Page 2 of Midnight Pleasure

It was as if he had already positioned the chess pieces, strategically planning his moves in advance. Ares constantly walked on eggshells, always in a terrible state of anxiety, ready to get frightened at one word or deed that might offend his father. Leo continually watched his every move, judged his decisions, and destroyed Ares's autonomy. He is caught in an unending cycle of validation-seeking from his father, often costing him his happiness and well-being.

"Mr. Sinclair, I really must insist—please, you cannot leave the study, sir!" Hargrove's urgent voice cracked, but Ares brushed it aside.

In his footsteps lay the weight of his father's ultimatum. His mind churned over, whirlwind-like, with thoughts that turned and tumbled, strangely useless to any sort of focus because of their turbulence in every second that passed. He needed an escape, just a moment of silence, to reclaim sanity. His legs carried him away from the chaos, instinctively seeking solace within nature's lonely confines. With a definite, purposeful stride, he started toward the garage and reached quickly for his keys on the entryway table.

"Ares, you can't take the car! It's no longer yours, sir!" Hargrove sputtered, shuffling after him. His little legs worked like a mad maniac, every word he issued in panicked gasps.

His father's gift, given to him on his twenty-first birthday five years ago, was the last polite memory between them. The sleek black sports car sat waiting. Ares slid behind the wheel into the leather seat, familiarly cold. He looked in the mirror, his blond curls falling in soft, tousled waves that framed his face, giving him a somewhat rugged yet refined appearance. He had stopped getting a haircut to spite his Mr. Sinclair. With a turn of the ignition, it roared to life, its purring engine a balm to the chaos that was his life for a moment.

He drove aimlessly the rain-slick streets blurring past him. His mind replayed Mr. Hargrove's words like a mantra, and with each replay, the fire of his anger and despair only flared higher. How could his father find this acceptable? How dare he assume the right to run Ares's life, even in death?

Ares drove until the city lights gave way to the dark, winding roads of the California countryside.

The mountains, towering at their peaks, summoned him with snow-capped summits that shone under the sun's fading rays. The soft breeze whispered secrets in his ears as he inhaled the crisp, sharp scent of pine. Anticipation washed over him, tingling his skin with a yearning to discover the untamed beauty before him. Maybe this is where he needs to be; maybe this is something urgent at the center of him, an inner knowing that he needs to disappear. It was as if the mountains were calling out to him, their allure too powerful to resist. The road stretched out before him and transformed into an unfamiliar landscape.

Emotionally drained, he didn't realize he had been speeding, taking turns without caution along the looping roads. The metallic tang of electricity weighed heavy in the air with the smell of wet earth. A faint ghostly light tinged the black sky, haunted by the passing energy that had cut across it only moments before.

The elk crossed in front of his path; its bright eye shine brought him back to his senses. He yanked hard to miss it; the car slid on the slick pavement. Briefly, his world spun wildly out of control in terror. The car careened off the road, crashing through the underbrush as the branches cut into him through windows and windshields. He laughed as the car slid faster down the mountain before bringing it to a stop against a tree with a jarring force, but the airbags failed to go off as Ares's head slammed into the steering wheel, and pain exploded through his skull.

Stunned and bleeding, shaking hands reached for the seatbelt. Unbuckling himself, he pushed open the door and tumbled into the rain. The cold was like a crack on his face, shocking him back into wakefulness.

Pain detonated all over his body as he could not start shaking. Smoke billowed out of the contorted wreckage, issuing the acrid smell of burning rubber into the air. That shiny, expert exterior was now a crushed and mangled mess, the stuff of a stark nightmare. Sitting amidst that wreckage, disbelief and devastation were tangible. All that surrounded him was an endless expanse of darkness, accompanied by the haunting howls of the wind and the biting chill that permeated the air.

It didn't matter. He had no wallet or cell with him; hence, he was all but cut off from anything outside. "Fuck," he screamed out, scrambling for a way out, but he found himself high at an elevation, completely ignorant of just how precarious his situation was. Suddenly, a crackling discharge of static electricity streaked across the otherwise darkened sky, casting an otherworldly light upon him. He stumbled at his first strides, his senses momentarily overwhelmed by the electrifying sensation.

Each breath burned, and the soggy mountain mud provided no purchase for his Italian oxfords. Every step became a fight as he forged on, his abused body cast over the treacherous ground. Rocks, uneven and pointed, and the rough ground ripped at his sturdy, worn-in leather jacket and his dark jeans, the cold, cutting wind whipping all around him. Blood from the gashes on his face and hands mixed into rain that stung chillingly, only raising his realization of the racking pain.

His head throbbed from the crash—a pulse with every heartbeat, reminding him of the impact that almost killed him. Moonless blackness wrapped up the mountain, and he stumbled, blind, into the remote country. With no light, every shadow could be a threat—with every sound, a warning for dangers unseen in backcountry depths. The air was thin at six thousand feet, so breathing became a problem. His lungs burned with each effort his straining muscles made to pull in enough oxygen. The icy rain soaked him to the bone, chilling him inside out.

