket.

I make sure the front door is locked and put the chain on. I flick the  light off and then head into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I'm done, I get changed into my pajamas and then climb into my bed,  content in the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, I'm  not alone.





I wake to the sound of someone inside my apartment, and my heart stills.

Shit.

Then, I remember that Ares crashed on the sofa last night, and I relax.

I reach over to my phone and check the time. Half past six.

A smile tugs at my lips. I slept right through the night.

I haven't done that since before I was sober.

I guess having Ares in my apartment helped.

I clamber out of bed to go see him. I open my bedroom door and step into my little hall, and Ares is there.

Inside my hallway closet, which is filled with my paintings.

And he's looking at them.

"I was looking for the bathroom," he says, glancing back over his shoulder at me.

And he doesn't look guilty at being caught.

Asshat.

His clothes are wrinkled from sleep. His hair is all mussed up. His eyes  are bright. And I would be thinking about how handsome he looks right  now if I hadn't just caught him snooping through my paintings.

"I thought it was just a hobby?" he says.

"I thought it was none of your business," I throw back at him.

He laughs a deep, rumbling sound that affects me in a way I don't want to examine right now.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to snoop through people's  things?" I place my hand on my hip, and my oversize bed tee slips off my  shoulder.

He turns, holding one of my paintings in his hand, and I see his eyes go  to the bare skin there. Scorching hot, they trail over my chest, and  then they move up to my face.

A burst of heat explodes inside me, like he's just lit me.

"Technically, it wasn't snooping. It was an accidental discovery," he says.

His jaw is tight, but I'm getting the impression he's not angry. Well, he might not be, but I am.

"Oh, well, that's all right then." I fold my arms over my chest. And then I remember I'm not wearing a bra.

Christ on a cracker.

I close my eyes on a groan.

He chuckles a dark sound. "Don't worry, Jailbird; it's nothing I haven't seen before."

My eyes flash open, accusing.

"Locker room. Your bra didn't exactly cover all the goods."

He slowly runs his eyes down to my chest and then back up, and I can see the memory of that moment in his eyes.

He looked at me like he wanted me back then. Before he knew who I was.

The crazy thing is … he's looking at me in the exact same way right now.

And I'm dying. From a blazing inferno of embarrassment and something that has my thighs clenching and my nipples pebbling.

I tighten my arms over my chest.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"And you are where you're not wanted."

I go to grab the painting out of his hand, but he's faster, and he holds  it out of my reach. Then, I remember … nipples, and I clamp my arms back  over my chest.                       
       
           



       

He's holding the painting I did of a ballerina a year ago. A teenage  girl, facing away, a tutu on and her ballet slippers hanging over her  shoulder, and on her feet are a pair of pink Dr. Martens.

I got the inspiration when I saw a teenage girl entering a ballet  studio, close to the gallery I used to work at. She was all dressed up  in her ballet garb, hair up in a bun, her ballet shoes hanging over her  shoulder with bright pink Dr. Martens on her feet.

I thought she looked amazing. Perfectly made up with a hint of the rebel inside of her only visible on her feet.

I went home and worked through the night on that painting. It took me  two days. And then I went out and bought myself a pair of pink Dr.  Martens. Later that night, I wore them when I went out to a bar with  Kyle where I got totally trashed, and he puked on one of my new boots.

We had a fight about it. Then, Kyle took off, leaving me in the middle of a street alone.

I had to walk home, as there were no cabs to be seen. And I scrubbed my boot clean when I got home.

He turned up the next day with flowers, a bottle of wine, and a lame-ass apology. And I forgave him.

"Why did you tell me it was just a hobby?" Ares says. "It's clearly so much more than just that."

"Again, none of your business."

"Did you study art?"