Athena
The security feed shows nothing but Ruby’s empty balcony and office, yet I’m checking it every few minutes.
Mark has called three times already, wanting to discuss growth strategies. Maria keeps sending emails marked urgent again. The Olympus demands my attention, but all I can think about is the way Ruby’s skin felt under my hands.
She hasn’t been outside since Sunday and I’m acting like a lovesick teenager.
Life is beautifully uncomplicated right now.
The Olympus runs smoothly, the club provides pleasure, and I answer to no one.
Why would I risk that perfect equilibrium for someone who’s clearly not ready for anything more than friendship?
And even if she were, I know what loss can do to a person. I’m no less damaged goods than she is.
Everything in my life has a purpose, a reason. But this…this feeling that’s taking root in my chest serves no purpose except to complicate things.
I don’t catch feelings, and I don’t pine over women.
I take what I want, when I want it. That’s been my way for almost two decades.
If I desire something—or someone—I pursue it with single-minded focus until it’s mine.
But Ruby isn’t some pleasure to be claimed.
She’s all raw nerve endings and healing wounds, fresh tears and tentative steps forward.
The truth is, I’m not used to feeling this uncertain.
Desire, yes—that’s familiar territory. But this constant awareness of her, this need to make sure she’s okay, this urge to protect and possess her all at once…
it’s foreign and unsettling. Like a gambler who’s forgotten the odds, I keep coming back to thoughts of her, hoping for a different outcome.
I don’t even have her number. We exist in this strange dance of waves and impromptu visits, like we’re playing at being neighbors in some quaint suburban fantasy. I shut down the feeds with more force than necessary. I’m driving myself mad and I need to get out of here.
Rushing to my car, I lower the roof and remove my hat—it’s impractical for what I have in mind—and slide behind the wheel.
The contrast between the garage’s climate-controlled darkness and the assault of Vegas heat is shocking as I emerge onto the Strip, tourist crowds squinting in the glare.
I’m plotting my escape route—past the MSG Sphere, onto the 215, then out toward Red Rock Canyon where the real desert begins.
My hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary.
Some people drink or turn to drugs when they feel control slipping away. Some gamble. Some shop. I drive.
Vegas falls away in my rearview mirror as I push the car faster.
The speedometer climbs past eighty, ninety.
Heat ripples rise from the asphalt, making the road ahead shimmer.
These escapes are rare—I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt this need since I moved to Vegas.
Back in Greece, I would drive to the coast, find some deserted stretch of shoreline where the rhythm of waves would drown out my thoughts.
Here, I’ve learned to let the combination of speed and desert serve the same purpose.
The mountains rise ahead, stark and magnificent in the brutal daylight.
A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, riding thermal currents.
Out here, the road stretches empty in both directions.
That’s the beauty of the desert—you can see other vehicles coming from miles away.
There’s no risk to anyone but myself. Just me and my beloved car testing our limits against the landscape.
I know these roads intimately—every curve, every rise, every place where civilization surrenders to wilderness.
The Aston Martin responds to my touch like a thoroughbred horse, eager for more speed.
We dance together along the empty road, pushing boundaries, seeking that edge where skill meets risk.
A sharp turn appears, and I take it fast, maybe too fast. The back end slides, tires losing their grip. For one heart-stopping moment, the car fishtails wildly. My hands move instinctively, correcting the slide, but it’s closer than I like. The car skids to a stop, dust billowing around us.
I sit there, breathing fast, hands trembling on the wheel, heart hammering. The pulse in my temples is so loud it drowns out everything else. That was stupid. Reckless.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, letting out a long breath.
“Enough.” The adrenaline has done its job, cleared my head of thoughts I’d rather not examine too closely.
The mountains loom silent and indifferent, unmoved by my small dramas.
Their ancient faces have witnessed countless human struggles, and mine is just one more brief moment in their endless timeline.
I know a turnoff ahead, a viewpoint where the valley spreads out below. I downshift, feeling the car’s power through my hands on the wheel, and take the dirt road carefully. The viewpoint is empty and beyond the windshield, heat waves distort the landscape while the sun sinks.
Nothing but wilderness stretches before me—layer upon layer of mountains fading into the distance, deep canyons carved by ancient waters, vast expanses of desert scrub. The harsh glare has softened, painting the rocks in shades of amber and rose. It’s so still out here, not a hint of a breeze.
A family of quail scurries past, the babies following their mother in single file. They pause at the edge of a scrubby bush, the mother alert for danger while her chicks dart for cover. Nature’s own little power dynamic—protect and control, lead and follow.
The sun touches the western mountains, and suddenly everything is gold. The light paints the rock faces, transforming the landscape into something almost otherworldly.
Does Ruby ever watch sunsets? I doubt it.
“Stop it,” I tell myself. The desert swallows my words. This isn’t why I came here. I didn’t drive into the desert to think about Ruby Walsh. I came here to escape thoughts of her.
I’m alone by choice, by design, by necessity. The club provides everything I need—power, pleasure, the illusion of intimacy without its complications. I need to keep it that way.
The sun slips lower and violet shadows pool in the canyon depths while the peaks still flame with light.
A raven calls somewhere below, its voice echoing off the cliff faces.
This is the magic hour, when the desert reveals its secrets.
When the line between earth and sky blurs, when anything seems possible.
The time when decisions made in daylight’s harsh reality might shift.
But I know better. Love can be dangerous—I learned that lesson well enough in another life. Better to trust in what you can control.
I watch until the last rays fade from the highest peaks, until the first stars appear in the deepening blue above.
Time to head back and hold Mark’s hand through Pankration Night in the Palestra.
The massive arena, designed to echo the ancient Greek wrestling schools, has become the Olympus’s main attraction on Tuesday nights.
Mark gets nervous handling these events without my input.
Our modern take on the combat sport draws a particular crowd—mostly MMA enthusiasts, all wanting to prove themselves in what they call “the purest form of fighting.” The combination of ancient tradition and modern egos can be volatile, especially once the betting and drinking start.
While our security team is excellent, some situations require a more diplomatic touch, making sure no one gets too creative with the wrestling rules.
The stars multiply across the sky as I get into my car. My mind isn’t clear, but it’s a little calmer. The desert’s done its job.