Page 77 of Gates of Tartarus

“Fine. Fine!” I flounce. “Sure. Let’s go have a drink. That’ll make everything better,” I snipe, in a quite frankly stunning display of hypocrisy, given my deep and personal relationship with wine and propensity to self-medicate.

The guys look at themselves, and alookpasses between them, which just makes me more peeved. “Well comeon,” I chide from the doorway.

I’m not sure how they restrain themselves from thumping me, although Seef looks like he’s considering putting me in a head-lock until I snap out of my bad mood. “Si, querida,” Jorge says mildly. “We are coming.”

In the pub, I’m the subject of envious glances from other women, and I feel like saying,Yeah, well. Looks can be deceiving. I find a free table and flop down, Jorge and Kavi coming to sit on either side while Seef takes the chair across from me. Emlyn goes to the bar without asking what I want, which makes me glare at his back. I hope he can feel that. I hope he can feel my eyes boring into him like hot, little lasers.

“Now, Maelaladki,” Kavi asks me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Jorge rolls his eyes at me, and I want to punch him. His eyes widen, and he grins. Bastard. I direct a wave of crossness at him, and he winces. Hah!

Seef stirs: “You l–”

“If you tell me I look like a baboon on a branch, or a dancing giraffe, or a lizard on an elephant, I will deck you,” I say levelly.

“I wasn’t going to,” he responds. “I was going to say you look like you’ve been hit by a windmill.”

Aaargh! I’m about to launch myself at him, when a pint of beer is placed before me.

“What is this?” I ask, appalled.

“IPA.” Emlyn’s busy passing out pints to the others, who say “cheers” and take appreciative sips.

“But, but!” I sputter.

“Drink up,” Emlyn says coolly.

“But, it’sbeer!” I explain. “I don’t like beer.”

“Too bad.” Emlyn is implacable. “Should have said something when we came in instead of having a strop.”

I’m speechless. I look forlornly at the pint, then at Emlyn, then back again.

“You’ll like it, Maela,” Jorge encourages.

“It’s got a nice, nutty taste,” Kavi adds.

Seef just takes a good long pull with an “Aaah” and smirks at me.

I pick up the pint and raise it to my lips. Maybe beer’s changed since I last tried it?

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” I gurgle. “No! It tastes like feet!”

The guys burst out laughing, and Seef and Kavi shake their heads at me. “Must be the American in her,” Seef remarks. “Never had such watery, tasteless beer as I did in the States.”

“Bud Light,” Kavi grimaces.

“Michelob Ultra,” Seef counters, and they both shudder.

“And how would you know what feet taste like,querida?” Jorge asks, his eyes dancing. Emlyn, author of my misfortune, raisesbotheyebrows at me, dimple flashing.

“Figure of speech,” I mutter. “I can’t drink this,” I say sadly.

“Well,” Emlyn’s face softens, and I feel a little starburst of hope, “You didn’t want a drink anyway.” He slides my pint across to his side of the table, and all of the guys fall about laughing again.

My mouth drops open, and I’m getting ready to blow, when Emlyn adds, “I’ll get you a glass of wine on one condition.”

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