Filthy Gods_American Gods Page 2

  Like a man sculpted by the gods.

  James Rhodes had ranked 4th.

  The James Dean of Yale—classic dark blond locks, an easy, killer smile, and a gleam in his blue-blue eyes. One flash of his legendary smirk and he had anyone wrapped around his finger. He partied hard and fucked harder. Every weekend there was a party hosted by him; wild and expensive, destruction woke in his path. He was reckless, addicted to anything that would endanger his very existence—street racing, drugs, fights, booze, jumping off cliffs—he did them all with the kind of rare carpe diem attitude that led to an early death.

  I had heard that he had crashed a car into a tree on the Main Green a few years ago on campus. He had been high and over twice the alcohol limit. All of that—the charges, the scandal—vanished overnight.

  His father, a lawyer that ran a firm dedicated to famous politicians and celebrities— wielded money and power like a third hand. The law firm had been around since the 1890s. James coasted through classes, but his grades said something more about him. He was intelligent without even trying. If he applied himself, he would be deadly.

  I knew his mother had passed away when he was younger so it was just the two of them, father and son. People said James was set to take over the law firm, but I couldn’t imagine that ever happening. Not the wild boy in front of me.

  He ran a hand through his golden locks, sunglasses I was sure were hiding fresh bruises from a fight as his bottom lip was busted.

  And the last of the American Gods, Arsen Vasiliev.

  The Russian god had ranked 7th.

  Below his name—and the picture of his steel, beautiful features—was the reason why. As much as he was powerful and rich, he was terrifying. His cool dark gaze and his permanent scowl made him very unapproachable. Not to mention the rumors that ran wild about him. Gossip about his family running a deadly business, one of blood and drugs and weapons—connecting the rich with criminals. He had been born in America, but he spent his summers in Russia. Because of that, he spoke Russian fluently. I’d even overheard Gabe and him exchange in Russian a few times at school. Whatever they were discussing, I didn’t know.

  I had heard of Arsen’s family estates. Salutation Island sat on the North Shore of Long Island, not so far from New York City. The island was said to have six houses on forty-six acres of land, along with ten acres of underwater rights and a twenty-eight acre pond. Only people with an invitation could attend their elaborate, exclusive parties.

  As I watched Arsen scowl, I saw Nathaniel cross the beach and pat James’ arm. My eyes couldn’t help but rake over his lithe, muscular frame.

  Although he wasn’t one of the American Gods, Nathaniel Radcliffe had still ranked 2nd.

  My jaw clenched, my teeth grinding.

  As soon as the pamphlet had made its rounds, the girls at Yale had gone wild. I saw firsthand how so many of them craved power, craved rich and successful men more than their own success. The list became one for the most eligible bachelors to secure. The boys not on the list became agitated and aggressive with the others on it.

  And the members of the club ate it up like candy.

  They were desired, they were stalked and chased, and they loved it.

  Everyone talked about the pamphlet like it was some sacred text and the more I heard about it, the more annoyed I became.

  I hadn’t thought of the repercussions as I typed up my anger for the Yale Herald.

  How I had wanted to draw attention to how disgusting we were behaving. How I wanted to chase my own dreams instead of chasing an entitled rich boy.

  The next day when the paper released, I had found everyone staring at me with odd looks. They’d whispered and gawked as I walked to my morning class.

  “Well, aren’t you Miss Perfect,” one girl had snapped at me when I sat down in the lecture hall.

  I felt the entire class glare my way. The change had been sudden and odd.

  I had expected more comments, more insults, but after my next class, no one approached me or even looked at me.

  “When they were in boarding school,” Mandy whispered, chasing my memories away and bringing me back to reality. “They went on a hiking trip for their PA class. They were fifteen back then and Gabe, Arsen, and James along with another boy called Alexander Archibald were grouped together for the activity. Well, the news articles say they were sailing in a boat making their way to their first checkpoint when a storm caught up with them. The boat capsized and they all went in the water. Alexander panicked and, trying to get back onboard, started to push James underwater. According to the boys, Alexander had been drinking that morning before the activity and was too drunk to swim properly or stay afloat long enough for the guys to grab him. Gabe and Arsen managed to set the boat right. Once back on board, they gripped James because he was the closest and pulled him back into the boat. The storm was still beating down hard on them and Alexander was getting farther and farther away, spluttering. They couldn’t get to him fast enough and he drowned. When they finally washed up on shore, they were lost. The compass and map they’d been given vanished in the water when the boat overturned.”

  My mouth twisted ruefully. I remembered hearing all about it in the news as a girl.

  “They survived like that for ten days, without supplies. James had broken his leg so Gabe and Arsen had to carry him up the mountain and down the other side. Once they were found, all three were sick with pneumonia and taken to the hospital. When the Archibalds heard their son was dead, they called foul play. They believed the boys killed him or left him to die, that he could’ve been saved but the boys chose not to. It was taken to court and all media outlets watched the case like hawks. The boys told their version of the story, and with little proof against them and James’ father as their ruthless lawyer, the court found them not guilty. But…the hype about them didn’t go away. They were boys dressed like grown men, who already knew how to yield words like deadly swords. They’re celebrities now. They did articles, photoshoots, and interviews. And they were only teenagers then. Forbes was the one that coined the name American Gods and it stuck ever since to the three of them.”

