“This is your boat? I have to say, you, sir, know how to throw a party. And believe me, that’s a lot coming from me.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought of my entertaining skills. I asked what the fuck you’re doing on my boat.”
“Well, lots of things, but a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Simone invited me.”
She waved from the lap of a man seated at the table.
“Oh, Simone, there you are.” Bacchus returned the wave. “I’ve been looking for you all over. So, I suppose, then, I’m not lost at all.”
Silk shirt shook his head and ran a hand through wisps of curly gray hair. “You know this maricon, Simone?”
She nodded and grinned. “He’s all right, Santos. This da one I been tellin’ you ’bout.”
Santos relaxed and gave a yellowed smile. “’Ta bien, muchachos,” he said to his bodyguards who released Bacchus. “I think our new friend here should join our game. Everyone good with that?”
The men at the table nodded and chuckled.
“Are you gentlemen engaged in a game of chance? I’m just learning this game. It’s called Texas Hold ’Em, isn’t it?” asked Bacchus. “You know I’d love to join you after I get a bite and something to drink.”
With surprising strength for a man of such slight stature, Santos pressed Bacchus into an empty chair. He snapped his fingers. “We can take care of that here.”
A young woman hurried to his side. Silken black hair hung down to her waist. Clad in a bra and skirt uniform, she jiggled in all the right places.
Despite the vulgarity of her outfit, Bacchus was taken with her elegance.
Yes, elegance. Perhaps it came from her aquiline nose or the curve of her neck into her delicate collarbone. Her eyes, too—dark and complicated—showed a defiance for her current situation. Springtime emanated from her aura.
A white linen stola would dazzle against her skin the color of fine bourbon, nearly as bright as diamonds woven into her raven hair. The opulence of his former palace would dim compared to her, if only he could take her there.
“Maybe you ain’t no maricon after all. You gonna answer the woman?” Santos laughed without humor.
“I’m sorry?” Had the man just called him queer?
“What would you like to order?” Her voice tinkled soft as silver bells.
Thoughts about food had escaped him. “Please, bring me whatever the kitchen is serving and a bottle of white wine.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a curt nod and glided out of the room.
“So.” Santos took his seat. “What’s your name?”
“Bacch—” He caught himself. How difficult it had been to adjust to his mortal pseudonym, to be burdened with a surname. Couldn’t he be known by only one moniker like Cher or Madonna. Or perhaps, The Former-God-Formerly-Known-As-Bacchus. Oh well. Pan had advised he blend in as best as possible. “I’m Bach Sabazios.”
“Mucho gusto, Mr. Sabazios. I’m Santos. This is Pops, Nakamura, Tito, Billy, and Jean-Claude.”
Men of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds flipped a brief wave or head nod. “Nice to meet all of you as well.”
“We do this game a few times a year. We start in Miami, cruise around Florida and the Gulf, picking up players. Once we’re in international waters, we can do what we like, right?” Santos gave a savage laugh. “You enjoy yourself this time, maybe you come back next time, ey?”
“I might just do that,” said Bacchus.
“’Ta bien. All right, enough talk. Let’s play some cards, muchachos.”
Bacchus laid paper currency bearing the image of some mortal named Ben Franklin on the table. “Is this enough to get started?”
“Put your cash away, Mr. Sabazios. Simone mentioned you are good for a lot more.” Santos nodded to the dealer.
The dealer gave Bacchus twenty-five grand in chips. The table buy-in was a hundred dollars, which didn’t seem like a lot, but what did he know about money? He’d had the hardest time figuring out monetary denominations. A fifty looked so much like a five except for the little circle at the end of the number. Who had time for such details?
Speaking of details, Bacchus peered at his cards and the flop or the river or whatever in Hades the features of this game were called. Not like a simple game of Tabula or Knucklebones. Eager to learn, he bet with abandon. His first defeat cost him fifteen hundred dollars.
The second hand he lost because he was more interested in wolfing down the pork sandwich his dark beauty had brought him than keeping his head in the game. “What is this delicious wine?”
She presented the label to him. Bacchus ordered two more bottles.
When she brought his drink order, he took her hand and asked her name. The meanest-looking of Santos’s thugs bristled and glared at Bacchus, but Santos waved off the man’s annoyance.
“Ariana,” she replied.
Ariana. Her name washed over him, a gentle wave cooling hot sands. “Lovely to meet you, Ariana.”
She nodded and disappeared behind the galley door.
By the last hand of the night, Bacchus was nearly a hundred grand in the hole. Not that it mattered to him in the slightest. Every time Ariana entered the room, all he could think of were dandelions and buttercups, her red lips puckered, white fluffy seedpods spinning in the wind, and yellow flowers braided in her hair.
While most of his godly powers were lost to him, he could still read the aura and memories written on the human soul. Perhaps his retained skill had been an oversight on the Mother and Father’s part, but Bacchus doubted this was so. He suspected they’d allowed him this gift as protection in the unfamiliar world he inhabited. Humanity could be surprisingly deceptive and cruel. At times, more evil than Lucifer himself.
For instance, the stocky thug in the far corner had taken a special dislike to Bacchus. He had a gaping hole where his spirit should be, yawning like an open grave, sucking light and happiness from auras around him. Sure, he was handsome—chiseled jaw, stylish black waves, striking emerald eyes. No doubt, the man had begun as an innocent baby boy, but life had decayed him. A legacy of pain had stolen the man’s soul, twisted him into something grotesque. No amount of physical beauty could cloak it.
The last hand ended as the first had, in disaster. A small price to pay for the pleasure of her company.
As though the aged man had read Bacchus’s mind, Santos said, “It seems lady luck was not with you tonight, muchacho. I’ve never seen a man so happily lose this large a sum of money.”
Bacchus drained the last of his wine. “Good drink, good company. It makes the loss more bearable, don’t you think?”
“Sí, I do. Maybe you could use a little more company tonight? Maybe in your private quarters to help ease the pain of your loss?”
“I’m always up for some private amusement.”
For the umpteenth time, the shortest henchman set his jaw, eyes narrowed, hands clenched in fists. Nonetheless, no objections spilled from his thin, tight lips.
“What do you say, mi’ja?” Santos asked Ariana. “Does Mr. Sabazios deserve some tender, loving care?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
How wonderful, the night had not been a complete wash after all. Excitement rippled through his abdomen,