by Danae Ayusso
“No they don’t…er, okay, maybe they do, but shut up. It isn’t that.”
“Tell Dr. Loke all about it.”
Sometimes I wanted to smoother him with a pillow.
“I repoed a human soul last week,” I whispered.
“Yeah, and?” he made a face and started studying his nails, already bored.
“It was a priest.”
“That’s hilarious,” he said with a chuckle so I smacked him upside the head. “What’s the big deal? You got to take out some douche of the light, and that’s mope around worthy why?”
Damn it. He isn’t getting it...then again, I’m not getting it either.
“Loke, it...do you have faith?” I asked.
He looked at me curiously. “In what exactly?”
That was what I was wondering, so I shrugged.
“Something more than sales, shoes, designer labels, fancy restaurants, twenty-dollar drinks, hot dudes with ever willing to please tongues,” I offered.
When I put it like that life was perfectly acceptable with all of that, no faith was needed.
“That’s heaven,” Loke sighed in agreement. “Zee, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m a fucking God, in more ways than one, so I don’t really have to have faith in anything other than me and what I want and want to do. All I have to do is trick every now and then and daddy gives me my allowance. It’s a perfect world...at least it would be if I could find some ass to play with. I’m seriously jonesing for some man-play.”
Not helpful.
“Loke, did you ever think that the reason why you can’t find a piece of willing man meat is because you are being tricked?” I asked the obvious.
He sat up and looked at me with wide eyes. “Who in the hell would trick me? Me of all people? I’m Loki Junior, crowned prince of…” he stopped in mid-spiel and his eyes narrowed. “I’m so telling Mommy on you!” he yelled at the ceiling then disappeared; he was blond in more ways than one.
That was a family feud that I was going to stay far, far away from.
Loki was a God, but would always be the original trickster, and he loved messing with his son more than anyone. You had to admit, it was pretty damn impressive that he was able to alter his son’s perception in both spectrums and hide all of the gay men. That was awesome and so wrong that it was epic!
Spending the holidays with Loke and his family was like watching a three-ring circus, stand up improv comedy routine that never ended, and a soap opera all rolled into one. I could barley handle a week of it before I was begging Baldr or Odin for a ride back to Edom. Insanity truly is having seventy loud Norwegian Gods, Goddesses, and Demigods that all had to have the last word and always thought that they are right under one roof. I honestly didn’t know how Loke’s quiet mom handled it! I had commented more than once that she was apparently the only sane one out of the bunch.
Loke and his family put into perspective for me that one of the joys of not having a family was that you could do whatever you wanted and not have to worry about them taking away all of the man candy... Then again, at least his father cared enough about him to mess with him, forcing his son into a weeklong stretch of celibacy. What did I have? Even my master didn’t want me...never touched me.
I looked around my empty apartment and it made me even more depressed than I already was.
“Screw this, I’m going shopping,” I resolved and pulled myself off of the couch and grabbed my purse then hurried out the door.
Shopping always made me feel better, and right then, I needed to feel better.
I had never really thought about it before, and I wasn’t happy that I was thinking about it then, but even that dickhead Stolas didn’t want me. Was I such a terrible fuck that he had to turn to his goddamn male assistant? Had I been doing it wrong my entire life? There wasn’t a ‘How to be a concubine’ training class in Hell, but still, according to legend, only those that could sexually satisfy on a heightened level were deemed worthy for companionship, especially to the higher level lords. So, obviously, I must have had some kind of laten skill. I didn’t remember how I came to be in Adramelech’s harem, but I vividly remembered that he never once touched me sexually. Adramelech hugged me, kissed my head, was always very tender and pleasant to me, but he had no interest in me other than that of a companion to pass the time with.
If shopping doesn’t work, I’ll order a slice of Prozac pie!
Shopping was supposed to cheer me up. Usually ungodly expensive designer purses, sparkly high heels, and couture wardrobes masterfully presented in the windows along Fifth Avenue, more than did the job for me. All I had to do was catch a whiff of Italian leather and I’d moan and get giddy. But this time, a first, it was actually really depressing the living hell out of me. Sure those shoes with that bag are to die for, but I don’t care.
“Oh holy hell. I think I’m dying,” I choked and stared past the shoes and handbags to my reflection in the window of the Versace boutique. Behind me, illuminated by the setting sun, was St. Patrick’s Cathedral. For being a light-based religious institution, it was beyond breathtakingly beautiful; Neo-Gothic-style Roman Catholic cathedral comprised of hand laid brick with marble over it. I watched it being built back in eighteen-fifty-eight and it was just as beautiful today as it was then. The soaring three hundred-thirty foot spires always put me in awe, and the stained glass windows depicting various bullshit bible scenes, each was a timeless work of art and beautiful in its own right, were truly beautiful. I had never been in St. Patrick’s before, for obvious reasons, and regardless of which higher power it belonged to, I could appreciate its beauty, timelessness, and architecture as much as the next demon. If it worked for Father O’Malley in his quest for faith, perhaps it would work for me as well.
