Dionysus (Greek God Romance Book 1) (2 page)

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Where’s your scanner?” She put her right hand to her forehead, and looked down, flabbergasted by the situation. The Wizard of Oz played in her head and that iconic saying repeated itself,
“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”
This, in fact, only made things worse. She stood there realizing that not only was she stuck in a bizarre place where nothing bad had happened. . . but also, that she had no home. The road was her home. And the road had deposited her here, in this baffling place.

“Scanner?”

“To read the bar codes.”

He inspected them, turning them over and nodding at each one. “Looks good to me.”

After Rebecca, it was mystifying to Hermes that no one had asked about the scanner prior. He later stole one from a 7-Eleven ten miles from Olympus—the closest convenience store. However, it isn’t plugged into anything and he makes the “beep” sound under his breath.

Rebecca was not going to argue further. If this was how Olympus, in the middle of Illinois operated, who was she to inquire further? She had originally thought a sob story was the key to getting these items and the gas for free; although, a dollar, while it was her last dollar, seemed too good to pass up. And all her worries dissipated as she thought of the amazing deal she was getting. Something many humans are guilty of.

Rebecca decided that now, the sob story would be to get the gas. Her appearance and attire were
sinful
for such an action, sinful because she exuded “fuck me” with a dash of “you must help me, I’m a damsel in distress.” She had long, flowing dark brown hair with exotically bright hazel eyes. Her toned figure was amplified by her ample breasts and derriere, to which, she wore a fitted tank top and jeans combo to enhance. She took a deep breath then sighed and started the conversation with, “I’m going to need some gas too.”

He ran from the desk and was at her car before she could blink an eye. A gust of wind blew past her before she realized that he was outside.

What in the world?

He was pumping the gas as she walked outside and tried to right herself with some deep breaths. In her mind, she looked to soothe herself with reassurance:
This is fine. This is fine. A dollar for everything and I’m out of here. No one’s killed me. No murder chasing me. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Fine.
It did not help. It was not fine.

“Sorry about that. . . I should’ve done that first, right?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“I think I need some rest. . . some cash too.” She said this to the wind, the air, the outdoors—the crazy place she found herself in. She didn’t expect a response.

He smirked. “The bar could use a—uh, waitress. . . bartender?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” she said startled. Figuring there to be no harm in a conversation—what she had been originally looking for along with the snacks—she continued, “I’m supposed to be going to Chicago.”

“Was that all your money?”

Rebecca scoffed. It seemed quite dubious to her with now zero dollars to be questioning how a place is letting her get everything she needs for a dollar. She decided to let it go. She responded with an emphatic, “Yeah. . .”

“Does Chicago cost nothing?”

She sighed, thinking that he was messing with her.

His question, actually, was sincere.

“No. . .” she said, defeat strangling the word.

“Going to need some money then.”

“Yeah. . .”

“Why not stay here for a bit?”

“
Watch it!”

He gave a startled look at the car as the gas spewed out. He took the gas pump and put it back. He said in a natural way, “I think it’s full.” It was a cross between a statement and a question, Rebecca could not decipher which.

In her defense, Hermes could not decipher it himself; he felt like it was full, but also, needed her to reinforce his statement.

He, once again, acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “What’s your name?”

“Rebecca.”

“Pleased to meet you, Rebecca. Nice name.”

“Thanks. Hermes?”

He grinned, pointed at the tag and nodded. “I’m Hermes.”

She ignored another peculiarity. “Like the god?”

His grin broadened. “Yes. . . uh, like the god.” He paused then said, “Yes. . . that’s good.”

“Wait.”
Hermes. . .
She thought about it and conceded that her mind was semi-functional. “This like other towns in Illinois? Cairo—?”

He snorted. “
Egyptians. . .”
Then seeing her face, he hastily recovered, “Oh, yes, well—no not like other towns, per say. No town is like another town, right?”

“I see. You’re weird.” She guffawed—short and sweet. “Or I’m the weird one. I have no idea what’s going on.”

He resumed without commenting, “Where are you from?”

“Tennessee.”

He pondered over this. “Parents?”

“Mom is from Syria. Dad is from South Carolina.”

“Ah—”

“What?”

“You have beautiful olive skin. . . uh, reminds me of the old country.”

She said, “Thank you. . .?” His statement had been without a hint of flirtation or attraction. That, more than anything prior,
really
struck Rebecca as outlandish. She quickly recovered, figuring that was a terrible frame of mind for a pretty girl. “And you?”

“Greece.”

“Your parents?”

His eyes darted from the question and he nodded. “Ah, yes, they are.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ll go to the bar?”

She took a deep breath.
Am I crazy? Am I stupid? Am I overreacting?
These three questions went about her brain, so in the moment, Rebecca thought she was lying, “I’ll check it out.”

“Are you adventurous?”

“Are you a dating site?”

“Eros uses that. Good stuff.”

“Come again?”

“Oh”—his eyes darted again and Rebecca became more suspicious—“nothing. . . Have you felt like you haven’t belonged anywhere you’re whole life?”

“Oddly personal.”

“I’m oddly personable.”

She laughed. “That was your best crack yet.”

He bowed, holding his metal cap. She noticed the little wings on the sides; however, she did not
truly
notice, for that was an irrefutable hint. “Thank you.”

