Goddess of Forgetfulness

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Once again Forgetty was amazed by the hotel chosen for her and the other DJs by the event team. Yes, each stop on the tour made a crap load of money, but this time they’d put her up in a penthouse suite of the Belmond Copacabana Palace, a five-star hotel overlooking the ocean. Another amazing place that won’t ever be the same again, unless I find a mate. She suddenly looked forward to returning to LA one last time, to see their flagship nightclub, the Randy Unicorn, filled with happy customers. Hopefully, she’d make it there before time ran out.

  That evening, she took a bubble bath in the huge tub while she waited for room service—two orders of chocolate chip cookies, a pitcher of caipirinha—the national drink, which tasted sort of like a mojito—and a grilled cheese. ’Cause hey, why not? When you’re a goddess, you don’t have to worry about weight, health, or your liver getting old.

  After her bath, she curled up on the plush khaki couch, her warm, relaxed body wrapped in the softest guest robe ever, and she flipped through the channels. Most everything was in Portuguese, which was hunky-dory with her. The only language she couldn’t get cozy with was Ancient Greek. Bad memories. It was a time in her life when all her brethren were getting a day of the year named after them and temples built in their honor. Humans told stories about each of them and made offerings of fruit.

  I got nothin’. She had never felt so invisible and useless as during that era. Thank gods that whole obscure-deity-worshipping thing is over. Humans had mostly forgotten about the gods, so now they were all on the same unglamorous boat. Okay, India being the exception. All right, and China and Japan and…

  “Oh, bollocks,” she grumbled under her breath and flipped to a soap opera before grabbing her plate of gooey grilled cheese. “Yum…” Her eyes rolled inside her head. After today’s almost epic tragedy, this was exactly what she’d needed.

  A loud knock jolted her from her cheesy Zen moment.

  She looked over her shoulder at the door, thinking the room service people must’ve forgotten something—not so unusual in her world. Most take-out orders resulted in getting nothing or half of the order correct. Pepperoni pizza? No. You get cheese, lady. You want lo mein with veggies and pork? How about egg rolls. She’d become accustomed to getting whatever and making do. Only tonight, the staff had brought her everything she’d requested.

  She got up, went to the door, and peeked through the tiny hole. A bellhop stood there with a giant bouquet of red roses and a clear vase.

  Odd.

  She jerked open the door. “Yes?”

  “Uh, these are for you.” He held them out. “I think.”

  With hesitation, she reached for them. “Who are they from?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Oh, let me guess. You forgot.” Why did she bother to ask?

  “They were left at the front desk with your room number.” He looked up toward the ceiling. “Where am I?”

  Ugh. “You’re leaving.” With flowers in hand, she closed the door. The man would be fine in a few seconds.

  She gave one of the buds a whiff, inhaling the sweet tangy scent of the flowers. It had been ages since she’d had roses and that was only because she’d bought them for herself. No wait. Those were forget-me-nots—her favorites.

  She peeked inside the bouquet to find a tiny card nestled among the leaves. She set the flowers down on the little table next to the couch and opened it. Inside, it simply said Sorry.

  “Sorry?” What the hell? Sorry for what? Then it dawned on her. “Ah. Acan must’ve sent them.” He wanted to cheer her up after her horrible flight. His new mate, Margarita, truly was having a positive effect.

  With that, Forgetty settled in for the night in the luxurious king-sized bed. She didn’t need to sleep, but like eating, she found the activity enjoyable. She liked shutting down her mind and allowing it to wander the cosmos for a few hours, almost the same sensation as when she was back in her realm. Free to go anywhere, see anything—just exist.

  She closed her eyes, drifting off into a dream about lying on a beach of white sand, the warm sun on her face and the gentle breeze floating off the ocean. She could practically taste the salt in the air and hear the waves swishing.

  Suddenly, the warmth went away, and when she looked up, a tall, dark figure stood before her, blocking the sun.

