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I could date someone like Elise, build a serious relationship, have purpose in life, maybe help her with training, as I could teach her new tricks Heracles didn't know. Everyone knew the demigod who trained the Lowe family. But that was the worst possible idea, because dating her would send me right back to Mount Olympus, where I would have to play God again, lose my freedom to do as I pleased and when I wanted. So around Elise, I felt like I could wax poetic. I'd write her a sonnet that would do her proud. Not that shit poor one that had poured out of my mouth like something crafted by a lovesick fool. Or I could compose a piece of music that would express what the symphony of my soul felt when I looked at her. Fuck. What the hell was wrong with me? Two hundred and fifty years. That was how long I had managed to stick around the humans and not fall for any damn mortal. But Elise wasn't just any mortal. She wasn't even technically a mortal, if you considered the special powers Zeus had bestowed on her family. But Zeus wasn't going to see that little technicality as a loophole for my pending punishment when I bent the rules. Elise, no matter how intoxicating, was not worth giving up my life on earth.
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I pressed every rigid hard line of my body into all her soft curves. Overwhelmed, aching in a way I hadn't in years. Like maybe if I got close enough, things might not hurt so bad. Max, it was all a whimper when she sank her fingers into my shoulders. And her touch became just as desperate as mine, her kiss just as mad. Her hands coasted from my shoulders down my arms, hitting my biceps where we were skin on skin. The contact burned in the most blissful kind of way. And I sucked in a shattered breath when she was pushing up under the sleeves of my t-shirt, fingertips tracing across the tattoo etched on my arm. I groaned, in pleasure, in agony, I didn't know. Rinna, I grated at her mouth. I cupped that bewitching face in my hands before I glided my palms down her neck and tipped back her head. I don't even fucking know you. How is it possible you have this kind of hold on me? The words were a jumble of incoherency. I moved my mouth down over her jaw. I was sure I was getting drunk on her breaths, getting lost in the crash of her heart that hammered with the thready beat of mine. My hands trailed down that body, that body that had taunted me since the moment I'd seen her come barreling out of her grandmother's door. I traced her shoulders, moving across the hollow of her throat, trailing down her chest. Maybe I'd known it then, that this girl would wreck me, because I could feel myself coming apart piece by piece. She sighed a barely audible, yes. Fuck, what was I doing? But my dick was so unbored, and all the reasons that this was the damned worst idea I'd had in years went galloping into the distance. I palmed one of those gorgeous tits, her nipple firm beneath the thin fabric of her tank. She gasped and pushed harder into my touch. Shit, I muttered. Maybe it was that very second that insanity took me over, because I didn't care that we were outside, that someone might hear us.
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Marlena turned to face me. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "'Second of the fourth has offered to show us her medical bay on the de la Rallou flagship, the G.C.P. Bayhound.' "'Sounds?' I paused for a second. "'Great!' I finally said. In reality my mind was racing through all the myriad ways an inexperienced marine like myself might get himself in trouble aboard a de la Rallou flagship, especially when said marine had no opportunity to review the cultural database on de la Rallou customs and etiquette. I turned to Lt. Ben who, as a cybernetic being whose life had been saved using human engrams merged with his de la Rallou brain, was the closest thing to a cross-cultural expert we could have. "'Sir, I'm not familiar with your people's customs. Are we likely to cause an incident if we do this?' Ben grinned. "'A grin on a large six-footed canine can be an intimidating sight. It certainly was for me.' "'Not to worry, Ensign. I've known the Admiral since she was a pup. I'm sure most of her crew has had their rabies shots.' I raised an eyebrow in alarm. "'That was a joke, Ensign. Relax. Do you have any chocolate?' "'Uh, no,' I answered hesitantly. "'Can you get some?' Lt. Ben persisted. "'I imagine I could. Why?' "'You bring some chocolate with you, and you'll be fine. Trust me.' Now at this point I should mention the hairs on my arms began to raise a little bit. This is always a bad sign, because it means trouble is headed my way like a bear to honey. It's okay if you are the bear, but I was feeling much more like the bee. As Marlena and I headed back to the others in the tram waiting line, several things happened at once. First, a series of loud explosions sounded off in the distance. Immediately the wind picked up. Understand, in a dome on the moon, a wind is never a good sign. Second, the air was filled with the sound of numerous decompression alarms. Third, the empty tether tram finally descended and arrived. There was a mad rush to board it. The tram was self-pressurized and was the nearest emergency shelter. Those of us who have been raised in pressurized cities, either on the moon or on Mars, had had drilled into us at a very early age how to respond to depressurization emergencies. I pushed Marlena forcibly towards the tram. She was still trying to figure out what the noise was all about. She didn't yet understand that the very fact that she could hear the noise change in pitch meant that she was running out of time as the air pressure fell.
