Eros (Contemporary Mythos Book 4)

The next day, I worked overtime, squaring away all my clients, given I’d be out of the country. I let out a gratifying sigh as I rested the phone headset on its cradle after the last call of the day. I pushed away from my desk, twirling twice in my rolling chair, and danced toward my office door, humming Volaré by Dean Martin.

Continuing my lively performance in the hallway, I belted the lyrics, using my ballpoint pen as a makeshift microphone. Alex’s eyebrows rose so high it wrinkled her forehead.

“You’re in an unusually chipper mood.” Alex leaned back in her chair, tapping the pointy end of scissors on the corner of her keyboard.

“Why wouldn’t I be chipper? I’m about to fly off to Scotland, I’ve got this handsome, amazing guy to go with, and I get to concentrate on finding myself a partner for once instead of matching dozens of other people.” I rose on the balls of my feet and then flopped back to my heels.

“Uh-huh. I still can’t believe you’re going with Graeme and not Eric.” She opened and closed the scissors, scraping metal against metal with each cut in the air.

I sat on the edge of her desk. “Why do you keep bringing up Eric? He isn’t even on the radar.”

She sat forward, flipping the scissors in her hand and pointing the handles in my face. “Are you a doppelganger? Did you switch places with my best friend?”

Delicately placing my hand on the scissors, I lowered them back to the safe space of her desktop. “What are you talking about?”

“Elani. We’ve known each other for a long time. You’re full of shit if you think I believe you never ever want to fall in love.”

An odd sense of butterflies erupted in my stomach.

Love.

The past few days, I’d started to think of the possibilities more—open my heart to the chance of it. Graeme was that chance.

“You’re right.”

Alex blinked.

“I’m even singing Dean Martin songs.”

She pointed the scissor handles at me again. “Ah, yes, but not Frank Sinatra.”

“What does that matter? One member of the Rat Pack is the same as any other.”

“Not for you.” She twirled the handles on one finger like an old western cowboy with a pistol. “You only coo Frank Sinatra when you’re deliriously happy. The last time I heard it was when you had that fling in Scotland with that bagpipe player whose name escapes me.”

I chewed on my thumbnail. “Jamie. I blame my obsession with Outlander. I can’t help that he had the same name too.”

She rested the scissors in front of her. “My point is, I’m not sure you remember how to fall in love with a guy. And I have a hunch that you want Eric to remind you.”

A curious irritation rumbled in my belly, and I shot to my feet. “Would you lay off on this whole Eric thing? I enjoy the banter with him, yes, but banter doesn’t equate to a lasting relationship. Graeme is kind, attentive, sexy—”

Staring at me deadpan, Alex ever so slowly raised her phone as I Want to Know What Love is by Foreigner blared through the small speaker.

I hit the pause button.

“Come on, Lani. Let Eric bring the Frankie out of you. What have you got to lose?”

“Graeme. That’s what. I like him, Alex. I really do.”

At least that’s what my brain told me. On the other hand, it didn’t convince my heart, but my head was always my number one source of information—the “muscle” I used to make the hard decisions and lead me through life. Why would it be wrong about this?

“You know what?” She stood, sending her rolling chair flying behind her and into the back-cubicle wall. “We’re going to do what I always do when I need to clear my head.”

“And what’s that?”

“Follow me.” She brushed past me, marching as if she were a soldier on a mission.

“Ax throwing.” I watched men and women of all ages hurling axes into round wooden targets at the end of each bay.

“Yes. I do this at least once a week. Sometimes more if I’m having an exceptionally shitty week.” She twirled the handle of her ax in her hand.

“How did I not know about this?”

“It’s not like I made an announcement every time I went.”

“Throwing axes and drinking beer sounds like a horrible combination.”

Glass mugs filled to the brim with frothy grainy beverages rested on the table several stalls down from ours, surrounded by a group of younger men sporting crew cuts and polos with the collars popped. Between rounds, they’d take several sips, chat, laugh, and go back to throwing.

“It’s the perfect combination.” She held the handle with two hands above her head and hurled it at the target.

Bullseye.

“Holy hell, Alex. You’re good at this.”

“There are few things in life that both help me relieve stress and make me giddy as a schoolgirl. Ax throwing happens to be one of them.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her usual demeanor—quiet, not smiling, and heavy-lidded gaze. “This is you giddy?”

She frowned at me after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m ecstatic. You can’t tell?”

“Oh, I mean yeah.” I did an exaggerated nod and pointed at her mouth. “I almost see a half-smile. That’s crazy.”

She threw another, getting an additional bullseye. “Your turn.”

Nerves prickled down my spine. “I don’t know. With my track record, I’m more liable to hit the people in the next stall versus making it to the target.”

I’d done it with bowling more times than I wanted to admit. I’d yet to hit someone with the ball, but it also didn’t have sharp edges.

“It’s not as difficult as you’re making it sound. Come on. I’ll show you.”

I took a decent swig of my beer, scrunching my nose at the hoppy taste curling over my tongue.

Alex held an ax out to me with a stiff arm. Begrudgingly, I took it, holding the handle with two fingers like it was a dirty diaper. Alex forced my hand to wrap around it and pulled me in front of her.

“Are we about to have a Ghost moment here?”

She snorted. “You’d be so lucky if I were Patrick Swayze.”

Unlike most women, I’d never seen Dirty Dancing. Even Alex drooled at the very mention, so I didn’t admit it to her. Ever.

