Till death do us part
(c) 2023 by ihatemilk
_April 2015
By the end of the year he could say that the damn 2014 took its turn for the better, after all.
From the perspective of all the eons of his immortal existence, a year was nothing more than a grain in the sand on the miles-long beach, but it was different when she was around — time seemed to pass slower, and he would catch himself measuring it the way mortals did.
He would still grimace with a loud exhale whenever he thought back to their last encounter; he hadn't seen her since then, since the damn Delegate Lounge, since the time Julia barged in and fucked up the moment of what was the most intimate they'd ever been. For a moment there, he really had thought they were going to kill one another. But they were pissed off, both of them; Julia called him up eventually, a week later; she, on the other hand, never did.
Despite his better instincts, he did check on her from time to time, to make sure she was fine; it always calmed him to see that she was. He never saw her with the blonde again. But she stayed in New York. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn't long to go to her, but most of the time he was content just seeing that she was alright.
In December he decided to stop. Stop checking on her and fooling himself he only did it to see if she was fine. He would never move on if this went on. And it was high time he did. He had a beautiful woman in his bed, a beautiful fiery woman that worshiped him with all of herself, and wanted nothing in return, apart from being ravaged for hours. And she was fun to be around, didn't question his morals, and wanted nothing from him; when he was with her, he could breathe. And when he wasn't, she didn't bother him, letting him forget about her existence for as long as he needed. It was perfect. Apart from the fact that she wasn't her. She would never be.
Yemen, that was what he needed to focus on. That would keep him away from her, and he anyway needed to pick up where he left after last June, and push things forward.
The objective was reached in the long run - with significant under-the-table support of the Persians, as predicted, the Houthis seized the city of Sana'a, making the anti-Persian, Saudi-led coalition of the local states grow stronger as planned. He did like to observe his strategies successfully unfold over the extended periods of time. Oh, he was hot-tempered, but there was nothing like a good taste of a long-seasoned, torturously delayed gratification.
April of 2015 was a great time to take things further. The Houthis needed to take another big city to keep their status, and he needed to see to it that it was Aden, the city located at the very south of the country.
He rarely did just one thing at a time, and now was no exception — supporting the revolutionaries in both Sana'a and Aden was only one of the things on his plate at the moment. One of many others was dealing with the UN and making sure they didn't set him back in his mission objectives. As much as the UN would usually do a good job cleaning up after him, they sometimes did more than that, like coming up with their fucked up little initiatives resulting in some fucked up agreements that would in turn fuck up what he'd been working on for months, not to mention it would more often than not put the said region into a global spotlight — which was always a nuisance. That's why, in addition to the military side, he always made sure to do parallel damage control by keeping tabs on relevant UN branches. He did cut them some slack last year in Sana'a, as a result of how much time off work he ended up taking because of the whole mess with Xena, but now - he was here in Aden full-time, hands-on, back on track, and he would fuck the whole female staff of the Security Council, Secretary-General's office, the damn pesky Office of the Special Envoy and even the Aden UN base, down to every single one of them, if that was what it was going to take to stop them from thwarting a 2 years-worth of effort that he had put into this campaign.
It was with that exact thought on his mind that he walked into the UN office in Aden on a hot April morning of 2015 and froze dead in his tracks, because the first person he jumped right into was the one UN employee than he forgot to include in the list, and who was in fact the number one UN employee that he wanted to fuck. The only one he wanted to fuck, the only one he wanted; the one he wanted to fuck for the rest of his life.
And she just stood there, in her skin-tight black pants, making even a bullet-proof Kevlar vest look indecent; she stood there and sneered at him.
"Ares… I would ask what you're doing here if I didn't know it's fucking up everything I work on," she narrowed her eyes at him. He had to bite the inside of his cheek not to grin, not to show what seeing her did to him.
"Right back at you, baby… If you're free for lunch, I can give you an hour-long PowerPoint presentation on how exactly that little organization of yours contributes to destabilizing the region," he flashed the most seductive smile he could muster, reveling in how he got to her, how her their banter always got his juices flowing. Gods, how he missed her.
"Let me take a raincheck on that," she smiled that cute little vicious smile of hers and stepped forward to pass him by, but he grabbed her by the waist; his hands slid up her sides and he tightened his grip, locking his gaze on hers, loving the way she froze, the way her eyes fluttered and her chest rose and fell hurriedly. Her heartbeat was palpable against the skin on his palms, pretty much matching his own. But what he loved most of all was how she let him do all that and never stopped him any step of the way - because she could've as well had him sprawled on the ground before he had time to lay hands on her. But there she was, melting into his touch, making him thankful for his tight-fitting pants.
He leaned in until his lips found her ear. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he whispered, relishing the way she shivered. "I'll take you…right now… to lunch… and you will listen to what I have to say," he nuzzled the hair above her ear, gripping her tighter as she squirmed, and by the gods, the way she felt made his blood boil and his brain about to explode, but the truth was — he actually did need to talk to her, because it was bad that she turned out to be in Aden right now, in the wake of the mess that was about to unfold.
