A/N

...I am a horrible person and should be shot. -sob-

I am so, so sorry for doing this to you people. However, since it IS summer, I've worked out a schedule:

I will update all of my major stories (i.e. this and It Takes Two) on a monthly basis, and the chapters will be LONG.

As for my drabble stories (i.e. Bittersweet Symphony and Fall Into The Sky), I'll probably update twice - three times monthly. Hopefully.

So yeah.

I'm a hopelessly devoted sheep to Mr. Riordan and his books, and I've decided to follow in the safety of the flock and so a "when Sally met Poseidon" story. I am praying that I actually make this a decent work of crap instead of my horrid works of crap that I also write...-sniffle-

Anyway, please feel free to comment on any errors you can find, cannonical, grammatical, algebraical, whatever. Let me know and I'll do my darndest to either explain it or fix it or both. Whatever. It works.

See you at the end of the chap.

- dnrl

Into The Ocean

by: dnrl

Chapter One: Calling You

Her skirt could double as a wide belt.

Her shirt is made of spandex.

Her pants are made of Saran Wrap.

Is that a shirt or a bikini top?

I rested my chin in my hands, my elbows set on the clear glass countertop of the cosmetics display as I watched the parade go by. Long, gloriously tanned legs, flattened stomachs, "screw-me" stilettoes, tiny skirts, overdone makeup, and enough perfume to kill an elephant. Honestly, what were they trying to accomplish?

I watched several men drop what they were holding, two teenage boys spout identical nosebleeds, and watched a few mouths fall open. Well. That answered me, didn't it?

I pushed back an errant, wispy brown curl from my forehead, ignoring the stupid wish in the back of my mind that I could have the glistening golden curls that Mr. Hefner's (1) pack over there possessed. Or their body. Or their ability to look good in anything. I sighed and attempted to drag the thought to the back of my mind, pummel it soundly, and toss it into the box with all of my other useless dreams.

"Excuse me."

I looked up to find a tall man staring down at me. He was ruggedly handsome, a dark goatee curling around his mouth. His Grecian profile glowed in the light; he looked like the pictures in my history book - the ones of Adonis and Apollo and Eros. Incredible, that's the word. He wore khaki shorts and a light, beach-going shirt. His skin was tan, his fingers calloused and strong-looking as they tapped against the glass surface of the counter.

I was suddenly even more aware of my awkward body, still not past adolescant stages even though I was nearly eighteen, and of the unflattering way it was crammed into my stuffy cosmetics uniform. I felt the curl creep back onto my forehead, and I could sense my hair frizzing in its braid behind me.

See, Sally, this is where low self-esteem puts you in life.

"Yes, sir. How may I help you?"

He looked me up and down, almost like an item he was appraising for value. "I'm looking for a gift...a nice present for a woman who caught my eye. Any suggestions? Price is no object."

I bit my lip, thinking, trying to ignore his eyes on me. Green eyes, beautiful green eyes - who had green eyes? People in books, fictional characters, figments of my imagination. Oh, god, if this was another hallucination...

"Well, is she romantic or sensible?"

"She strikes me as a sensible type."

"Alright, then. Something nice, something that would remind her of you, but something that's not a nuisance. Does she use any special brand of make-up?"

"I don't think that she wears make-up, actually," he said, looking sheepish. I blinked.

"...then what on earth are you doing in Cosmetics?" I clapped my hand over my mouth and blushed. He laughed. "I'm so, so sorry! I mean, um, well, maybe you should try, ah, the Sear-Roebuck down the street, um, for a better gift - "

His laughter wound down to quiet chuckles and he beamed at me. "Your honesty is a light in the darkness of deception so common in sales," he told me, his eyes smiling along with his face. He had an amazing smile. "But really. I want something expensive, but not flamboyant, so jewelery and fancy clothes are out."

"Cashmere sweaters are - "

"Not her style," he supplied.

"Then what is her style?"

"I was thinking a nice perfume, perhaps. Any personal favorites?"

