Ares (Contemporary Mythos Book 3)

“Two more reps. Come on, you got this, Phil.” I had an impressive clientele list for just starting at a new gym. Maybe winning the bantamweight MMA championship title helped.

Sweat poured down Phil’s face as his arms shook, pushing the barbell away from his chest. The sun glinted through the surrounding windows, giving a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the downtown Denver skyline. Plates clanked in rhythmic succession around us, men grunted, and the smell of sweat mixed with disinfectant permeated the air.

“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth.

I hovered my hands over the bar, ready to grab it. “’Can’t’ shouldn’t be in your vocabulary, Phil. Lift the bar. Yell, if you have to.”

He let out a higher-pitched scream than I’d expected but succeeded in extending his arms the whole way. I took control of the bar and slammed it against the metal pegs with a loud pang.

Phil’s arms fell slack at his sides. “You’re a hardass, Makos.”

“It’s what you signed up for, right?” I pointed at the treadmills. “One mile, and you’re good to go.”

Phil sat up, dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked blonde hair. “Seriously?”

“You worked out your arms, not your legs. Cardio after weights will keep the fat burning.” I removed the weight plates from the bar.

He took a deep breath, slapped his hands atop his knees, and stood. “You know best.”

“Damn right, I do.” I winked.

Once he situated himself at the treadmill, I slid on different weight plates and popped in my earbuds. After scrolling through several playlists on my phone, I settled for the new Unleash the Archers album. Brittney Slayes’s metal screams were precisely what I needed to fuel my bench sets.

Tightening my ponytail, I lay down and wrapped my hands over the bar, performing fifteen reps before securing it on the rack and resting. My heel thumped against the floor in time with the music, and I readied myself for another set, closing my eyes. When I opened them, a man’s face stared down at me, his hands on the bar. His spiky auburn hair paired well with his pale, freckled face. Green eyes squinted at me as his full lips smirked. I recognized him but couldn’t put a name to the face.

“If it isn’t Harmony Makos. The famous Amazon herself,” the man said, his voice deep.

“I didn’t ask for a spotter. And you must be new in town because nobody calls me by my full name.” With a grunt, I sat up.

The name Harmony came with far too many memories. Memories I kept buried.

“Right.” He held his palms out. “Harm is what you go by.”

This guy wasn’t going anywhere. I plucked my earbuds out and grabbed a bottle of disinfectant from the nearby storage bin. “If you’re here about becoming one of my clients, I don’t have any openings.”

“No, no. Already have my own. I’m normally in the downstairs part of the gym, but I wanted the chance to meet you when I heard you worked here now.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Mitch Conway.”

My eyes fell shut as I shook his hand. “Conway. Heavyweight champ.”

“That’s right.” His eyes brightened.

“Sorry about that, I should’ve recognized you. Been a long day,” I halfway lied. In truth, I barely paid attention to the men’s side of MMA. It drove my publicist, Chelsea, crazy.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m defending my title tonight in Denver.”

“Oh? Against who?” I sprayed down the bench and wiped it with paper towels.

“Mars.”

I froze, my pulse quickening. Mars was a name I did recognize. I’d never witnessed him fight in person, but in any clips I’d seen, he was a force to be reckoned with—toying with his opponents, giving them a false sense of security before dealing the TKO that’d be talked about for months.

“You have quite the challenge on your hands.”

Mitch’s gaze dropped to his shoes with a chuckle. “You’re tellin’ me. Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. I wanted to meet you, is all. Hope to catch one of your fights soon.”

“Good luck tonight.” It sounded more like a question.

I loathe small talk.

He stared at me for a moment as if hoping I’d say more. When I didn’t, he nodded and walked off. I slid behind the front desk and plugged in the time spent with Phil onto my timesheet. Phil walked past with a towel around his neck and a gym bag on his shoulder.

“Looking forward to the continued training with you, Makos. See you Thursday.” He gave a half-hearted salute before breezing through the door.

After ducking into the locker room to change into my dark skinny jeans, boots, and cropped leather jacket, I was all set to make a beeline straight for home until my phone buzzed in my back pocket. I hugged my full-face motorcycle helmet to my side, hitting my butt into the front door. The name Chelsea Stewart blazed in red on my phone screen. My publicist only ever called for two reasons. To bitch at me about something I’d forgotten to do or give me public relations assignments.