  Her skin turned ice cold. Her heart stopped beating. The man had no face, no body—he was just a shell of darkness.

  “Who are you?” she asked, feeling frightened.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Who?” she yelled.

  His hand stretched out, and he reached into her body, ripping something away.

  My soul.

  She gasped, catapulting upright from her hotel room bed. “What the hell was that?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Forgetty had not returned to bed after the strange nightmare of the shadow man. Honestly, she didn’t know what to make of it, but her best guess was that her mind had conjured the images and that they were a metaphor for the evil plague threatening to consume her.

  Dressed in her white go-go dress and boots, her hair in its usual pigtail braids, she glanced at her hands as she took the elevator down to the lobby. Her fingertips felt ice cold, and her stomach wouldn’t stop this horrible churning. Every cell in her body was fighting. It’s only a question of time now.

  Still, she was committed to searching for her mate until the bitter end. What other option was there? She wasn’t permitted to give up even if she wished it—gods were hardwired to protect humankind.

  Once down in the lobby—an elegant, two-story space with an enormous crystal chandelier and bright white pillars—she looked around for her fellow DJs, only to find a man in a black suit holding a sign with a giant question mark.

  That must be for me. Perhaps the bus to the venue isn’t running properly. She walked up to the driver. “That’s me.”

  “Good.” He slid a card from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” Forgetty asked, inspecting the tiny envelope.

  He shrugged.

  She opened it and read the card, which said, More than you’ll ever know.

  Wait. Was this the same handwriting from the card last night that read “sorry”? Sorry. More than you’ll ever know. That was what the two cards said when put together.

  “Okay…” She looked at the man. “And who gave this to you?”

  “Uhhh…” He rubbed his smooth chin, clearly unable to remember.

  The Forgetty side effect.

  “Never mind.” She sighed. Whoever this was would reveal his or herself soon. Maybe it was just some crazy fan who kind of sort of remembered her. And doesn’t know how to write in complete sentences.

  Either way, she’d take the ride, which turned out to be a gleaming black limo.

  Nice, she thought, stretching out in the backseat and helping herself to a glass of champagne. Not that material things truly impressed her. As a god, she’d amassed considerable wealth, which she used to fund various charities such as Alzheimer’s research and ten different clinics that specialized in the care of humans who suffered from amnesia. She felt a special connection to her flock of mortals who no longer possessed the ability to remember. She understood their loneliness and frustration of not having control over one’s life.

  Sucks pig toes.

  On the positive side, her circumstances had taught her to live in the moment. For example, a pleasant conversation with a kind stranger was simply that. No underlying motives, no judgment. It was simply a moment shared, enjoyed, and then gone. Sometimes, when working at her nightclubs, she would watch the masses stream onto the dance floor with heavy hearts, only to be freed from their worries by her presence. For those brief moments, their heartache would take a rest and they would remember how it felt to be happy. When the night was over, they’d return home to whatever fears consumed them, but she knew they would have renewed energy to resolve them, too.

  So it wasn’t all bad being her, but it was difficult.

&
nbsp; My burden to carry, I suppose. Everyone had one. Plus, I love music and being a DJ. Music transcended time, generations, and in some cases, speech. It was the language of the soul. And, frankly, it was why her followers didn’t really forget her. The spirit doesn’t forget. Not truly.

  The driver closed the door of the limo, enclosing her in the quiet, protective shell of the car, which was just what she needed before her big moment on stage. If she bombed again, she would crumple up into a sad little ball and die.

  Please, Universe, don’t do this to me. I’ve been good to you and your flock. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Sadly, she just wasn’t sure her voice had been heard.

  Guess I’ll find out tonight.