I blinked. Sensible, no make-up, unflamboyant. "Yes, actually. I'll be right back," I told him.

A friend of mine, Alice, had worked with me for a while. One day, when business was slow, we had decided "our scents." We'd never be able to afford them, but we chose them anyway, because they reminded us of us. She had chosen one called Heavenly, some kind of concoction that smelled like lilac and lavendar. I had chosen something else - the scent I was going to recommend to the customer.

I brought it out in a small bottle and let him sample it. He smiled softly as he breathed it in. "Yes, I like this. It's...soft. Sweet."

"It's always been a favorite of mine," I told him, smiling at his smile. He shot me an inquisitive glance. "It reminds me of...happier times," I replied evasively. It reminds me of my mother. But some things are better left unsaid, after all.

"I'll take the largest bottle you have."

I blinked. "But sir, this perfume is quite expensive. If you'd like, I could - "

He shook his head. "Money," he said quietly, leaning forward, "is no object."

I nodded, glad I didn't have to speak. I would have stammered, because I had just caught a waft of his scent. He smelled of a seashore breeze - sunshiney and light, salty and sweetness. It was a heady scent, better than any of our perfumes. I scurried to get him the large bottle, rang him up, and gave it to him in a bag.

"I'll wrap it myself," he said, grinning. "I think personal touches are nice with gifts like this."

I saw him about five minutes later, deep in discussion with Christine, my manager. Hopefully he wasn't telling her about my blunder - I really couldn't handle another Christine-lecture at the moment.

After a few more hours of tedious work (a few women from the possee came to view the makeup), I punched out, waved hello to Juliet, my replacement, and made my way back to the apartment I shared with my uncle. My ailing, moaning, endlessly complaining, broke uncle.

I was jostled to and fro on the subway, nearly thrown to the ground on the platform, and splashed with filthy rainwater from two days ago when a couple on a motorcycle sped by the curb. Cursing quietly to myself, I discovered that my key was nowhere to be found, meaning that I would have to ring the doorbell. This meant my uncle would have to get up, which meant that he would feel that I was entitled to an extra day of moaning and groaning. Marvelous.

I left the elevator with baby spit-up down my front and lasagna sauce down my back, smiling and waving the apologies of the guilty parties aside. They really were nice people, and it wasn't their fault that my bad luck was so monumentally horrible that it spilled over onto them.

I blew the wisps of my mousy hair out of my face, raising my hand to knock on the door - when a package sitting neatly beside the door caught my eye. It was about the size of a shoebox, wrapped in intricately worked gold leaf wrapping paper, tied with a gorgeous green-gray bow. On the silver tag were the words, "To Miss Jackson," written in a beautiful handwriting.

I blinked stupidly at the package for a moment before sliding the bow and tag off and gently easing the paper off of the box. It was plain and white, with no markings to indicate the contents. My heart began to pound as I lifted off the lid, and it burst into a full out sprint when I spied the gift.

There, in the middle of the hallway, covered in baby vomit and lasagna, I sat down, the box cradled in my lap. Nestled inside on a bed of plush silk was the large bottle of "my scent" with a slip of paper tied to the top. There was a number written there.

Call me, it said.

After giving my uncle his medication and showering, I sat in the dimly lit kitchen, nursing a bowl of Campbell's soup that night at around seven. The box, paper, bow, and perfume sat across the round table, staring at me. The number lay in one hand - the phone in the other.

"To call or not to call...that is the question." I felt a soft rubbing at my bare feet, and a rumbling ran up my calves. "What do you think, Duke?"

Archduke Franz Ferdinand, an alleycat who had somehow migrated into my apartment, leapt from the floor to the chair to the table, where he proceeded to devour my soup. I frowed at him, but didn't stop him. "Well, you're just maddeningly unhelpful."

He paused to shoot me a disdainful look before returning to massacreing my soup. I watched the vegetables flee from him with mild amusement and some frustration. "I planned to finish that, you know. Oh well."

