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  Ares

  K. Cantrell

  Book Name: Ares

  Author Name: K. Cantrell

  Copyright:

  ARES

  Copyright © 2017 KAT CANTRELL

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writers imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Edited by Kimberly Cannon

  Cover by Croco Designs

  Contents

  Ares

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About K. Cantrell

  More from Intergalactic Dating Agency

  Looking for love on all the wrong planets…

  Clementine Daily has struck out so many times in the dating game that she’s had to move on to another species. When the Intergalactic Dating Agency matches her to a Torvian who needs a marriage of convenience to stay on Earth, she’s happy to help—who wouldn’t love a sexy alien as a reward? Except her new husband is scarred by secrets from the past and wants nothing to do with love or romance, and Clem's seduction strategy suddenly needs a whole new game plan.

  Olympia Alien Mail Order Brides:

  Eros

  Ares

  Ajax

  One

  On Friday at three o’clock, I remember that I have a date, one that I agreed to before I signed up to marry an alien. Not the kind from another country. The kind from space—yes, that space. As in outer. They exist and they’re here on Earth, walking among us.

  Some people might balk at the idea of interspecies mingling or the thought of swapping fluids with an honest to God alien from another planet. But these hypothetical people have never seen a Torvian or spent five minutes in the company of this particular breed of alien. I have. And I want one.

  Penelope, the chick I can always count on to have my back, ensure I’m gainfully employed, and generally play the part of best friend ever, is married to the poster boy for the planet Torvis. Her husband, Eros, is too perfect to be real, except he is. He dotes on her, pretty much keeps her in a perpetual orgasmic state, and has zero problem laying out in vivid detail how she’s his whole reason for breathing to anyone who will listen.

  What red-blooded girl would say no to that?

  I might be a lot more jealous than I’ve let on. While Penelope has it all together, I…don’t. Floundering might be a kind description for where I am at in life currently, and seeing my friend get lucky in the husband department has been a wakeup call. Not that Penelope doesn’t deserve to have a mate so slavishly devoted to her. She does. But there’s room for more than one woman to be made deliriously happy by a hot alien who lives to serve her in bed, right?

  But I’d have to get matched to an alien first and that hasn’t happened yet. There’s a whole dating site thing at play. I might have tried to stack the deck a little by specifying in the profile I filled out that I really want the Torvian I’d locked gazes with at the alien processing facility in Switzerland that I visited with Penelope last month. Said alien must not have been likewise blown away by me, or I’d have been contacted by Out Of This World Matches by now, right?

  Figures that I would find a way to strike out in the mate department with a whole second species. Hence my dilemma about Nick, the web developer I met on SquareDate.com and the whole matter of a restaurant I’m supposed to be at in a few hours.

  There’s an ethical question in there somewhere but I can’t decide which direction is the lesser of two evils. Either I break the date with Nick knowing that I’m really waiting on the match company to follow through with the news that my alien husband is ready, willing and able to make all my dreams come true, or keep the date given that it’s been three weeks and I haven’t heard word one.

  Probably I should be more worried about the fact that I’m resorting to marrying an alien to solve the problems with my love life. I’ve just always been that girl who wanted to get married and have babies, and I’m at that stage where it feels further away than ever.

  Sighing, I glance at the time on my phone again. If I’m going to keep the date, I need to think about what I’m going to wear. If I’m not, I should cancel. I shouldn’t cancel. Marrying an alien is likely to be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And I’ve started an eBay candle business, which is way more cutthroat than you would believe. Some of the big sellers will make your life a living hell if you cross them.

  It would probably be redundant to mention that I crossed them. I cross a lot of people because I haven’t got the Shut Up gene. This might be more to blame for my lack of viable human prospects in the dating game than an actual lack of viable prospects.

  I date. But the men who ask me out don’t like mouthy women who have no filter. No really. They don’t. And I’ve tried to be demure and sweet, like Penelope. She has that locked and I couldn’t find a better example to emulate. I’m just not good at pretending I have nothing to say when I can’t say something nice.

  I keep the date and the real ethical question is whether I should feel guilty that I did it strictly for the free dinner. But I’ve had a run of bad luck in the matter of the Employment World vs. Clementine Daily. I might have told my last boss at Bullock Pottery in pretty graphic terms that I didn’t care for the way he constantly called me sweetheart and stared at my boobs while talking to me. Turns out that doing so is not a good recipe for a referral.

  Penelope gave me a job, don’t worry. But I’ve only been working for her for a couple of months and honestly, it doesn’t pay that well, not that I’m complaining. It’s just that free dinner doesn’t come along all that often and if it’s wrong to jump at the chance, sue me.

  Besides, Nick might be the one. He did come up as a match on SquareDate.com or I wouldn’t darken the door of Hibiscus, the upscale restaurant in downtown Olympia near the wharf. It’s a little touristy but what isn’t in Washington State?