  After checking in with her crew, who were all set to transition the stage over to her at exactly midnight, where she would spin for an hour and a half before the finale fireworks, Forgetty decided to take a different approach to her strategy tonight. This time, she would not stand on the stage until after her proposal. In addition, she would make sure the sound system distorted her voice to dampen the deific effect. It was much less likely that the crowd would become hypnotized and forgetful if they merely heard her voice through a synthesizer. In addition, they would not look at her directly prior to the show. A camera crew would show her image. She would use an artificial barrier, and if there were any interested males, they would be instructed to go to the side of the stage and given a backstage pass for the after-party. This way she would have many options to observe them with the other partygoers to determine if there was a connection.

  This time, it’s going to work. I can feel it. He’s out there tonight. For gods’ sake, this was Brazil, the land of hot men filled with passion.

  “Miss…errr…” said the stagehand Waylon. “We are ready for that thing you asked us to do.”

  She gave him a polite nod, stowing her nerves down a deep dark hole. She pulled her braids forward and puckered her freshly glossed red lips.

  With a deep inhale and thorough exhale, she looked at the two cameramen. “Ready.”

  They gave her a nod and started filming.

  “Hello, my fellow—ugh!” Her body launched sideways, landing with a hard thud. Stunned, she vaguely heard the familiar, annoyingly deep male voice berating her, “Yet again, you’re in my fucking way like a terminal moron.”

  She groaned, sensing a fracture in her ribs. “You again?”

  “Your intelligence ceases to amaze me.”

  “Suuuck it,” she groaned. “Hard.”

  “No. You suck it, you clumsy fool!”

  She cracked open one eye. “Seriously, you bodycheck me for the third time, but I should suck it?”

  He shrugged. “For the third time, you’re trying to get my attention by stepping out of nowhere and colliding with me.”

  “As if!” She rolled to her side.

  “As if? As if? I know your cheap little game, woman. If you only knew how many ladies try to get my attention with this breed of tricks.”

  Despite her pain, Forgetty managed to glance over her shoulder and give him the middle finger. “Bite me, dickhead.”

  “Uh, ma’am,” said the cameraman, “do you want us to stop filming?”

  Her eyes dashed to the giant lens pointed at her face. Oh, dear gods of stupidity. They had just broadcasted this entire little episode to fifty thousand people outside. “Turn it off!”

  They did as she asked, and Waylon rushed over to help.

  “Owww…” she whimpered, slowly getting to her feet as he gripped her bare elbow, realizing that too throbbed with pain.

  “You all right?” asked Waylon.

  “That loser roadie assaulted me for a third time.”

  “Which roadie?”

  “The big one with the scowl and long hair.”

  Waylon frowned. “The guy wearing blue jeans and about yea tall?” He held up his hand a few inches above his own head.

  “Yes. The one who acts like a bull in need of castration.”

  Waylon suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” she prodded.

  “That guy is—”

  Suddenly, the stage manager—an English man with tatts galore, wearing torn black jeans—rushed over to them, screaming at the top of his lungs. “What the bloody hell is going on? I’ve got an empty stage over there, you twats!”

  Forgetty looked at the man, wanting to tell him to also suck it, but he was right. We-J, who’d gone on before her, had left the stage minutes ago.

  Forgetty let out a cranky breath. Her body hurt like hell, but she would heal fairly quickly. Yes, she needed to go out there and say something to the crowd.

  And I need to try one last time to find out if anyone might be compatible as my mate. She was about to tell the camera crew to reset, but then the booing started. Tens of thousands of boos.

  “Well? What the bloody hell are you waiting for, a spanking?” screamed the stage manager.

  “Fine. I’m going!” Forgetty threw up her hands. “Put a spotlight on the stage and give me one minute before you start the introduction lights.”

  Everyone looked confused as she marched out to the elevated platform with the turntables and equipment. She swiped the microphone to the side and turned it on. “Testing?” She gave it a quick tap, immediately hearing her voice. “Hey, everyone! Good evening. Sorry about the delay, which I’m sure you’ll all forget about in five seconds, but I have a favor.” The arena fell silent, fifty thousand faces glued to her.

  Dammit, if I get rejected again, this is gonna suck. But she still had that nagging sensation in her gut that he was out there tonight.