Wincing, I answered it. “Well, hey, Chelsea. How are you today?”

“Has your whole attempt at acting like a human being with me when I know you’re just blowing smoke up my ass ever worked in your favor, Harm?”

I smirked as I walked through the parking lot. “No fooling you.”

“You remember you’re going to the heavyweight match tonight, correct?”

I groaned. “I was really hoping to curl up in a ball on my couch and contemplate my life’s choices.”

“You’ll have to reschedule. It’s supposed to be one of the most iconic fights in years. The new women’s bantamweight champion should be in attendance, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t been to any of the men’s fights. Wouldn’t it look a bit obvious?”

Chelsea held the phone away from her ear, yelling at someone in the background. “No. And if someone asks, say you wanted to see Mars in the flesh.”

“Why would I say that?”

“He’s the only fighter’s dailies I’ve ever seen you watch. Obviously, he intrigues you.”

My neck heated. “He fights like a boar. There’s something to be said about it.”

“All I’m asking is for you to show up, throw back a couple of beers, and watch Mars kick Conway’s ass. Too much to ask?”

She was right. Conway didn’t stand a chance, the poor guy.

“Fine. You should come with me, you know? I can only imagine what people will say if I show up alone.”

“No can do, honeydew. I’ve other clients who need my attention. Gotta go. Have fun!” She hung up before I had the chance to say anything else.

I beat my phone against my forehead several times before heading for my parking space. My Harley Davidson Iron 883 beckoned me for a ride. A gift to myself after winning the championship. I dragged a finger over the matte black finish that matched the color of my hair and—of my soul.

Quickly braiding my hair and slipping on the helmet, I roared the beast to life. There was a calming sensation any time I rode a motorcycle—the throaty thrum of the engine, the needed awareness to your surroundings, the feel of the clutch in my hand, and the warmth radiating from the tailpipe.

The gym being in Boulder gave me plenty of time to mentally prepare myself for chumming it up with the MMA crowd in downtown Denver. The popularity of the men’s division wasn’t surprising. Women’s MMA made a rise, but at the end of the day, men have been beating the daylights out of each other since gladiatorial times of old.

The bass from the music blaring within the arena echoed off my chest as I pulled into a parking spot. After locking my helmet to one of the handlebars, I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and made my way inside. Dipping my chin, I powerwalked past the never-ending line of attendees, heading straight for will call.

“Chelsea Stewart should’ve left a pass for me? Harm Makos?” I said through the small hole of the plexiglass window.

The man typed into his computer, clicked the mouse several times, and frowned. “I have a pass for a Harmony Makos?”

That little brat.

“Yes. That’s me.” I slapped my driver’s license against the window.

He slid a ticket through the drawer. “Enjoy!”

I grabbed the pass with a grumble, shoving it in my pocket. As I slipped through the side door, the elevated cage came into view in the center of a vast space, nestled beneath a jumbotron currently scrolling through sponsor ads. Giant rounded lights hung from every corner, brightening the arena like a car dealership. Hundreds of people sat in stadium bleachers surrounding the cage, and rock music boomed over the speakers. I wasn’t the one in a match tonight, but my pulse quickened all the same. When I wasn’t fighting, I was just another product of a broken home, but inside the ring…I was royalty.

The fight wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes, so I turned for the beer stand. In Colorado, you could always rely on a refreshing Coors Light. A tall man with dirty blonde hair stood at the counter, leaning over it and pointing a finger in the cashier’s face—a boy no older than early twenties who looked moments away from pissing his pants.

“What are you, some kind of moron? She asked for diet Coke, and you give her regular?” The man slammed a paper cup on the counter, knocking it over in the process. Sticky soda and ice cubes dripped over the edges.

“Sir. I’m sorry sir. I—” The boy stood rigid, pressing his back against the flimsy wall behind him.

“Figures you’d be incompetent with a job like this. I want two free Cokes now, or I go straight to your manager.”

The boy stammered but couldn’t hold a sentence together.