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Eddie's Tavern This is where I come to try to forget my pain. There's so much of it here that isn't mine. It should make me feel better, but it doesn't. And yet here I am, same as always, Saturday night at Eddie's. There's no neon sign out front, nothing to advertise this as a place to come drown your sorrows. And that makes sense, because sorrows aren't drowned here, not all the way, only pushed under and held for a while. The moon is a nicotine-stained fingernail as I step out of my truck, ponder the feel of my gut straining against my belt, and ease the door shut behind me. I'm getting fat, and I suppose, as they say, like death and taxes, I'm shit out of luck if I expect to be surprised by it. Man eats as much chili as I do without chasing it down with a few laps around the barn, well, meat doesn't evict itself. I start on the path to the tavern door and see pale orbs behind the smoked glass turn in my direction. Nothing slips past these people, quiet or not. The door doesn't creak, though it's old enough to have earned that luxury. Instead, it sighs. I sigh too, but I don't share the door's regret. For me, I'm just glad to be out of the cold and among friends, even if they mightn't look at me the same way. Even if, in the dark of night when sleep's a distant memory, I really don't think of them the same way either.
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Frank spotted a black woman in the rear corner, rail thin in her loud magenta blouse and slim black skirt, Rona Jefferson, frowning at her wristwatch, then sipping her coffee, toying with a box of Marlboros on the table next to her purse. He snaked through the narrow aisles to her table, introduced himself, and pulled up a chair. Her dark eyes bored into his. Where's Canyon? Hostility oozing from every pore. She wanted to talk to Miller, not his au fait partner. Too bad. Dealing with a family emergency. He's married, you know. Got a wife and two kids. Fibbing to let Miller off the hook. She looked at him, large eyes and a narrow face, thin lips and coal-black skin, not beautiful but attractive in an edgy sort of way. Her lip curled, a disdainful quirk. And you're married to the job? He touched his aching cheekbone, working to suppress his irritation. It's been a long night, Rona. Who's your tipster? I'll talk to Canyon tomorrow. She picked up the box of Marlboros and dropped it in her purse, clearly intending to leave. Hold it. You got information. Give it to me now. We're working these murders twelve, fourteen hours a day. Tomorrow won't be any different. Who's your informant? Her lips quirked in annoyance, but she stayed seated, her eyes dark pools of distrust. Kitty Nevis. Three years ago I did a feature on prostitution in the French Quarter. Kitty was helpful and we kept in touch. She called me yesterday. All this hype about the Tongue Killer is freaking her out. Is she black? White? Why? Does it matter? Nostrils flaring with indignation. It might. Black prostitutes and white prostitutes tend to attract different clientele. And you're going to tell me about a john, right? Okay, so she's white and so was the john. Can I tell the damn story? She fired like a bomb, ready to explode. He studied her eyes, thinking she might be on something, but they looked normal. No pinprick pupils from a coke high. He gestured with his hand for her to continue. Kitty met this guy in a bar on Bourbon Street, took him home and they had sex. Then he told her to stick out her tongue. When she did, he tried to cut it off. She screamed for help and he ran away.