The little slip of paper with his phone number was hot in my hand, like holding a tiny bonfire. I ran my fingers over the numbers, half-expecting my flesh to sear off of my bones. I'd never had a man give me anything before, much less something of this caliber.

Part of me was whispering that if I called him I was no better than those Saran-wrapped, bikini-wearing girls in the store - a golddigger, a two-bit woman who was only looking for a rich man. Attractive young woman seeks rich elderly companion. Another part told me that every girl wanted attention - here mine was. Was I going to pass it up?

Yet another part (was I schizo?) wondered exactly how he had gotten my number, and if he was just yanking the chain of the Plain Jane at the make-up counter. Wouldn't be the first time I was the butt of the joke. There were so many things, so many insecurities building up in my mind...I was too fat in some places, too skinny in others, too all-around plain for any man (especially him) to look at me like that. My hair was mousy and brown, my eyes a plain hazel-ish sort of color. He was beautiful - nearly perfect. Godlike.

I called him anyway.

"No way."

"Way."

"I don't believe you."

It was one thirty in the morning. I was sitting in our ancient claw-footed bathtub, my toes a newly-painted shade of cheap purple. My left hand curled brown hair around my fingers, while in my right I held the cracked white portable phone. A smile played around the corners of my mouth, and I could hear it in his voice when he talked.

His name was Poseidon - like the sea god in Greek mythology. He said his mom had had a lot to do with mythology. I shrugged it off - stranger things have happened. He loved the ocean, incidentally - wanted to be a marine biologist. He was twenty, he said, two years older than I was. His favorite color was green, his favorite sport was volleyball, and he had two brothers, both younger, and three sisters.

"So wait, what happened to your nephew? The guitarist."

"Oh, him? He wound up chasing after this girl...sad, really. Unrequited love. He got a bit obsessed for a while, but he's gotten better. It's been a few years."

I barely suppressed a yawn, and he caught it. I heard him chuckle.

"That's the fifth one, Sally. You have to rest."

"No kidding," I said. "I have work in..." I glanced at the clock and cursed. "Four hours."

"Four hours?! What the hell are you doing working at five thirty in the morning? The sun himself spits on that time."

"I'm an early-shift lifeguard at this hotel downtown," I told him, carding through my curls.

"...Sally, how many jobs do you have?"

"Um...three?"

"...Okay, yeah. I've gotta get you out of there. Listen - summer's coming up, right? Two days. Why don't you take them off? I'll hire a sitter for your uncle, and we can go somewhere - "

I cut him off, a bit wary. "Look, Poseidon - you're a great guy and all, and I really like you. A lot. But I can't just leave my uncle alone like that - I mean, I dropped out for him. I won't just leave him with a sitter...and..." I took the next part slowly, not wanting to offend. "I don't really know you. I mean, you pretty much stalked me - taking my address from my manager, buying me gifts before you knew my name...for all I know, you could be a mad axe-murderer, and...and I'm totally handling this wrong." I sighed and closed my eyes. "I don't know you. At all. Not even a last name. Maybe...if I could get to know you more...that could work. It would be okay. But until then..."

He paused, and I wondered what was running through his head. Was he going to decided that I wasn't an easy lay - that I wasn't worth it? Then he laughed, and the shadows flew from my mind. "I get you, Sally. I'm sorry - I expected too much too soon. I got a bit carried away, you know? I guess that's what happens when people elope or whatever. Look...you have any plans tomorrow besides work?"

"Um, no. I have off from my other job tomorrow, so once it hits twelve I'm a free woman," I said. "I don't have to be back here until six."

"Great. So, um..." He sounded nervous, and I heard him lick his lips. "Would you mind if we caught some lunch? I could come pick you up..."

I heard the note of hesitancy in his voice, and I smiled. Sunshine was glowing inside of my chest, a warm and soft feeling. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd really like that."

A/N ...

I'm so, so, so sorry.

Here. If you actually read this shit, have a cookie. Have a truckload of cookies, and chocolate, and cake. And coffee, if you want it.

Please review with critique/constructive criticism/questions.

Thanks very much! See you soon!

- dnrl