The skin between my eyes wrinkled as I dipped into a buried memory of high school. The back of my head slammed into a locker as two older kids called me stupid and poor. All because of my mother. If I were to ever run into them as an adult, I should thank them. They are the main reason I learned to fight.

“Some tough guy you are, taking advantage of a man half your age who can’t talk back to you in fear of losing his job.”

The man turned on his heel. “Who the hell do you—” His expression morphed from anger to shock.

“Hey there. I’m not sure if you get off on belittling those you know won’t defend themselves, but you wanna take another shot?” I made “come at me” gestures with my hands. “I’m more fair game.”

“You’ve got some balls, Makos.”

My blood pulsed, aching for him to take me up on the offer. An urge to fight—to explode has always itched my skin. Wayward punches filled most of my youth, and they never failed to get me in trouble. Becoming an MMA fighter was the only legitimate way I knew to let the beast out and keep it reined in when I wasn’t in the ring.

“One of us has to have a pair.” I pulled out my wallet.

The man glowered as he took a step forward.

“If it means all that much to you, I’ll buy you three diet Cokes.” Keeping his gaze, I slapped several bills on the counter. “Get your sugary drinks and go sit the hell down.”

“If you were anyone else, I’d—” The man’s fists shook at his sides.

The cashier slid three paper cups across the counter with trembling hands.

“Enjoy your free soda.” My jaw twitched—the fury circling in my core, begging me to let him have it.

He scooped the cups with a grunt before brushing past me.

The boy’s eyes were as wide as melons when I stepped to the counter.

“Holy. Hell. Harm Makos stood up for me. Me.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I was ecstatic I’d won the championship but already missed my anonymity. Fame didn’t settle well with me, but being the champion meant more opportunities to fight.

“I know what it’s like. Remember, there is no reason you should have to put up with that bullshit.”

He nodded like he was taking mental notes. “And what can I get for the Amazon?” His smile brightened.

I curled my hair over my ears. “Coors Light.”

“Coming right up.” He flipped a plastic cup into his hand with a flourish.

Folding my arms, I looked at the cage behind me. How long would the fight last? On average, I’d seen Mars fight for no more than a few minutes. And usually, it was like even that amount of time was agonizing for him. As if he waited it out until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Here you go.” He scraped away the extra foam on top.

I took it with a half-smile. “Thanks.”

“Mind if I ask why they call you Amazon?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Aside from the fact I’m Greek by blood.”

He leaned on the counter. “Mars is Greek, you know? Born and bred.”

“Good for him.” I shrugged. Considering Mars had an accent as thick as molasses, it was fairly obvious he was a legitimate Greek man.

Awkwardly, I raised my cup to him as another thank you before walking away.

“Nice meeting you,” he yelled after me with a wave.

Maybe beer was a poor choice. It might be a whiskey kind of night.

The view of the fight was fine and dandy from this far back, but Chelsea wanted it to be known I was in attendance. It meant using my pass for the front row amidst other potential celebrities, but I’d wait until the last possible moment to sit. They’d still get their damn photos.

The lighting dimmed, spotlights blazing over the cage. With a sigh, I shuffled to my seat, holding the cup of beer above my head. A random woman bumped into me, causing a mouthful of liquid to splash on my shoes.

I ground my teeth together and partially crinkled the plastic cup. Sucking air through my nose, I glared at her. She was shorter than me by an entire foot and wore a skintight bright red dress. Her bleached-blonde hair flowed to her elbows, and the overhead lights glinted off her three-inch stilettos. The woman giggled from her plump lips.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, my chest heaving—pushing, coaxing the beast down.

When had humanity lost this much respect for each other? She had a clear three feet of clearance on the other side of me, and yet…

She slapped a hand over her cleavage and leaned back.” Excuse me? There are like a ton of people in here. I didn’t see you, for God’s sake.”

“Just watch where you’re going.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Giantess.”

I pinched my eyes shut, grip tightening around my cup.

Walk away, Malibu Barbie. Walk away.

Getting into a fight outside of the cage wasn’t the PR Chelsea had in mind. I opened one eye, noting the woman’s blissful absence. Once I found my seat, I slumped into it, letting my neck rest on the back.

