𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 (Annabeth X Malereader)

[14] A God buys us cheeseburgers

"You kids have money to pay for it?" Grover's lower lip quivered. I was afraid he would start bleating, or worse, start eating the linoleum. Percy seemed to be on his last legs. Annabeth looked ready to pass out from hunger. I was about to guilt the waitress into paying for us when a rumble shook the whole building. A loud roar of a motorcycle vibrated down the street, and a massive motorbike the size of a small car pulled into the car park.

All conversation in the diner stopped. The motorcycle's headlight glared red. Its gas tank had flames painted on it, and a shotgun holster riveted to either side, complete with shotguns. The seat was leather —but leather that looked like . . . well, Caucasian human skin.

The guy on the bike would've made pro wrestlers run for Mama. He was dressed in a red muscle shirt and black jeans and a black leather duster, with a hunting knife strapped to his thigh. He wore red wraparound shades, and he had the cruellest, most brutal face I'd ever seen— handsome, I guess, but wicked—with an oily black crew cut and cheeks that were scarred from many, many fights. The weird thing was, I felt like I'd seen his face somewhere before.

As he walked into the diner, a hot, dry wind blew through the place. All the people rose, as if they were hypnotized, but the biker waved his hand dismissively and they all sat down again. Everybody went back to their conversations. The waitress blinked, as if somebody had just pressed the rewind button on her brain.

"You kids have money to pay for it?" She asked again.

"It's on me." The biker grunted. He slid into our booth, which was way too small for him, and crowded Annabeth against the window. He looked up at the waitress, who was gaping at him. "Are you still here?" He pointed at her, and she stiffened. She turned as if she'd been spun around, then marched back toward the kitchen.

The biker looked at me. I couldn't see his eyes behind the red shades, but weird feelings started to pool in my stomach. Anger, resentment, bitterness. I wanted to pick a fight with somebody. Which was NOT a good idea for a child of Hestia. I swallowed my thoughts, attempting to regain my composure.

He gave Percy a wicked grin. "So you're Seaweed's kid, huh?" He smirked.

Percy seemed to clench his fists on the table, gritting his teeth. "What's it to you?" Annabeth's eyes flashed him a warning.

"Percy, this is—" The biker raised his hand.

"S'okay," he said. "I don't mind a little attitude. Long as you remember who's the boss. You know who I am, little cousin?" Then it struck me why this guy looked familiar. He had the same vicious sneer as some of the kids at Camp Half-Blood, the ones from cabin five.

"You're Clarisse's dad," I said. "Ares, god of war." Ares grinned and took off his shades. Where his eyes should've been, there was only fire, empty sockets glowing with miniature nuclear explosions.

"That's right bud." He smirked. "And you must be Hestia's son, huh." He seemed surprised. "Gotta say, I was not expecting ol' Firewood to lose her cherry to a regular mortal."

"Her what?" I replied, confused.

He grinned, sliding his shades back on. "You'll understand when you're older, kid. Heard your little posse were in town. I got a little proposition for you." The waitress came back with heaping trays of food— cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and chocolate shakes. Ares handed her a few gold drachmas. She looked nervously at the coins.

"But, these aren't . . ." Ares pulled out his huge knife and started cleaning his fingernails.

"Problem, sweetheart?" The waitress swallowed, then left with the gold.

"You can't do that," Percy told Ares. "You can't just threaten people with a knife." Ares laughed.

"Are you kidding? I love this country. Best place since Sparta. Don't you carry a weapon, punk? You should. Dangerous world out there. Which brings me to my proposition. I need you to do me a favour."