Without thinking about it, I started to cross the street; my eyes fixed on the seemingly glowing white architectural masterpiece. The slamming of breaks, screeching of tires against asphalt and the blaring of horns pulled my attention just long enough for me to see a blur of movement from the corner of my eye and suddenly my feet were no longer touching the ground. The momentum spun me around, out of the way of the taxi, the demonic yellow vehicle coming within inches of me.
Of course being the long time New Yorker that I was, I voiced my opinion as if I were the victim and completely innocent and as if the taxi was driving up on the sidewalk like he was in Grand Theft Auto and he was trying to take out a hooker without the chainsaw, when in actuality I caused the entire ordeal and was totally my fault.
“What the fuck? I’m walkin’ here!” I yelled and flipped him off.
The cabbie drove off, yelling at me in a language that even I had never heard before.
“Asshole,” I complained under my breath.
“That was not very nice of you considering you are the one that jumped out in front of his cab,” someone mused in my ear; his voice deep, accent was unmistakably Greek, and the warmth of his breath caused my eyes to flutter for a moment.
I turned to face the man that was resting his hands on my hips, the one that pulled me out of the way and saved my life, for appearances sake.
“Oops,” I said then smirked.
His light green eyes worked over my face many times; they stood out against his dark olive complexion, and perfectly completing the package was his black hair that hung in loose curls just above his shoulders. He was at least three-inches taller than me and had the looks of a supermodel in his Versace navy-pinstriped casual blazer with a lavender fitted dress shirt underneath, artfully faded jeans, leather belt with a silver Versace buckle, and Salvatore Ferragamo Parigi leather shoes; I knew my designers, and this outfit was a four-grand ensemble from Saks.
“Were you trying to kill yourself or were you lost in the beauty of this magnificence work of art?” he asked as he looked over my head to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
“Suicide is a sin,” I purred as seductively as possible, trying to steal his attention away from the church.
I will have to go to therapy four times
this week because of what I want to do to this delicious specimen of a man.
He looked down at me and raised an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at the corners of his full lips. “Yes, it is. Were you headed to confess your sins?” he mused, his eyes moving over my face many times; his attention lingered on my lips and he licked his, moistening them, and I had to keep from throwing myself at him.
“I am very sinful,” I admitted.
“Well then,” he said and smiled a perfect, dazzling, white smile, “perhaps confessing your sins could be put off for another day?”
I’m liking where this is going.
“And what would I do with my suddenly freed up schedule?” I asked.
“Drinks?”
No.
Dramatically I sighed. “That is one of those vices that I was going to confess my sins for,” I pouted. “I no longer participate in the pleasures of alcohol.”
Or sex, but I will throw that one out the window in a heartbeat for this Greek specimen of deliciousness.
“I meant coffee, and perhaps some pie,” he clarified and the smirk was back, and I kept imagining kissing that little spot on the corner of his full lips that pulled up slightly revealing the dimple in that cheek. “Don’t you agree that pie would be the best thing to have after such a traumatic, near death experience?” he sinuously suggested.
“It wasn’t that traumatic,” I assured him, trying to be cool and collected, as if I didn’t need his help, because I didn’t, but I wanted his company.
He reached up and softly brushed a loose curl off of my cheek for me. “It may not have been traumatic for you, but it was for me. Seeing an earthbound angel in harm’s way like that, just thinking of what could have happened if I were a mere second slower, breaks my heart. Taking beauty like yours from the world would be the biggest sin God ever committed.”
Huh, if that’s a pickup line, it’s working and then some.
“I’m Zee,” I offered.
“Krischnan,” he replied then took my hand in his and brought it to his lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you, beautiful Zee. I hope by the time we say goodnight, or good morning, you will tell me what Zee stands for.”
It could stand for whatever he wanted it to stand for.
“How long are you in town for?” I asked, absently drawing pictures in the whip cream on the top of my chocolate silk pie with the back of my spoon.
Krischnan shrugged, his large hands were wrapped around the white porcelain cup of coffee in front of him. “It depends on how long this acquisition takes,” he explained with a mischievous smile. “As it stands right now, I could wrap it up sooner than expected, however I might be easily persuaded to drag it out in order to enjoy what the Big Apple has to offer and the lovely companionship that fell into my lap.”
I bit my bottom lip; I liked the sound of that way more than I should have.
“If I recall correctly,” I said in a deep, seductive voice, “I didn’t fall into your lap. I was pulled into your arms.”
He leaned across the table then brushed the backs of his fingers against the side of my arm. “True. However, that does not mean that I do not want you on my lap.”
My crappy and depressing day might end on an orgasmically high note!
Krischnan was beyond gorgeous, smart, educated and cultured, had traveled the world and knew how to dress. He was very attentive and watched everything I did and smiled a lot; nothing was sexier than a man that smiled. Correction, a man with his designer clothes nicely lain over a chair while his naked muscular body was pressing against mine, and he smiled every now and then to silently tell me that he liked what I was doing....nothing was sexier than that. Maybe Krischnan was that sexual therapy needed in order to cure my sudden case of self-sexual doubt that I was suffering from.