  “Whoa,” Danielle whispered, staring at the group of men.

  “We should keep moving,” I said, gesturing to the cart.

  Mandy sighed but they both turned and Danielle pushed the cart toward the pool deck. A few women lounged in the sun, sunglasses and hats shadowing them from the burning heat.

  I caught sight of a woman dressed in a white pantsuit, her dark hair sleeked back into a tight bun, watching us.

  “Juliette,” someone spoke behind me.

  I jerked, pressing the dirty towels to my chest and stared back at Nathaniel.

  He lazily stroked a white cotton towel along his stomach, bringing my eyes to his dripping wet abs, muscles cut and sharp. A dark happy trail disappearing into his swim trunks, low on his narrow hips, teasing the deep V line. I had never seen him so naked, only in his tailored suits of navy and black. Despite my best intentions, I had imagined what his body would look like underneath those rich fabrics, but it killed me to admit it.

  He was better than the muted image my imagination had come up with.

  My breaths came in unsteady and it took me a moment to realize what I was doing. Staring at his stomach, so close to his swim trunks, his large hand pressing the towel to his skin.

  My eyes darted back to his, but it was too late. I had been caught red-handed and he was smirking—full-on grinning like he had won one of our merciless debates.

  My ears burned with embarrassment. “What?” I said sharply as panic settled in my chest. I realized quickly after that the tone was highly unprofessional. I couldn’t talk to him like that, not here. He was a guest. Hell, he was basically my boss. One day, he would own this palace. I wasn’t his fellow student here or his opponent in a debate, I was a servant, a maid. My pride died and in a much calmer, subdued voice, I ask, “What can I help you with?”

  He still wore a grin, but it had
warmed as his own eyes traced my figure in the white outfit.

  My skin prickled with awareness. Like his eyes were his hands and he was touching me—slowly, carefully, skilfully.

  “What are you looking at?” My voice came out breathy and labored, but I steeled my features when his eyes returned to my face and he stepped closer.

  The nakedness of him, the wetness of his skin as he skimmed his fingers along my pristine shirt sleeve threatened my composure. This was worse than our debates. He was stepping over a dangerous line. A line I had hoped I had cemented long ago.

  “Examining my prey, sweetheart,” he whispered, again, so calculating, so soft and hard all at once.

  I held in a gasp and glared past him, eyeing his entourage, the American Gods, watching us. James flashed his teeth at me.

  “Experto crede,” Nathaniel’s deep, cool voice said. “Don’t you think?”

  My body froze and tingled at his words. At the Latin phrase used on me. Latin he knew I understood from our classes together.

  Trust the expert.

  That bastard.

  Before I could even respond, he moved past me.

  Gabe gave me one cool look and James winked. Arsen didn’t even bother looking at me twice and kept walking. I was left breathless.

  A few words from him and I was flustered.

  “Holy shit,” Mandy whisper-shouted, gripping my arm. “Do you know Nathaniel Radcliffe?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Only from school.”

  I didn’t dream about him or imagine him when I touched myself.

  No.

  But he was so full of himself, I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought I did.

  Nathaniel Radcliffe was the enemy.

  Point blank.

  I felt someone watching me and looked up to see the same woman again.

  And as I stared back at her, her grim expression making my stomach tighten painfully, I knew exactly who she was.

  Mrs. Hawthorne.

  As the day neared night, I couldn’t wait to remove my heels. Again, heels were required for our uniform and today, I had fully suffered with them.

  I was helping out in the dining hall when one of the waiters tapped my shoulder.

  “Juliette Monroe?” His brows creased as he looked down at me.

  I placed a pile of plates on the steel kitchen counter and faced him. “Yes?”

  “You’re requested in the right wing,” he said. “To bring more whiskey.”

  I frowned. “But only men are allowed back there.”

  As much as Mrs. Hawthorne had updated the country club to be a family resort, it still held firm traditions and belief that there should be a place no women were allowed. It was an out-dated tradition, but it was one I didn’t feel comfortable breaking. Not if it got me on Mrs. Hawthorne’s bad side.

  He shrugged and walked by me, returning to his task.

  I bit my bottom lip, staring at the clean, white tiles beneath my feet. If I didn’t go, whoever sent for me would be pissed.

  I straightened, fixing my pencil skirt and found another bottle of whiskey stored in the storage room.

  I left the kitchen, a heavy weight on my chest and the farther I walked down the elegant halls, the heavier the weight became. The grandness of the country club dwarfed every house I had ever lived in and coming from the foster care system, I lived in plenty.

  Some decent, some crawling with lice and mold.

  I lived through it though and that chaotic lifestyle had formed my determination to work hard for a better life.

  My heels clapped against the ancient marble floors and I held my head high. Only a simple break existed between the rest of the country club and the men’s wing. Two dark wood doors, carvings of vines and peonies in its surface.