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The land awoke with the sun, threw off its dark blanket, and stepped into the day. Caspian's eyes watered in the cool, dry wind, reflecting the blue vision of the vast western sky. The autumn grasses on the broad, treeless plain sheened with frost, rippling from the foreground through the horizon. His deepest memory felt the surge of ancient dun and russet-tinged seas crossed through a timeless journey down to that moment. Sam, time to roll out, he said softly, looking back at the yawning lump of his partner still lying in his camp-bed. Kicking off the tarp, Sam rolled to his side and gazed a moment on that hard piece of ground, then reluctantly set up and pulled on his boots, as if some part of him knew he would not live out the day. Still drugged by sleep, doubtful of why and where he had awakened, he watched as Caspian set about breaking camp with the crisp alacrity of a soldier long drilled in the routine arts of harsh campaigns. Each task performed with a skilled economy, best suited to a portrait in pen and ink, the slashing play of light and shadow along his lean, angular frame, India-black thick hair that swept in feathering waves over his ears and down his neck, the ridge of his once straight nose bent in sharp fusion, while the broad arabesque of his moustache added to the strange sensuality of lips set in a near-perpetual smile above the subtle cleft of his well-drawn chin. And though only twenty-six, grains of character were etched deep in the lines of his face, flesh that bore the stamp of endurance, scarred and leathery. But finally, and most importantly, a dash of blue for the eyes, a blue intensity so uncommon it seemed unnatural. Like the sun himself, thought Sam, blinking away from the dual splendor of that blue-eyed presence and the brilliant sunrise, welcome their gaze, but damned if I look them dead on. His dominant not through glint of threat, but through sheer vitality, a flesh too intimate with its spirit. Tillman, on the other hand, was a rather frail man, with tiny dull gray eyes and tufts of reddish-brown hair matting his narrow head, a waning spirit, but a true and loyal friend. Whatever Sam lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for by his tenacity. A deft and tireless skinner, a task he took to quite naturally, for he had once sheared sheep for a living back in his native Iowa. Jim, we've been near a week out of haze and only seen sign. Why are you suppose them buff are, eh? Caspian stood from tying his bedroll and briefly scanned the horizon. Out there, Sam, waiting. Found fresh sign this morning. Found it with my boot. Probably just pickets and stragglers, but old Shaggy's out there, saving his pellage for our pelf. Maybe today, eh, Jim? Possible. Possible and most likely.
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The story of life on earth is written in the rocks. True, this is a history book torn and twisted, with remnants of pages scattered about, but it is there, and significant portions are still legible. Paleontologists have worked tirelessly to piece together the tangible historical evidence for evolution, the fossil record. When we admire breathtaking fossils, such as the great dinosaur skeletons that grace our natural history museums, it is easy to forget just how much effort has gone into discovering, extracting, preparing, and describing them. Time-consuming, expensive, and risky expeditions to remote and inhospitable corners of the world are often involved. My University of Chicago colleague Paul Serino, for instance, studies African dinosaurs, and many of the most interesting fossils lie smack in the middle of the Sahara Desert. He and his colleagues have braved political troubles, bandits, disease, and, of course, the rigors of the desert itself, to discover remarkable new species, such as Afrovenator abacensis and Jobaria tiguadensis, specimens that have helped rewrite the story of dinosaur evolution. Such discoveries involve true dedication to science, many years of painstaking work, persistence, and courage, as well as a healthy dose of luck. But many paleontologists would risk their lives for finds like these. To biologists, fossils are as valuable as gold dust. Without them, we'd have only a sketchy outline of evolution. All we could do would be to study living species and try to infer evolutionary relationships through similarities in form, development, and DNA sequence. We would know, for example, that mammals are more closely related to reptiles than to amphibians. But we wouldn't know what their common ancestors looked like. We'd have no inkling of giant dinosaurs, some as large as trucks, or of our early Australopithecine ancestors, small-brained but walking erect. Much of what we'd like to know about evolution would remain a mystery. Fortunately, advances in physics, geology, and biochemistry, along with the daring and persistence of scientists throughout the world, have provided these precious insights into the past.
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Success on social media is about having the mindset of always listening, helping others, and adding value. You need to be yourself, selectively transparent, and show your human side. Being genuine and allowing your personality to shine for the world to see is a requirement and not an option. This is precisely where I see most business owners, professionals, and entrepreneurs drop the ball. If you don't fully embrace the above mindset on social media, then you're wasting your time and setting yourself up for failure. Another aspect of social media is appreciating and embracing the fact that building relationships and marketing your brand on the digital platforms isn't a sprint or marathon, like many experts say. In reality, there is no finish line. I believe that building your brand on social media is more like a good exercise routine or healthy diet. It's an ongoing and always changing process. If done right, it's also fun and personally and professionally rewarding.