The lights went dark, and the colors blue and white spilled over the crowd, followed by a steady, rhythmic drum blaring over the speakers, picking up pace. A deep bass drum vibrated in my chest, followed by bagpipes. The names Mars vs. Conway flashed across the jumbotron along with an animated Scottish flag. The crowd roared as Conway entered; Scotland’s flag draped over his shoulders. Everyone stood, but I remained seated, sipping on my beer.

Several flashes went off from nearby cameras, and I groaned.

I could see the headline now: Women’s Champion Lacking All Enthusiasm.

I pushed to my feet and slipped a hand in my pants pocket, tapping my feet to the beat of the drum. Conway handed off his flag and entered the cage, sashaying the perimeter to keep warm.

The Scottish music died down, and blood-red lights replaced the blue and white. My throat constricted as an ancient Greek song mixed with electric guitar and mind-pulsing drums thundered through the arena. A Spartan helmet with a flame flickering behind it displayed on the jumbotron, and my heart thumped against my chest.

The hulking form of Mars walked out. His arms tensed; hands balled into fists at his sides. The scowl overtaking his features could make lions cower away. His long, dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the base of his neck. He dragged a hand over his beard, blowing air through his nostrils in one quick huff. An ancient plated armor and chainmail tattoo started on his chest, spread over his shoulder, and led to his wrist.

I downed the rest of my drink and dragged my jacket sleeve over my mouth.

Definitely should’ve gone with whiskey.

He stepped into the cage, pacing back and forth, glaring at Conway like a bear ready to pounce.

“Gentlemen, this is for the heavyweight championship,” the announcer said before the referee motioned for the two of them to approach the center.

They stood toe-to-toe, and the announcer held the microphone up for the ref.

“Mitch, Mars, you both received instructions in the locker room. Either of you have any questions?”

Conway feverishly shook his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Mars turned his head from one side to the other with calculated movements, standing motionless.

The ref nodded his head. “Fight clean. Fight hard.”

The two men quickly touched gloves and retreated to their designated corners.

I folded one arm over my stomach and chewed on my thumbnail, sitting down only when the others around me did. Sliding the empty cup under the seat with my booted foot, I sat back.

The two fighters circled each other. Conway lifted his fists, immediately blocking his face. Good idea on his part. Mars’s punches seemed like getting hit by a Mack Truck. Mars kept his fists at his sides, not attempting to block at all. Interesting. Conway threw a left jab, and Mars leaned away but didn’t counter.

I sat up straighter.

They circled each other, and Conway threw another jab, testing the waters. Mars swatted it away like a fly.

“Come on,” a man yelled next to me.

Mars’s lip curled back.

Conway threw a punch, connecting to the side of Mars’s jaw. Mars snarled as he slammed his head forward, stopping before it crashed into Conway’s face. Mars turned away with a growl, clearly frustrated.

I scooted to the edge of my seat, hands gripping the armrests. Was Mars…holding back?

Conway grinned, circling Mars, but he stood still, cracking his neck from left to right. Conway launched forward. Mars leaped, bringing his rear leg forward, but snapped it back while throwing a cross—a Superman punch.

When Conway dropped to the floor, a mental flash hit me like a backdraft. The cheering audience drifted away. Ancient horns blared, followed by the sounds of a snorting wild boar. When Mars landed on his feet, he moved in slow motion. A Spartan helmet morphed over his head, and a red cape rolled down his back.

I gasped, snapping back to the present moment. My hands clung to the seat so tightly, my knuckles turned white. Did that over-enthusiastic arena employee make my beer a Boilermaker with a double shot of whiskey or something?

Mars loomed over Conway, throwing punch after punch even though he’d already knocked him out. The ref pulled at Mars, but he wouldn’t stop. Finally, the ref and two others draped themselves over Conway, yelling at Mars to stop or forfeit his championship win.

Mars staggered backward, his chest pumping up and down, blood covering the knuckles of his gloves. He clenched and unclenched his fists with quickened breaths like it took every ounce of his remaining strength to calm down. His glare glued to the ground as the ref hesitantly walked over to him, reached for his arm, and lifted it, announcing him the new heavyweight champion.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Until his gaze lifted to mine and a single eyebrow rose to the heavens.