“All you’re going to do is hold the handle with both hands, lift over your head, and release.” She pushed on my triceps.

Doing as instructed, I waited for her to back away before launching at the target. The hilt slammed into the side and fell to the ground in a sad slump.

“All I have to do, huh? Doesn’t seem that easy,” I grumbled.

Alex glared at me as she walked past to retrieve my failure. “Stop it, pity party. It was your first throw.”

I traced circles on the back of my neck, thinking about that moment in The Arrow. There was a fleeting moment where Eric looked at me like I’d suddenly become the Ghost of Christmas Past. I’d been too distracted by Graeme to give it much thought until now.

“Try again, E.” Alex twirled the ax and handed it to me.

Closing one eye, I lined up my shot and threw it. It not only didn’t land blade side up but launched into the target sideways.

“Apparently, I was not a warrior in a past life. My ancestors were probably shepherds and cattle farmers.”

Alex retrieved the weapon, tossing it between both palms as she returned. “Who also more than likely knew how to defend themselves.”

I turned for the table of distracting elixir. “How about some beer, aye?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Alex slammed the ax onto the table, making our pitcher of Molson slosh. “And hear me out.”

“Oh, boy. Last time you started a sentence like that, you tried to convince me Ace of Apollo’s Suns was the Apollo.”

“I still stand by that statement.” She stared at me over the rim of her plastic cup as she took a sip. “And this is in the same wheelhouse.”

“Here we go.”

“What if Bartender Eric isn’t really Eric?”

“What? You mean he’s using an alias?”

“Sure.” She poured more beer into her cup. “But beyond that.”

I grabbed the ax. “Please don’t tell me you think he too is a Greek god.”

“Hey. I said to hear me out before you get all skeptical and judgmental.”

I moved to the target with a deep sigh. “You’re right. Talk away.”

“What if Eric is the god of love?”

I snort laughed at her over my shoulder. “Eros? The god of love?”

Alex pressed a hand over her chest. “Be still, my heart. You know something about Greek mythology.”

“I know more than you think.” After tossing a smug grin, I turned back to the target.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Stewart. Anyway, think about it. He has some magical match-making ability, and women fawn over him like he’s oozing with sex and charm.” She rubbed one eyebrow with her pinky. “I even felt a little…tingle.”

Grinding my teeth together, I hurled the ax at the target. The blade landed this time but nowhere near the bullseye. “Or maybe, he’s just an attractive bartender who talks to people every day and therefore knows or thinks he knows how to pair people up.”

“Does your brain get any oxygen?”

I yanked the blade from the packed straw. “What?”

“Your head’s so thick I just wonder how it has any room to breathe.”

“Ha. Ha.” Sauntering back to the table, I dangled the handle of the ax between two fingers. “Besides, if he were the Greek god of love, where are his wings? Hm?”

“Grasping at straws there. You think a god couldn’t, I don’t know?” She flicked her wrist. “Disguise them?”

Absently swinging the ax back and forth, I stared into the distance.

Alex snatched the ax handle. “You’re going to lose a toe.”

The skin under my eyes wrinkled as I searched my best friend’s face. For as long as I knew her, she had claimed Greek mythology was real. I’d always chalked it up to her being devout to her ancestry, but lately, her words held an extra punch. As if I wanted to believe her but couldn’t figure out how. “You’re serious?”

“Have I ever once stuttered or laughed when referencing the gods?”

“You don’t really stutter or laugh when referencing anything.”

She pointed the ax blade at me. “You’re tip-toeing.”

“Fine.” I yanked the ax back. “If Eric suddenly sprouts wings, you’ll be the first I talk to so you can scream to Mount Olympus that you told me so.”

“Deal.”

My shoulders tensed, I turned for the target, hurled the ax, and it slammed into the bullseye with a satisfying crunch.

“You’re really worked up over this, huh?”

I turned to face her, seething. “Away and boil your head.” Brushing past her, I hurried to the table, curling both hands around my cup.

“See? See? You’re going all Scottish on me.”

An unsteadiness gripped my spine, wringing it like a sponge.

Scottish. Scotland.

That was still happening. Very much happening without Dad and very much with Graeme. A part of me wanted to scream, but a larger portion pushed its way through, forcing me to preen over the thought of Graeme’s sultry darkened gaze.

“Dammit, I’m going to miss you. Right when your life was getting interesting.” Alex nudged me in the shoulder, which was the closest she’d ever gotten to hugging me.

“I’ll be back, weirdo.” I nudged her.

“Yeah. By then, Eric the Bartender AKA Eros will have already found someone else to flutter those disgustingly long male lashes at.” Her nudge turned into a light punch.

A peculiar knot settled like hardened concrete in my stomach. “Good. It’ll give him something more constructive to concentrate on instead of my love life.”

“But—”

I held a finger up. “And don’t say it’s his job, Alex, or so help me.”

She slow-blinked.

The digital clock hanging on the back wall read 20:45, and my shoulders slumped. “Come on. You got me for another fifteen minutes before I have to get to bed and rise with the dead at 4:00 AM tomorrow.”

Alex made a gagging gesture.

We spent the remaining dwindling minutes hurling the ax, and I didn’t make another bullseye. I crawled into bed that night with a foggy brain—as if my thoughts weren’t mine, and I was a stranger in my own skin. Maybe a trip to the land of my ancestors was exactly what I needed. And maybe having the first night to myself would help clear the cobwebs.