"Let's go, I don't wanna be seen with you," she said. Adorable, how she tried to keep her voice even.
"Ouch, that hurt," he grinned, seeing her suppress a smile of her own.
"Go…!" she prompted, grabbing his elbow, and even this simple touch forced his eyes shut. He needed to have her or he would go insane.
"Hold on tight," he ordered, wrapping her arms around his waist, securing her back with his hand.
Seconds later they materialized in a dimly lit hall with a huge crystal chandelier and four sets of elevators.
They were looking at their reflections in one of the wall mirrors when he snapped his fingers to make her vest disappear. She was now wearing just the sand-colored longsleeve that hugged her chest the way that put his willpower to another test.
"You'll get it back in Yemen. Dubai dress code doesn't really say Kevlar, you know," he grinned, stepping closer and brushing off the invisible particle from her shoulder. "Though, I gotta give you this," he leaned in to whisper into her ear, "No one wears Kevlar like you do."
She drew in a breath sharply, which made her chest rise and brush against his, her scent filling his nostrils, making him high, making him clench his jaws to control himself. She moved away just in time, giving him a better view of her blushed cheeks, lips turning red, swollen; she was a cat in heat, making him want to rip those pants off her and taste how sweaty and juicy he knew she was by now.
"Where are we?"
"Sheik Rashid Road," he answered matter-of-factly, grinning as she rolled her eyes just as he expected. "Raffles Dubai," he added. "It's a hotel - nothing overly fancy, but there's a restaurant I like."
"Why, do they serve ambrosia?" she asked as they entered the place, making him chuckle.
"You know, ever since human food has evolved so significantly — comparing to the shit it used to be two thousand years ago — I started to appreciate it."
"Like what, for instance?" she asked, her brows furrowed in bewilderment.
"Like, I don't know, Mexican is my recent favorite I think," he said, making her shake with suppressed laughter. "What…?" he asked with mock-hurt.
"Tex-Mex?"
"Oh, that too. Love them steaks and ribs, baby, how did you know?" he said, watching her smile again. He loved to see her smile like that.
"It suits you," she replied lightly, looking so relaxed that it made him forget why he even brought her here in the first place. For a moment it almost felt like they were on holiday.
He wondered what it would be like to be on actual holiday with her, to have her so chilled out and just hang out with her. They would probably just drink and fuck 24/7.
He should take her on holiday.
But for now, they needed to get back to harsh reality, and the worst part was — he knew that she was going to not only not be thankful for giving her a heads up about what was about to transpire in Aden, but she was going to be damn pissed off at him for the whole ordeal, and he was going to get an earful — and that he wasn't looking forward to. He wasn't in the mood to argue with her. And it pissed him off when she would butt in and condemn him for just doing his damn job. He didn't choose his mantle, he was born with it, what fucking part of that did she not understand?
"Let's move to the smoking area," she got up, gesturing to the outside terrace. He followed her outside, grabbing an ashtray from the bar before joining her at the terrace table, grinning at how she ordered him about without putting things up for discussion; gods, he fucking loved her.
Sprawling on his chair and reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a packet of Marlboro Reds 100' almost simultaneously with her. Offering his packet to her, he waited, as she hesitated before accepting the gesture, as she then took one out, and put it in her mouth, waiting for him to lean in and light it for her, and how she then took a deep first hit, closing her eyes before letting out a cloud of smoke through pursed lips; and he just watched. There was only one image he could think of that could rival the beauty of this view — if she did that in his bed, nude, with him eating her out.
"What did you wanna talk about?" she asked, brutally snapping him out of his thoughts.
He stood up and walked over to the wooden railing. It was thick, made of some exotic wood, warm shade of light brown, pleasantly rough to the touch; would look good in his Dubai place. He rested his forearms on it for support, closed his eyes. For whatever reason, the warm-balustraded terrace changed to the one of North Delegate's Lounge, with its cold, metal railings, its dark, rainy, New-York gloominess. What a damn sad place it was, that city.
"What are you thinking?" Her voice reached his ears from very close, her elbow brushing against his; and he was back. Back in his city, with her warm, comforting proximity by his side. And neither Julia nor anyone else was going to crash this moment.
It was all his to crash, with what he was about to say to her.
But maybe not just yet.
"I was thinking how fucking sad New York is."
"Well, it surely can't compete with this," she said, consuming the panorama so intently that he couldn't help a smile.
"Been here before?"
"Five hours at the airport."
"So, it's your real first time now."
"Mm."
"I'm glad your first time's with me." Ignoring the accidental innuendo, he was genuinely happy to be the one to show her his city. He turned to look at her; her lips parted slightly right then, as if under his gaze.
He could zap everyone and just take her right there, against the railing, just like her whole body was begging him to ever since they came here.
"Is that why you brought me here?"