The incessant storm soaked the earth and turned it into a muddy quicksand that threatened to pull him under with each step he took. He didn't know where he was going, but the urge to keep moving was overwhelming. It was the cold, his injuries, and despair's claws in his mind that he could ill afford to stop. More than simple reminders, the physical drain and the mental wreckage kept him in the ruthless reality of things. Yet, it was also an incentive that heightened his resolve—now that the mountain was digging his grave, he could not afford to give up. The darkness grew more confident with each step as if the night was against him.

With every gust of wind that howled through its passage, doubt appeared to gain strength—fanned by the weather. Feeling he had wandered through an unusually long period, he chanced upon a thin path that brought him toward a picture-perfect cabin. Muted light bled from within and murmured sweet nothings of solace and haven. Relentless rain pelted against his trembling, injured form, making him cold. At each step, the ground squelched in rhythm with his worn-out Italian leathers. His body lurched violently as he approached the weathered pine door, his hand shaking with overwhelming fatigue as his fist rapped against the door with resounding force. A ripple of hope welled up inside him, renewing the soul that had grown weary.

"Can I help you?" Growled the man suspiciously, the door opening behind him. Safety beckoned to him with open arms, inviting him to seek shelter from the storm that raged within and without. Ares' overworked muscles tensed, ready to defend himself if needed, while his weary bones yearned for comfort beyond the threshold. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of trepidation and longing intertwining with each beat.

And so, with a hesitant nod, he mustered the strength to step forward, crossing the threshold into the unknown. He licked his lips. "I was in an accident! Can you help me?"

Guiding Ares into the cozy cabin, the man's stern face relaxed, replaced by a look of concern. The sounds of a crackling fireplace enveloped him, warmth embracing his chilled skin. His soft, soothing voice resounded across the small space, calming Ares instantly.

"Come in. Let me take care of those wounds for you. I'm Apollo."

The door closed behind him, shutting out the outside world and cocooning him in the embrace of safety. Ares collapsed onto the plush chair nearby, his body still raking with tremors from the overwhelming adrenaline rush. He exhaled forcefully, his eyes capturing the sight of the dimly illuminated room, drenched in a subtle ambiance from the gentle radiance of the lamp. The murmurs of rain drizzled softly from outside through the sealed windows—a rising and falling hum that would mix with the calmness of the moment. The aroma of lavender and the remaining scent of the coffee served earlier subtly filled the air. At long last, Ares glanced over at him. A truer smile formed.

"Well, Apollo, it's an actual pleasure. You got some whiskey round here?" As he licked the blood off his teeth. Even though he was in pain or maybe delirious he couldn’t help bit admire the big man that was trying to get him whiskey. Older than Ares by ten years, Apollo had rugged good looks and kind blue eyes.

Apollo smiled. "I have some wine, but first, let me attend to your wounds. Try to radio this in and see what damage is out there. If I can call for help, arriving will take some time." His heavy feet jerked with every stride.

The tight tank top only set off his musculature, providing some lively sight to Apollo's arms and broad shoulders. Ares couldn't help himself as he leered at the Paul Bunyan-type Apollo. While parading in boxers, the view allowed less room for imagination, stirring Ares' curiosity yet again. The air was faintly sweet with sweat and the scent of masculinity.

"Don't be surprised if the road washes away." Apollo called out, "We may be here for a while. It's a good thing I was a combat medic. I've got quite a few supplies to get you fixed up, so let's get you out of these wet clothes first."

Ares couldn't help but sneer at Apollo. "You say that to all men, of course." Apollo wrapped him in a fluffy towel, drying him off as he shivered violently. The towel was warm, instant relief. He laid his weary head on Apollo's shoulder, sinking into the man's strength. He could not move as safety and comfort drowned him in their allure. As Apollo fixed his bruises, Ares still couldn't shake a strange sense of relief. The very first flame of hope had appeared in his soul since he had heard the reading of his father's will. Probably, just probably, there was a way out of this chaos.

Chapter 2: Mountain Sunrise

Apollo could not help but gaze at the handsome stranger sprawled across his bed. With just the soft glow of the old lamp, dim shadows cut up the room and outlined Ares's square jawline, curving lips, and tangled shining locks that had fallen about his forehead. His presence in this desolate place was a rare and wonderful sight. Nobody ever came up here, not in this kind of weather. The fool was lucky to be alive. Still, in the best conditions, travel to Foggy Basin was always dicey—high winds, fog, heavy rains, and early winter storms. The weather was a protective cocoon that wove tight around the city, keeping it cut off and mysterious.

Apollo had chosen it for that very reason. He loved his solitude, the quietude that allowed him to work without distractions. Foggy Basin didn't cater to faint hearts, which enticed him to return. Sheer cliffs plunged into darkness surrounded the small town perched on a mountain. Few dared to venture here, and fewer still stayed. The rich and privileged didn't like the inconvenience of the town's ruggedness. But Apollo thrived on it. That drew people to this world: the rough edges, the unpredictability, the instant closeness.

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