“Honestly—”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care to share such a detail with a gas clerk, er, owner, rather.”

“You sure?”

She ran her tongue across her lips and squinted back. “I don’t know. . . You seem pretty young to have a gas station.”

“People tell me things. You should tell me things. . . and looks deceive.”

“What people?” She opened her arms and made a grand sweeping gesture. There were no cars, no sounds of any kind.

“When people come.”

“Well. . . I have been bouncing around all my life.”

Hermes smiled then gave her directions to the bar.

“Have fun at the bar.” He turned around and walked away leaving the gas cap off and dangling, while a small pool of gasoline remained around the vehicle.

Rebecca put her hands on her hips.
What an odd man.
She watched him, waiting for him to turn his back and say something dumb or flirtatious or partially sane. But he opened the door and walked inside, never turning back.
He didn’t ask for payment. . .
Now,
that
was too peculiar for her not to see the bar, then she could move on.

Hermes waited inside until he saw her car drive away from the corner of his eye. He wiped a thick smudge off the glass staring at the back of her car as it went towards the bar.

He chuckled and said, “Welcome to Olympus.”

EDUCATION THESE DAYS

Rebecca knows bars like stable boys know feces. She is currently on a hate relationship with them. They provide flings with men she does not care for. She recently had an encounter with a swell fella who ended up being the worst sex of her life. Since then, she has been turned off by men and her source of finding them, the bar.

Rebecca was convinced that each mishap, each toad that never became her Prince Charming was part of a conspiracy against her finding a good man—never had she entertained that
fate
could be the hand at play. Fate
,
she felt, was for the mystics—and she’d had quite enough of that growing up.

She arrived at the bar which sported a deluxe parking lot; however, it was soulless, not a car or buggy in site. There were three distinct parking spots with signs: Poseidon. Dionysus. Apollo. On a patch of grass next to the lot, behind the three spots was a sign that said: Hades.

Is that intended to be another parking spot?
Rebecca was reaching a level of perplexity that she had never perceived in her life. And her exhaustion remained, but a nagging voice in her head started to trumpet,
these are not illusions portrayed by exhaustion. All of this. . . is reality.

If these shenanigans didn’t stop, she vowed to perish all thoughts and decency under the iron grip of a drunken stupor. She grabbed her pom poms and cheered for them to disappear, because escaping to another bedroom would mean having to manipulate a man into buying her food and giving her money, which to some extent, made her a prostitute. She felt like a prostitute too many times in her life. She did not care to do it again.

Rebecca entered the bar at the bright hour of 1 PM, with the sun beating down her and the smell of humidity and sweat caressing every corner, streaking its wet balminess over her body. She tested the Ambrosia Bar in her pocket, and somehow, it had not melted. That, out of everything, even beyond Hermes not being attracted to her, was
truly
bewitching to her.

The bar was called The Old Watering Hole.

That name alone made her inclined to join its ranks, even if, it were for a short time, until she could make enough to get to Chicago. Rebecca loved the idea of Chicago with its small town atmosphere, neighborhood pubs and the delightful food festivals that besieged the city—an endless Blitzkrieg that brought high spirits and gluttony. She had neglected the frigid winter that engulfs Chicago, as all foreigners venturing to that particular city seem to do. Everyone outside of the northern states think they understand the winter, until it hits them, slaps them in the face with a frigid, heavy hand. There was a reason that Chicagoans, even living in the city for a lifetime, ranted and raved about the bitterness of winter’s bite, every year, all the years, forever.
Winter is coming.
Or so they say, after Game of Thrones became popular.

A dive bar like The Old Watering Hole was never about the items inside, sometimes these could be nice; for instance, The Old Watering Hole had a sea of marble tables with what Rebecca assumed to be gold-plated chairs. They actually were pure gold—anything on Olympus that appears to be gold is gold.

Dionysus, while begrudgingly bestowing the golden touch to King Midas and thereafter relieving him of the curse, had put thousands of items in front of Midas to touch before he did so. There wasn’t any financial or economical reason to this. Dionysus simply liked gold. This was one of the more rarer cases in Olympus where the story came close to the truth.

The bar stools had intricate carvings on the wooden legs of snakes and women and scantily clad men with erect penises. Penises that were far too big. Had Rebecca taken a closer look, she would’ve seen the non-human ears—horse ears, to be exact.

She closed her eyes and fingered her temples, massaging them in a circular pattern. She opened her eyes and said the first word that came to mind, “Wow.”

The patron to her left spoke and startled her, “What made you say wow?”

“Huh?”

Rebecca could see the side portrait of the man with his gray-beige stubble of a beard and a healthy head of hair that seemed to be the color of sand. He wore a black v-neck t-shirt with white linen pants and Greek sandals. Her eyes went back up, appreciating the ruggedly handsome man.

He repeated, “What made you say wow?”

“Hmmm.” She thought for a moment, peering between the tables and chairs and the bar stools. “I guess it wasn’t until the stools.”

He grinned and raised his finger to the air. “Point.”

The bartender stopped polishing a glass that partially blinded Rebecca from its gleam. He pulled down a chart:

Dionysus: 175,582
 

 
Hestia: 34,583

The bartender waved his hand and the number for Dionysus went up by one.