"Hey, it's you who didn't wanna be seen with me, remember?"
They went on like this, with their humorous verbal sparring, for another minute or two. This was as close as they could get to healthy communication for now, but relaxed, playful banter — instead of their usual hostile dueling — was progress, nonetheless. And, apart from the sexual tension, she was so relaxed around him. Remembering that he actually brought her here to talk business was starting to hurt.
"Ares, say what you gotta say or I'll be forced to think that you just tricked me into taking me out on a date."
He took a sip of his scotch, eying her with amusement. "What if I did?"
"Don't you already have a girlfriend?"
"And what's it to you? You weren't interested, so the vacancy got taken," he said casually, keeping all the satisfaction and venom out of his voice, watching her intently.
Gods, she was pissed off, delightfully so; and so close he could feed on the waves of rage rolling off her.
"Good for you. So, what did you wanna talk about?"
"You shouldn't be jealous, Xena."
"I'm not—"
"It wouldn't be fair for you to be jealous, you know?"
"Ares, I'm not interested in your personal life."
"That's not what your eyes say..." he turned to face her, drinking in the narrow-eyed glare full of hurt she probably thought she masked so well. It was time to twist the blade some more. "That's not what your eyes said back in New York, either," he closed the distance between them, thinking back to their kiss on the rainy terrace, the short moment that ruined his life for weeks.
He almost choked when she kneed him in the groin.
"And what does this say, huh?"
He grinned, the pain radiating all over his pelvis. Was she really that clueless? He clutched her waist so rapidly she let out a gasp.
"I think it says way more than you wanted to share, my dear." Her breath was getting shorter with each passing second. "I think it says you're so crazy about me you can't control yourself," he tightened his grip on her waist, breathless as she was.
"In your dreams..."
"Oh, you have no idea what we do in my dreams..." he leaned in against her ear, though, judging by how her heart was racing, she had a pretty good idea, and he was sure they shared a lot of those. He could feel the heat radiating from her pelvic area, and gods, how he ached to taste it.
"I hope your girlfriend shares your enthusiasm."
"You know, you sure do talk a lot about her for someone uninterested in my personal life."
"Can't help feeling sorry for her."
Damn, she was good. Well, at least she turned the conversation into a less pleasant direction for him.
"Leave Aden."
"What?"
"At least for two weeks."
A smirk; a bitter, contemptuous smirk, one of many that were about to follow; an integral part of her communication with him. "Why, because your little Persian terrorists are about to destroy another city with airstrikes?"
"Just do it."
She tightened her lips, as if in an unconscious preview of how much more unpleasant the conversation was going to get. "Wanna spare me the sight of how you make more civilians homeless and dead? How thoughtful of you."
"Just fucking do it, alright?"
"I don't take orders from scum like you."
And here they were, back at each other's throats. He took a long deep breath; knowing how to handle emotions in conflict was one thing, but controlling them was a whole different story and therapy didn't fix that for him.
"Just for two weeks. I'll take you to New York, then I'll bring you back here."
She didn't answer right away; took a breath, exhaled; anyone else would think she was actually considering his offer. Well, he knew her well enough to know that the only thing she was considering at the moment was how to tell him to fuck off in a way that would actually get him to fuck off.
"Ares, this is my job. Now I don't tell you how to do yours—"
"Oh, that's right, you never do — you just make a monster of me for doing it."
She closed her eyes, frowning. "Let's just not," she uttered, her tone softening, surprising. Well, he didn't want to argue either; he'd been long fed up with their antagonistic tendencies, especially since he realized how pointlessly destructive they were for both of them.
"You okay?"
"Just a headache," she rubbed her temples.
"Come on, let's sit down."
"I'm fine."
Of course she was.
"Be right back," he touched her elbow, leaving her propped against the railing.
When he returned, she was back at their table, where he now placed a round, red pill and a glass of water.
"For the headache."
Raising her eyes, she gave him a look that made any words redundant. How did she do it? Stir him inside like that with just her eyes?
"Thank you..."
He bit the inside of his cheek. Why the fuck did he feel so embarrassed? He just brought her a pill for the headache, it's not like he gave up his godhood to save her life — but she stared at him almost the way she did at Olympus back then.
Did she really see him as such a monster that a simple gesture like that deserved such disbelief?
"Hey, if I give you a headache, it's just plain good manners that I fix it."
When she smiled like that, it made him forget what he wanted to say.
"It's not you, it's migraine — a pain-in-the-ass of a headache I get from time to time."
"Why?"
"Too much coffee, smoking, lack of sleep, weather changes, and a bunch of other stuff that would take hours to list. If you remember what a hangover headache feels like..."
"Oh, trust me, two thousand years wasn't enough to forget it."
"... then a strong migraine is about ten times worse."
"Seriously, I don't know how you mortals made it not to go extinct for so long."
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because we're just more resilient than you are?"
"Xena, I know you take being resilient to another level and I love it about you, but you need to get out of Aden for now, trust me."