  “Okay, this sounds strange, I know, but I’m looking for love. So if any guy out there feels something powerful enough not to forget what I’ve just said, please…” Her voice faded as she felt a set of angry blue eyes drilling into her. Slowly, she turned her head to see the mean-ass roadie glaring at her, his muscled tattooed arms crossed defiantly over his broad chest, his feet apart.

  “Hey, second time is a charm. Don’t let me stop you, woman.”

  Ohmygod… The mic slipped from her hand. He remembers me. He remembers! Like a frying pan in the face, it dawned on her that moments earlier, he had said the word third. His exact words: “For the third time, you’re trying to get my attention…” blah, blah, blah.

  Staring at him in utter disbelief, her mouth fell open. Oh…come. On! This brute? Sure, he was a nice-looking male specimen on the outside, but lordy! Hands down, he was the biggest prick she’d ever met. He was also the first male to ever remember her, aside from her siblings, who only held vague recollections of her (except for Acan). But never in seventy thousand years had a non-deity recalled her.

  I can’t believe this crap. But as she stood there, locking eyes with this bastard of a roadie, there was no denying the truth: He was smirking, once again enjoying her public humiliation.

  I so hate you, Universe.

  She pulled her eyes away from him and stared out across the ocean of blank faces, opening all of her senses to the energy flowing through the air, hoping to gods that the feeling from earlier—the one telling her that he was out there—would lead to a different answer.

  Please be there. Please be there. A sharp tug in her stomach toward stage left led her gaze straight back to Mr. Nasty’s bitter scowl and electric blue eyes.

  Great. Just great. I get to decide between destroying the world or hooking up with this jerk face.

  “Oi! Move your buns, missy!” the stage manager screamed.

  With a snarl on her lips, she stepped off the platform, marched straight toward Mr. Blue Eyes, and stopped two feet in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” he growled. “You have a show to put on.”

  “You,” she pointed to his face, “will be silent.”

  He frowned in question.

  She reached up and pulled his head to hers, planting a lingering kiss on his lips. To her surprise, it felt kind of good. Warm, soft, sensual lip
s. Very surprising.

  She snapped her head back and pointed in his face. “Okay, soft lips, you will meet me at my hotel room after the event.”

  He cocked one dark brow. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because if you do not, I will hunt you down, remove your beautiful smooth olive skin that seems to be well moisturized despite your rough manly exterior, and then I will dismember you, starting with that foul tongue.”

  His snarl slowly melted away. “What kind of man can resist such an offer?” A slow, wicked smile crept over those soft lips. Lips that had also been cruel and deployed offensive words requiring punishment—just as soon as she sorted all this out. She refused to believe that he was the one. Silky lips or not.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m staying at—”

  “I know where you’re staying,” he said in a smug tone. “I’m paying for your room. Now do as my stage manager has requested and get your buns back to work.” He turned and walked away, full of piss and vinegar. And swagger. Lots of swagger.

  Forgetty slowly turned, feeling gut punched. Mr. Liath? Ohmygods. I should’ve known.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After Forgetty’s final performance, an awesome lineup of Frank Sinatra mashed up with Cold Play and house tracks she’d personally laid down, she skipped the after-party—no males had taken up her offer—and headed back to the hotel.

  I can’t believe this, she thought, reality finally sinking in. Basically, the one man on the planet she found offensive and did not want to get to know was the one man the Universe had comically (and sadistically) pushed her towards.

  No. I just don’t believe it. Which was why she needed to interrogate him. This had to be a mistake. Some huge, hideous mistake. ’Cause no way am I letting that douchebag bed me. Not for all the tea in China.

  She growled at herself, knowing that was a lie. The Universe had hardwired her to save humans whether she liked it or not, and that meant, at the very least, attempting to have a civil conversation with this Mr. Liath in order to ascertain if he truly could be her mate—pfft! Not likely. What sort of man knocked a woman down and then yelled at her and walked away.