  The maître d’ leads me to the table and Nick glances up, appreciation lighting his features. “You look just like your picture.”

  I blink. “You don’t. Looks like only one of us believes in truth in advertising.”

  Nick has a receding hair line. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but the picture he’d posted online must have been taken at least five years and two inches ago. Speaking of ethics, his suck.

  He flushes. “Some people would be kind enough not to say anything and wait to get to know a person before passing judgment based on looks alone.”

  My eyebrows raise along with my hackles. “Oh, so the fact that I’m blonde had nothing to do with whether you asked me out, right?”

  I’m no Jennifer Lawrence but I photograph well and work at a salon. I know how to use my assets and honestly, it’s fine if a guy wants to ask me out because he’s physically attracted to me. It’s kind of a requirement that someone I’m with thinks I’m hot and tells me so. What’s not fine is a double standard. I’m allowed to be attracted to the guy I’m dating too, and being lied to via an old picture isn’t on my list of things that turn me on.

  But whatever. I’m here and there’s no alien perfection waiting in the wings. Plus, I’m not opposed to second chances, especially since I generally need about six second chances once I open my mouth. I s
it down.

  Clearly relieved, Nick smiles and he’s not hideous. Just…bland. This is a generous description. Restaurant ambiance does him no favors, which is a shame since that’s where the majority of the first few dates take place.

  “So you’re a web developer,” I say with that conversational lilt at the end that invites the other person to respond. Except Nick just nods and keeps perusing his menu.

  Okay. I glance over my own menu and randomly select a chicken dish that’s on the lower end of the price scale because I’m not here to get the most expensive dinner I can out of Nick. I hate women who do that—they ruin it for the rest of us and trust me, we hear about it on dates.

  But not this one apparently. Nick takes upwards of seven minutes to figure out what he wants to eat, and by the time he sets down his menu, the silence has stretched to the point of snapping. We stare at each other until he clears his throat.

  “Clementine. That’s an unusual name. It’s like the song, right? Oh, my darlin’, oh my darlin’, something something?”

  “Yeah.” Normally I make a joke here along the lines of how I’ll recognize my true love if he can sing all the lyrics but no one ever knows the whole thing and I’m kind of disappointed he went there anyway. If I had a dime for every guy I’ve met who bursts into spontaneous singing in my presence, I could move to Bora Bora where no one has ever heard that there’s a famous folk song with my name in it. “Nick. That’s like in the nick of time, right?”

  He blinks rapidly. “I suppose so.”

  Well, we’re off to a swimming start. My phone vibrates and that’s as much a testament to how this date is going as anything because normally I turn it off—there are dating rules and that’s one of them. I didn’t even think about it tonight. Regardless, I don’t look at the screen. I’m not that crass.

  The waiter takes our order and my phone vibrates some more. I have it set to vibrate differently depending on what’s incoming so I know its email, usually my lowest priority unless I’m job searching. But I’m not in the market at this moment. I like working for Penelope and I like the other girls at the salon. Maybe I should go to hair school and take a permanent job there. Penelope would hire me, I’m pretty sure.

  I have to acknowledge the notification or it’ll keep vibrating and frankly, the conversation has stalled again anyway. Stealth-like, I pull my phone from the back pocket of my best date jeans, the ones that make my butt look Instagram worthy, and hold the phone under the table so Nick can’t see that I’m ignoring him. But I make the mistake of glancing down instead of just unlocking it to dismiss the notification and Out Of This World Matches leaps from the screen.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Nick flinches. “I should mention that I’m not much for bad language. I would appreciate it if you would keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  That pretty much seals it. The last thing I want to do is watch my mouth, especially not in the middle of an orgasm and God pretty much always makes an appearance then.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  Free dinner cannot compete with a free alien lover. But I can’t help feeling like I’m a terrible person as I hightail it out of Hibiscus without a backward glance at Nick the web developer. I do slip the waiter a twenty to cover my meal. Money down the drain since I didn’t eat it, but only fair. I should have canceled. I should deactivate all my profiles on every dating site because I’m officially off the market. I hope.

  Sliding into my used Honda, I don’t bother to start it. All of my attention is on my phone and the email that pinged into my inbox while I was inside the restaurant. I open it and the first line buries itself in my gut.

  We have a match for you. Please make an appointment to meet your prospect.

  This just got real. Or as real as it can get at seven thirty p.m. I call the number given but an answering service picks up, dang it. They must be closed already. I leave a message stating that I’m available twenty-four/seven for an appointment and drive home. I guess it’s a home. It’s a little hole in the wall apartment in a building full of hole in the wall units designed for single people who have limited income. I try not to remember how sad and lonely it is, but it’s more difficult after a failed date followed by a failed attempt to hook up with my own dream-come-true alien.