"Ares—"
"You know I wouldn't insist if it wasn't serious."
"I know..." she paused for a long exhale, "...but that's even more of a reason for me to stay. It's what I came here to do."
"Oh, for fuck's sake — you won't give up, will you?"
"Why do you care so much?" she shot out with a question that left him at a momentary loss of words.
Why did he care? Why would she even ask that? She knew the answer. Was she trying to elicit a confession from him? For what purpose? She wasn't in for the ride, so she wasn't getting the preview either.
And she held his gaze with those bottomless pools of blue, fucking with his self-control as only she could.
If he said that out loud, he'd be vulnerable, hung up on her again; it would make him hope that saying it could change things, but it wouldn't change shit, it would just send him spiraling down to places he didn't want to remember; and that he couldn't afford. Not after all the years of what his obsession with her did to him, not after all the effort he'd invested in trying to stay sane despite it.
He smirked. "What do you want me to say?"
"What do you really want from me, Ares?"
He hesitated, struggling to break the spell she had him under, but for fuck's sake, he didn't want to; why couldn't he just fucking say it, why did their every encounter had to be like a damn game of chess? What if he just said it? What did he have to lose, anyway?
"Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I want things to be clear between us. I'm tired of having to double-question your motifs and read into your agenda every time."
"Why does there always have to be an agenda?"
"You tell me. You made quite a habit of it, don't you think?"
"Of being a strategist? Well, yes, Xena — that's what I do."
"Ares... whatever you wanna call it — you know that's never worked with me, and never will. I'm not joining you—"
"Will you just—"
"Ares — the answer is no."
"The answer to what?" he stepped closer. "Why are you being so defensive?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, outlining it with his middle finger.
She closed her eyes in response to his touch. "Just looking out for myself."
"Why, am I not doing a good enough job at it?"
"Well, you are getting somewhat overprotective, that's true," she said with a half-grin, her eyes still closed. He bit down a smile of his own.
When she didn't tense up at his touch, her face so relaxed, so soft when she leaned into his palm — gods, how could a simple touch feel this way?
Brushing her cheek with his thumb, he closed his eyes before he spoke. "What're you scared of?"
Of course, she wasn't going to be honest with him; she was going to come up with some bullshit answer, shield herself with denial.
She said exactly nothing.
"You're afraid you'll like it, ain't you?" he leaned in to nuzzle her hair, above her ear, "You're afraid you'll love it," he pressed his lips against the top of her earlobe, seizing her waist, relishing how he stirred her, the delicious volumes her body spoke to him in response.
And of all the moments since they came here, the fucking phone had to ring right now. Her mobile. She fished it out of her pants pocket and pressed it to her ear, breaking out of his embrace, her eyes never leaving his, her hand on his chest. As good as it felt, he grabbed it and locked it between his palms; she didn't need to know what his body had to say in the matter. She knew too much, anyway.
She tucked her phone back into her pocket.
"I'll take you back," he put a hand on her hip.
"I still have another hour," she pulled the phone back out, glancing at the screen. "Wait here, be right back."
Lighting up another cigarette, he watched her disappearing silhouette, wondering how come a mortal could order a God of War around like that. And why the fuck he loved it that much.
One cigarette, that was how long she was gone. That was how long it took her to book a room she decided to fuck him in. She was fucking unbelievable.
He didn't even need to pinch himself — he almost smashed the elevator mirror with the back of his head when she threw him against it. Gods, she was all over him, raw, in heat, pushing the buttons that made him burn, made him kiss her till she bled; he only noticed in the elevator mirror on their way out, on floor 6, and it was the last coherent thought he managed before he slammed the door behind them.
She didn't let him take his time; she didn't want that. She wanted to leave the room bruised and breathless. Like she did last June in that rotten basement. Like she wanted him to fuck the life out of her; and she pushed too many buttons for him not to.
Still warm and shaken, she sneaked out of his arms and walked over to the window. Lighting up a cigarette, she stood there, her nude silhouette outlined by the sharp sunlight breaking into the room through a pathway between the partly closed, heavy, dark red draperies. He wanted to grab a smoke himself but didn't move, in fear of disturbing the extraterrestrial scene in front of him.
Eventually, the need to experience it from up close won; he climbed out of bed and joined her by the window. Contrary to his expectations, she melted into his embrace straight away, as if she was waiting for it.
Burying his face in her hair, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, because gods, it felt like he was breathing life back into him. He could feel her heartbeat reverberate throughout her body, thudding against chest, and wondered how a mortal — a creature so feeble and short-lived, so insignificant as an individual — how could she make him feel so eternal, and so complete, like she filled some huge hole in his existence that had never been there before.
Tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, he pushed the rest of the hair aside to bare her neck. Softly, he brushed his finger against the red bite-mark, making her shiver. Her skin was damp and he couldn't help himself — leaning in to brush his nose again the side of her neck, he ran his tongue from her shoulder up to her ear, tasting the salty flavor that made him wanna lick the rest of her body clean. The animal-like caress and her throaty moan made his own body respond in an instant.