  With one deep breath, I passed through. Into a world of men and power and politics and history. Presidents had strolled through these halls, discussing the prohibition or World War II or even as far back as Teddy Roosevelt. Since the 1890s, this had been a place of change and revolution and enlightenment.

  And I was inside of it.

  It was nothing short of thrilling.

  Several rooms lined the hallway, but each door was open and the rooms empty. Portraits of men lined the walls, men of importance that had been a part of the club’s history.

  And they all seemed to be watching me closely.

  It felt the same way when I first had my tour at Yale. So much power and legend existed there and here.

  When I saw a door was shut and light shone from underneath, I stepped closer.

  I tapped my knuckles once against the door.

  “Come in,” a voice said.

  I swallowed, fixing my blouse and turned the knob.

  I had expected to see at least two or three men in the room.

  Instead, I only saw him.

  My pulse spiked, my hand still holding on firmly to the doorknob, as if ready to slam it back shut.

  Nathaniel sat in a leather chair, one powerful leg crossed over the other, his chin resting in his palm, fingers framing his smiling mouth.

  “You requested whiskey,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice even, but I heard it. I heard the hiss sneak through my words and I clenched my jaw tighter as he smirked.

  “I requested Juliette Monroe,” he said, his forefinger moving with the shift of his lips. “And whiskey.”

  “I could get fired if someone finds me back here,” I snapped, gesturing around the room. So masculine in leather and dark oak wood and portraits of more powerful men glaring down at me. The office was paneled in Cherrywood and lined on one side with long, rectangular stained glass windows. So elegant, so refined and timeless.

  “Why are you working here, Juliette?” he asked and by the gleam in his dark eyes it was clear he knew the answer, but he wanted me to say it.

  I ground my teeth and shifted the weight onto my other leg. There was no point in lying, I’d only look like a fool. “Because I need the money to stay at Yale.”

  He arched a brow. “Rumor was, you had a large trust fund at your expense.”

  I cringed at that. I hadn’t started the rumor, but I hadn’t corrected anyone. People thought I was rich and had family in the south of France. I couldn’t bear to tell the entire campus of Yale that it was all a lie.

  That I was a girl from Pennsylvania who had been shipped to different foster homes after my mother was killed in a car crash and didn’t have a penny to her name.

  “Rumor was…incorrect,” I whispered, but I didn’t lower my head. No, I stared right back at him.

  I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.

  He hummed at that and uncrossed his legs. “I’ll negotiate with you.”

  I lifted a brow. “About what?”

  He stayed perfectly still and silent, staring back at me. Unlike most people, Nathaniel liked silence. He enjoyed watching people squirm. “About my silence. That no man or woman at Yale will know what you’re hiding.”

  The bastard knew exactly where to strike. My chest pounded and I licked my lips. Biting back harsh words, I asked, “In exchange for what?”

  That earned the corner of his mouth quirking. “I know you hate me. I can feel it from a mile away.”

  I dug my nails into my palm. “Maybe if you weren’t such an ass, Nathaniel—”

  “We’re both competitive,” he said, cutting me off. “We hold the highest marks at Yale,” he said, reaching for his drink on a nearby table. He let the ice cubes hit the glass, the sound filling the dimly lit room. “We both want to conquer. We both want to achieve the careers we desire and we’ll stop at nothing to achieve every single one of our goals.”

  My throat felt too tight as I watched him, a man, speaking so calmly, so delicately, but stirring an impatient passion inside of me. That was the thing with Nathaniel. I thought I knew him, how he enraged me and then he brought out another, hidden emotion.

  Lust.

  Want.

  Hope.

  Him speaking of
success and conquering and achieving my dreams sent a shiver down my spine.

  He was speaking a language I knew all too well.

  “I think for us both to benefit in our futures,” he continued, taking a gulp of whiskey, the ice crashing together and placed it back on the table. His ocean eyes drank me in and I thought perhaps, just staring back at Nathaniel, I could get drunk off of him. “We need to rid ourselves of distractions.”

  Silence engulfed us and I gawked at him.

  I went to open my mouth, but I closed it and wrinkled my brows. “And how, exactly, do you expect to do that?” I asked, skeptic.

  Again, my voice shook, ever so slightly, but he caught it and like a lion catching its prey, he dug his teeth in. “By letting me conquer you, Juliette.”

  I let out a dry laugh at that. “Conquer me?” I spluttered, jabbing a finger to my chest. “You are not conquering me, Nathaniel. This is the twenty-first century, and I’m no damsel in need of conquering.”

  “I am aware of what century it is, Juliette,” he said evenly and stood. By that simple move, I felt tiny, delicate.

  He was well over six-foot-four and the way he filled out his suit jacket and pants should have been a crime in itself.

  He moved gracefully toward me, shattering what little concentration I had.

  “I am also aware of the tension between us,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side as he scanned my reddening features. “It’s destructive, to say the least. It affects my focus because you’re very, very distracting. And I don’t do distractions, sweetheart.”

  I shook my head at him. “If you’re going to blame all women for distracting you, Nathaniel, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

  “Women don’t distract me.” He moved closer and we only had a tiny space between us. I could feel the heat from his large body and my knees shook. “You distract me, Juliette, and I need to remedy that as soon as possible.”