  Halfway up the stairs to the second floor landing, my phone rings. Bobbling it into my hands, I answer. The lady identifies herself as Charmaine, whom I met at the salon a couple of months ago when she first recruited Penelope for her alien matchmaking service. She asks if I’d like to come by tonight to meet my match.

  That would be a big hell yeah.

  “I’m already in the car,” I tell her which is almost true as I bolt back down the stairs. Lucky for me I am already wearing my best jeans and a form fitting top that highlights my curves. Or should I wear a dress? I screech to a halt on the last step and turn around.

  My phone vibrates with a text message, presumably from Charmaine where she’s texted me her address. Forget a dress, I’m going to get an alien! The one from the processing facility, if Charmaine followed the specifications I indicated on my profile.

  I knew we’d had a moment when I first caught sight of him. Blond, intense and gorgeous, with silvery eyes that screamed otherworldly. The shiver that wracks my shoulders feels like overkill but I’m excited and nervous. This is it, the moment when everything comes together for me. Marriage, babies, the whole nine yards, courtesy of a gorgeous creature who thinks I hung the moon. Like the way Penelope and Eros happened. If an alien worked for her, it can work for me and then I don’t have to worry about how hard it is to find a human guy who’s worth my time.

  I ignore the speed limit as much as possible and arrive at Charmaine’s house on the far north outskirts of Olympia in record time. Trees shadow the house, creating a great mood that my jittery nerves appreciate. It’s calming and restful the way the house nestles back into the forest. Olympia isn’t that far from Forks, the small Washington town made famous for its sparkly vampires, and if you missed the point, this part of the world is magical. The forest exudes a presence that I love, always have. It’s easy to believe that anything could happen, even true love with a being from another world.

  Charmaine, who looks every inch like the hip aunt you know would take you to Metallica concerts and buy you beer for your eighteenth birthday, answers the door with a smile. “Clementine. It’s nice to see you again. You made good time from the city.”

  “I’m…yeah. I drove. Fast.” I swallow. Wow, I’m not usually so tongue tied.

  And then I nearly choke on said tongue when he fills the space behind Charmaine. Ohmygod. It is him. The Torvian from Switzerland. He’s my match.

  Charmaine steps aside and allows me to enter the house, which I accomplish somehow without tripping over my feet as the alien’s presence gobbles up all the oxygen in the room. In the whole state maybe.

  He towers over me, so much bigger than I remember, but the chiseled features of his face are the same. That face has graced my dreams for nearly a month. He’s appeared in more than one shower fantasy that involved soap and a lot of finger action down below.

  Wrong thing to be thinking about. My core clenches hard, drenching my panties instantly as our gazes meet, much like they did in that alien processing facility. His silvery eyes glimmer far more vividly than I recalled and his heat—it coils around me and we’re still a good six feet apart. He commands my attention, drawing every molecule of my body toward him. I have never been so viscerally affected by another being in the whole of my life.

  Finally, I’ll get what Penelope has. This gorgeous creature will be mine and he’ll love every word that comes out of my mouth. He’ll beg me for more of my opinions and thoughts and demand that I say exactly what’s on my mind. Since he’s new to Earth and will need to acclimate, I can teach him things, naughty phrases that he’ll say to me only, murmuring them in my ear with a sexy accent as we lounge in bed. We’ll be happy together.


  It’s going to be amazing and I can’t wait.

  Two

  “This is Ares,” Charmaine says. “Ares, meet Clementine.”

  “It is a pleasure,” he rumbles and my eyebrows shoot up.

  “You speak English.” It’s a statement and a question all rolled up into one. Eros didn’t speak more than monosyllables when he met Penelope. I was expecting this guy…alien…to be the same.

  “Well enough,” he acknowledges. “I have been on Earth almost a cycle. A year. I also speak German and Italian.”

  Totally thrown, I gape at him. His accent sounds nothing like Eros. The first little frisson of unease trickles down my spine. If he’s been here so long, why is he suddenly keen to get married? A hundred other questions flood my mind.

  “Oh,” I respond brilliantly. “Okay. Ares, is it? Like the Greek god of war?”

  He nods. “It is my Torvian name in short form. Appropriate for Mount Olympus, non pensi?”

  “Are you going to veer between languages like that a lot?”

  “Yes.” His eyebrows come together. “Often without realizing it. It is how my brain functions.”

  That’s…dizzying. But he scarcely notices that I’m being borderline rude, so there’s that.

  Charmaine swoops in and ushers us into the living area, chattering about the deal, which I already know from Penelope. We have to get married so Ares can apply for a green card in order to stay in America, and there’s a marriage license process that takes about a week. There are a lot of other hoops and legalese that goes in one ear and out the other. Penelope and Eros had to go through all of this too and they’ll help us stay on the right track, I’m sure.

  I’m more interested in the nitty gritty of the union. Perching on Charmaine’s couch, I ask her, “Do we get to go on dates or does he move right in until the wedding?”