This time she was calm when he took her, almost submissive, letting him have her the way he wanted, without rushing; and he loved her wild side but this — it drove him crazy in a whole different way. Her body melted into his chest, she reached back, running her hand through his hair softly, lazily, in a way she never touched him before, in a way that, sooner or later, he was going to wish she never did. But not now. Now, he let his eyelids shut under the light touch that felt so healing, and threatened to make him fall apart at the same time.
"I love... I love fucking you like this," he whispered into her hair, and she purred in response, offering him the cigarette she was smoking. He sucked on it greedily, and closed his eyes, lightheaded both from the sharp inhale and the gesture itself.
"From behind?"
"Not rushing... Taking my time with you..."
"I would've never pictured you like that."
"Are you complaining?"
"Gods, no," she panted. "It's not very you, that's all…"
She didn't say it in a derogatory manner, but it stung. She was right, it wasn't like him at all. He kissed her earlobe before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, grabbing her throat with his one hand and her hip with the other, letting the anger overcome him. She wanted to be fucked, very well, he was going to make her remember this for a long time.
Still gasping and shaking, he placed his hand on the windowsill for support, holding her with the other, the thrill of filling her with his seed quickly fading when he realized she had to be on the pill to let him do it.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, the unpleasant feeling settling in his chest.
"Ares..."
It didn't help to hear her whisper his name like that, in a way that — fuck, this was worse than he anticipated. Instead of returning to normal, his breath was now shorter, getting stuck in his throat.
"You asked me what I wanted from you..."
"Ares, I can't... I can't do it now, I gotta go back." She turned around, putting hands on his chest, running her fingers over his chest hair, so softly it angered him, how she was so damn casual about it, like it was just a random fuck that meant nothing, like she didn't just — like they didn't just — gods, he had to look away.
He moved, turned away not to look at her, not to see the sickening, apologetic look in her eyes, not to let her see the pathetic state he was in. Just be a man about it, for fuck's sake. Didn't he fantasize about it for eons, about her using him for her release? What the fuck was his problem, seriously?
Keeping himself busy staring at the half-open half-empty packet of smokes in his hand, he finally put one in his mouth and lit it up with the matches he found on the sideboard opposite the bed. The little navy blue paper box read "Raffles Dubai"; he toyed with it for a while. Putting it back on the sideboard, he briefly caught his reflection in the huge golden-framed mirror above. Clenching his jaw, he snapped his clothes back on.
"Watch out for yourself," he forced himself to say. It came out with the exact amount of flat indifference he aimed at.
It failed to keep her away.
"I thought I had you for that," she said softly; he could hear a hint of smile around the corner of her lips.
"I won't keep you alive against your will."
He forced his eyes shut not to see their reflection in the mirror; it was bad enough to feel the sweaty heat of her against his back, feel her hands on his chest.
"Why do you insist on risking your life like that, for complete strangers? By the gods, Xena, why — why the fuck do you need to do this…?" he asked, pointlessly; they both knew the answer to that.
"It's what I do."
"Yeah, I've noticed," he said, smirking at the reference to the damn scorpion-and-swan anecdote that he once used to justify his transgressions, which now came back to bite him on the ass. It sucked to be on the receiving end of it. And he didn't spend all those months learning how to handle her — just for them to be back to scorpion and swan, for fuck's sake.
He didn't want them to be scorpion and swan anymore. But it never mattered what he wanted. Not to her, it didn't.
"Xena, why do we have to do this to each other?"
"Do what?" she asked, not waiting for an answer. "Ares, it's not about you and me. It's about what's right and wrong."
He smirked helplessly, shaking his head. "If your notion of right makes you value lived of strangers more than your own, we really have nothing to talk about..."
"I just don't put my life above others, like you do."
Fuck yes he put her life above others, he would give up his own for her! But here they were again, her and her martyr principles. Oh yeah, he forgot that her life wasn't worth living if it wasn't about risking it for random bunches of nameless mortals. Even if it killed people she mattered to — she even did it to Gabrielle in Japan, for fuck's sake! To Gabrielle! And he meant nothing to her compared to Gabrielle.
What the fuck was he even doing here, really? He came here to warn her she would die if she stayed in Aden, and what did she do? Blamed him for it, told him to fuck off, and then dragged him here to get some dick before carrying on with her suicidal mission — and he let her, like a fucking dog, like a — gods, so that was why she slept with him... not because she was starting to trust him, not because she wanted to give them a chance, but just because she had nothing to lose...
The painful thought rattled around his head like a growing headache.
"I'm sorry," she whispered softly, finding his hand, squeezing it lightly.
He was about to be sick.
She put a hand on his cheek, giving it a gentle stroke, but the only thing that soothed him at the moment was envisioning locking his hands around her neck until she couldn't speak another word. He clutched her hand and jerked it away from his face, her touch burning him.
It would be wise to go while he still had it together.
"I'll take you back," he heard himself say, grabbing her arm mechanically.
Seconds later they were in Aden, outside the UN base where he'd run into her just an hour ago; it felt like days ago, or another lifetime.
He couldn't look at her, couldn't stand to be there anymore. He needed to go home, and take a break; from her, from this fucking war, from his damn job that was always going to keep them apart, was always going to make her resent him; from all of this. He needed a break. He should go see Julia. He should only see Julia; he should go and fuck her senseless, and keep fucking her until all of this went away.
"Ares—"
But he didn't hear the rest. Whatever she had to say to him, at this point he didn't give a fuck.
#
April 2015
She always stayed in Khalidiya Palace.
And in Khalidiya Palace she always booked room 907.
She loved the view; the off-white mosque separated from the deep teal of the water with just a row of palm trees and a two-lane serpent of perfectly gray asphalt. It wasn't anything that special, but it soothed her with how oddly familiar it felt, like one of those places or books or songs you come across for the first time and it feels like you've known them for ages.
She loved Abu-Dhabi.
While it was Dubai that was getting all the attention, like a flashy younger sister — "red heels no knickers", as her assistant Bill would say in mock-posh London accent — she remained faithful to her Emirate and loved coming back here. Usually, it was business. This time it wasn't. This time she needed a break. From New York, from how she practically moved there from London for good over the last few months; from the realization that she did so just to be more available to the man she tried so hard not to fall for; from how her stomach tightened every time she hoped for him to spend the night and he didn't. He never spent the night. With the blue-eyed brunette he would, he surely did, of that she was certain, and it made her stomach tighten yet more, and from that she needed a break, too.
And here she was, on a beautiful April afternoon, in her second week of detox, when he fucked it all up with one phone call. What were the odds for him being in Dubai right now, just an hour away?
And here she was, half-conscious, answering the phone call from Bill, the third one today, the first one with her hands shaking, clutching the mobile with both hands as she stood by the window trying to focus, trying not to think that the reason for her wild heartbeat was still nude, shamelessly spread among the disheveled bedding just steps behind her back.
The sky was a beautifully clear shade of blue, the sun ready to set, basking her legs in the orange glow. She liked her legs, her subtly carved knees with small bruises; she felt like a teen when she looked at them.
"Yes, Bill — with the ambassador himself, at the venue, yes... I know the embassy closes for the holiday — Bill, just get the ball rolling and get back to me with results. Not for another week — I'm offline. And book Abu-Dhabi — JFK for the 25th. Just me. Yes," she paused for a deep breath. "Bill — if I ever decide to travel economy, I'll notify you officially beforehand, via email, traditional post and I'll even fax it to you, how's that?"
Bill was way more proficient in the bedroom than in the office, but he had traits she considered sufficient compensation — he was trustworthy and loyal. And well-endowed. Not as generously as the huge, dark-haired man in her bed, but it wouldn't be fair to compared anyone to the latter.
She held her breath, allowing herself a brief glance over her shoulder, at the previously huge bed that suddenly seemed small with his large body sprawled all over it, like ancient Greeks or Romans at a feast, with just grapes and a wine goblet missing; the setting sun giving his tan skin a godlike golden glow, outlining the chunky chest, the chiseled torso covered with just the perfect amount of dark hair so unbelievably soft to the touch that she had to clench her fists not to — transfer to the airport. Would Bill remember to book her a cab? Did he know where she was staying? She always stayed in Khalidiya but this time she'd booked the stay herself — he might miss it.
A low, throaty chuckle made her stop from tapping the green receiver.
"You have an English secretary named Bill..."
"And...?" she closed her eyes, forcing herself not to turn back.
"As ridiculous as it is — it suits you."
She smiled, stepping closer to the window.
"Bill's my personal assistant," she paused for effect. "Very personal."
"Sounds like efficient use of staff potential," she could hear him grin behind her back. "Forgive the pun."
"I like to get my money's worth," she said, skillfully hiding the disappointment with how the image of her with another man didn't stir him in the slightest. And it didn't. She would know if it did. Just like every child from a dysfunctional family, she was too good of an emotion reader not to see through how people tried to keep her in the dark about their true feelings. And at the moment he wasn't hiding anything; plainly, painfully obviously not jealous at all.
"I get that. I like a job well-done myself," he said, his voice dropping to a throaty frequency. She gasped, feeling him behind her back. "But I think you know that by now..." he spun her around and pierced her with a glare that brought her to her knees in a way that just months ago would be unthinkable; she still couldn't believe the way she acted around him. But she couldn't fight it. She didn't want to. He made her feel like a woman, and she loved that new feeling too much. Almost as much as the fact that she couldn't fit him in her mouth, that he was so strong that he lifted her with one hand, so bulky he could break her ribs if he wasn't careful. It took all her agency away, drunk or sober, every time.
She briefly thought about Bill, and about how what she'd considered great sex with him now seemed just mediocre, and wondered whether it also felt different because she didn't have feelings for Bill.
Feelings; maybe it was too big of a word for it. It wasn't that she loved him. He excited her with all that he was, stimulated her every fiber in a way no one ever had. Maybe she did think about him too much, occasionally; but it was only natural to get attached to a person you see so often. She liked him. Missed him, sometimes. Sometimes more than other times. And she liked him, not just carnally. She liked his company, the connection they had, the way he saw the world, his voice when he spoke about it. His voice, so rich and smooth; so low and throaty when he needed her. The way he smelled when she nuzzled his neck, the flutter in her chest when she did that; the hormones, oxytocin; the illusion of what people mistook for reality.
But it still hurt when he wouldn't hold her. When she would give him all of herself and he would just smoke afterwards, like now. She hated herself for this, for craving more than this; but she wouldn't beg for affection. It should be the other way round. And it would be, with time, it would. She was doing everything right. She needed to be patient. Besides, she actually loved it that he was so tough-skinned, loved it when he was rough and brutal; it made her want to be his, made her want to hold him down and soothe him. He had some demons in him that he sometimes lost to; she understood that better than anyone. It pulled her in like a black hole.
But she'd never seen him as worked up as today. He said it was something at work. He was on fire when he barged into the room, knocking things on the way, an aura of dark rage about him that she hadn't seen before. Her body responded to it before she knew, but a thought lingered in her mind afterwards, once she regained her senses — nothing work-related would rile him up like that. She wouldn't ask, but deep down she knew it had to be the one demon of his that she met in person. The blue-eyed one.
She wished she'd never met her. She never wanted to be jealous, but that accidental meeting last September triggered her beyond control. Hundreds, thousands of times she cursed herself for choosing that very second to look for him on the terrace. If only she'd showed up a moment earlier, she would take him home and life would have taken a different direction, and she wouldn't be plagued by the vision of how he'd kissed the brunette. The more she learned about her, the more the memory of it burned her brain.
She should've let it go, should've stayed away from it, shouldn't have dug into the matter. She only made it worse, because now the brunette not only wasn't nameless anymore, but she was a sister of the cute young blonde from the US Embassy in Oman, a guy she still had very fond memories of from several years back; which made it real, made her a real person, with a name, date of birth and a zip-code. Trackable — was the only advantage. And she looked older than she was — Julia had estimated they were of similar age, so an almost 10-year gap came as a surprise — but that offered just a feeble consolation that was gone within seconds, as soon as she realized she was competing with a woman who in the end was a decade younger.
"Put your ass up in the air," the raspy voice pulled her away from her thoughts. She clutched at the sheets and obeyed, crying out as he forced himself inside her again. This, this moment, the present moment, only this mattered; just this, only this.
This moment still kept her on fire long after, still fresh in her head when she later stared at her nude reflection in the mirror above the writing table. She stood still, trying to look at herself, but seeing everything else all at once — the perfectly rectangular chestnut wooden frame around the flawless mirror, the corresponding wooden table beneath, her golden pen, the light brown leather notebook, the golden jewelry cluttering the remaining table surface, the white and red packet of smokes he left behind. She took one out and brought it to her nose, inhaling with her eyes closed. She'd never been a smoker but for her, tobacco was a part of his scent. He'd asked why she booked a smoking room, and she was at a loss for words. She always booked this room. Ever since she'd met him.
She put the yellow tip in her mouth and reached for the tiny white matchbox she never noticed before. It was soothingly neat in its whiteness, pleasant to the touch. Turning it around in her hand, she stopped to brush her fingertip on the side where it read Rotana, which evoked the full name of the hotel to reverberate in her mind. She loved it, the sound of it. "Khalidiya Palace Rayhaan by Rotana," she articulated slowly, tasting every word, taking out one of the matches and brushing rapidly against the rough side of the little box, relishing the sound of the ignition. She gazed at the flame for a while before touching it to the tip of the tobacco stick. She coughed on the first inhale, and saw herself in the mirror, and let out a puff of smoke which clouded her reflection. This was better. Right now she didn't want to see more clearly than that.
She looked to the right; the world outside was still there as if nothing happened, the sky a wild mix of pink and orange. She wanted to cry. People glorified sunsets. As if there was anything special about them, more than just marking the end of the sunlit misery and the start of another, much worse one.
The heat around her fingers reminded her she was still holding a cigarette, but not before a long chunk of ash dropped to the floor. Sniffling, she stared at it helplessly; a sad, gray ash stain on the carpet next to her right foot.
There was no reason for it to make her break down, order a bottle of wine and drink it all, no reason at all; or maybe it was something else, something she'd never fish out from this mess of a night, but it didn't matter; all was gone now, all the reasons, the tears, the thoughts. She was all cried out. The only thing that could make her cry more would be if she did what she never did but was very close to doing; if she called him now. Because she knew he wouldn't come.
It was for the better. She wouldn't want him to see her now, lying on the floor, drunk and naked in the fumes of smoke and ethanol. Pathetic. Embarrassing.
You're embarrassing.
"That's what you would say, dad, isn't it?" she laughed, coughing on the sharp intake of smoke. "You wanted embarrassing — here's embarrassing for you."
#
The next three days with no word from him were torture. She promised herself not to pick up when he would finally call her.
But then he called. And she answered, and let him in.
He pushed her off his chest afterwards. He did it gently, as if it would make her heart bleed less.
She watched him as he kept lying on his back, the previous anger still oozing off him. She was dying to try to get him to open up, but he was so irritable that it was best to avoid direct questions.
"If you need to talk, I can listen."
"If I need to talk, I got my therapist for that."
She didn't respond to that. Everyone had a shrink these days but still, it was unbelievable that someone like him — it was hard to picture it. Why did he need the shrink for? This man seemed to have it all together as nobody else she knew, and had no vulnerability about him whatsoever, not more than a psychopath. And psychopaths didn't do counseling.
"What do you need therapy for? To master manipulation techniques?" she asked, biting down a smile, staring at his profile as he took a hit of his cigarette and let out a huge gray cloud, a grin stretching his face.
"You know me well."
She smiled more, and they sat in silence full of his inhales and exhales, never-ending and lingering when he chain-smoked. But it wasn't true. She didn't know him, really. He guarded his privacy well, and she couldn't pry if she wanted to keep him coming back. And she needed him to come back, more than she should, way past the normal amount of needing to see the person you only have sex with. And she could do absolutely fucking nothing about it, apart from not letting it show. And she wasn't sure how long she would last. Impulse control wasn't her strong suit, never had been.
"You look like an ancient god..." she whispered, reaching out to run her fingertips through his chest hair. His eyes snapped open, but he didn't stop her.
"Do I?"
"If gods existed, they would have to look like this."
"Funny you should say that," he removed her hand from his chest. "Too bad we'll never know," he shot her a mysterious look before pushing her to her side and spooning her. She arched her back for him, ignoring the pang of disappointment. She always loved when he did that, there was something so enticingly primordial about it. And it never bothered her she didn't see his face; not until recently, not until she saw him kiss the brunette and realized that she, Julia, was just a substitute for someone who was easier for him to imagine when he fucked a faceless vessel; because that was what a woman was to a man who loved another. She'd had her share of affairs with married men, many of whom loved their wives, but this felt different. He didn't just love the brunette, it was more than that, even though she didn't know what more than love could there be. She didn't know much about love, really. She just knew that recently when she was with him, the world ceased to exist, to the extent that scared her.
It was disturbing, really, how much his presence started to affect her, and horrifying how his absence did — how four days ago she was just fine, while now thinking about him leaving made it hard to breathe, imagining being in this room without him made her throat clench in panic.
Looking at him now, trying to steady her breath, she knew she would never set foot in Khalidiya Palace again.
#
She didn't make it till the end of her stay. Bill didn't ask, he booked her the evening flight, and she refused to acknowledge the world's existence until she woke up in NYC.
Damp and gray, chilly.
"Brooklyn," she told the cab driver, "123 Hicks."
Why she didn't go to Lotte, she had no idea. Instinctively, she chose her old address instead. She hadn't been there since last summer; ever since her mother vacated the place. She would never pick this destination if her mother still lived there, and yet, upon turning the key in the lock and entering the emptiness of the all-too-familiar brownstone, she broke down. Her first emotional reaction to her mother's passing, how ironic, how sad; what a fucked up mother one had to be for their daughter to not shed a tear after their death, really.
The hall smelled just as it did when she'd come home from school — of the old wooden floorboards with a touch of humidity, vanilla flavored tobacco, and something unspecified that made all the difference. Every home had that third ingredient that made it its own. She never knew what it was.
What a time travel; the living room, always dark despite the blinds always open. The old TV-set, the red corduroy sofa, which, when she squinted, could pass for a red velvet one; she often did it when she was a kid, upgrade their cheap furniture to fancy items she wouldn't have to be ashamed of if she ever had any of her Upper East Side classmates over. She eventually never did, but she still liked to play the game. She was a very imaginative child, as her mother liked to say.
Her room. She was pulled upstairs like a magnet but resisted. She didn't want to spend the rest of the night sobbing. She came here to restore her mental balance, not unhinge it further.
#
He never called. Not since she was back in town, not for days, which turned into weeks, which felt like eternity, which she handled quite well, until the day she realized he might not call at all, ever again; followed by the day she realized that she only handled it well so far thanks to being on prescription drugs. And on that day – it wasn't enough anymore.
But then the phone rang. Her heart skipped a beat, but it wasn't him. But when she learned who and why was calling, her heart was thudding.
"What... which hospital?"
Then again, maybe fate was on her side, after all.
Very much on her side, more than ever.
#