Then again, shouldn’t I be running from this? This was, after all, what my therapist was warning me about. Then again, she never said about finding myself in the middle of such a picture perfect, for NYC, chance meeting. And the mysterious man seemed to know me better than I knew myself. He ordered the pie I always ordered first, coffee with cream and two sugars, was polite and friendly with Mrs. Miles, and waited until I sat to sit—one of my biggest pet peeves was when a man sat first, call me old fashioned, but they need to wait out of respect.
What it boiled down to was if there was such a thing as a perfect man, Krischan would have been it all the way down to the green eyes and accent.
Krischnan’s tongue parted his lips and he licked them, softly biting on the bottom in desired filled anticipation.
Why did I ever doubt my sexual wiles?
And to think, it isn’t even my birthday or Christmas, and I get a pretty present without the bow! I’ve been a very naughty little girl and yet I’m reaping the benefits of a saint that’s getting more and more hot and bothered as he softly caresses my arm. I think I need a spanking for how naughty and sinful I’ve been. Hopefully Krischnan likes to give spankings, he looks like the type.
Once again, life is good.
Wait, too good.
“You aren’t married are you?” I blurted out then cringed; fool me once, shame on me, fool me twice, shame on you!
He chuckled. “No. I am not married. I guess you could say that I am married to the job.”
That makes two of us.
“I have to ask,” he said softly, his light green eyes burning into mine, “call it my inquisitive nature, but why were you going to the church?”
“I already told you,” I said as seductively as possible, “I’m a very sinful woman.”
And that smirk was back and it made him look slightly evil yet slightly boyish and angelic but demonic all at the same time.
“I have no doubt that you are, Zee, but I,” he paused then licked his lips as his fingers walked up my arm, “am curious as to just how sinful you truly are. A woman with the face of an angel, the body of a demon, and a mind unlike anything I could have possibly imagined, has to have some secrets, vices, sins,” he purred, “that are worth sharing.” He softly moaned and I fought the whimper building in my chest.
All he did was state the obvious—and compliments were always welcomed minus the angel reference, ew—and yet it was the most perverse thing I had ever heard.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Krischnan?” I asked and caressed the inside of his leg with my foot, and he smiled and cocked an eyebrow.
“Zee, I have a feeling that you are the one that is trying to seduce me,” he retorted.
He had a point.
“Maybe, but,” my foot caressed over his crotch, now it’s my time to smirk, “it wouldn’t take much, and I’ve been told that you can’t seduce the willing.”
Krischnan slid one of his hands off of the table and caressed my calf. “Which one of us is the willing in which you speak of?”
Both.
“Considering you’re rock hard and ready to play, I’ll let you decide.” I smooched my lips together, blowing him a single-sided kiss.
“In the thin blouse you are wearing,” he eyed my chest, “you could not have fooled me. Your breasts, if I may say so, are perked and begging to be released from the thin silk that you have wrapped them so beautifully in.”
I loved it when a man could admire and appreciate the efforts that a woman made in order to look that damn good.
“Well, let’s get the check,” I suggested and pushed the half-eaten piece of pie away from me, “and see where the night takes us.”
Krischnan looked at the plate then back up to me. “You do not want to order one more?”
“Um, no,” I said, confused, eying the six plates on the far end of the table.
“You do not need a seventh?” he asked skeptically.
I shook my head. “No. I didn’t need six, but old habits die hard.”
I should really work on that. I don’t need to eat an entire pie in one sitting. Plus, why should I eat that many pieces of pie when…oh shit.
This can’t be happening.
&nb
sp; There’s no way, no reason for it, but….sonuvabitch!
I looked at the man from the corner of my eye: the ensemble was one that was on the sales floor at Saks, all the way down to the shoes; the pet peeves; seven slices of pie; green eyes and dark hair; my love of accents and tall men; old fashion etiquette and attentiveness. Whenever I eat out everything was in sevens, but that’s all Loke’s doing because we always eat out together.
I pulled my attention from the plates to the man smiling smugly at me, his eyes blending away from the light green to amber and black.
“You really did make this too easy,” he informed me.
I tried pulling my leg away from him, but his vice like grip wasn’t faltering and blood started to trickle from where his fingers were sinking into my skin.
“Let go of me,” I snarled.
“Why, so you can run?” he mused, his fingers digging deeper into my flesh, but I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of crying out. “Come on, Zion, you know that hurts. Tell me it hurts. Beg me to stop,” he purred. “I want to hear you beg.”
He obviously had no idea of what I had been put through in my life. His touch was the equivalent, and nothing more than, a rough exfoliating facial from that big German broad named Magnus at that salon on Park Avenue that I repoed the owner’s soul at nine months ago.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, pencil dick,” I snarled. “Did you forget where I crawled out of, or was that not mentioned in my dossier?” I mused, struggling to maintain appearances.
His eyes narrowed and his fingers pressed deeper into my flesh. “I want to hear you scream, Bitch,” he snarled.
“I have no reason to run,” I spat, “Karael.”
He appeared amused and his head tilted to the side. “Don’t you?” he smirked. “I’m impressed that you know my name, that a lowlife piece of shit whore, such as yourself, was able to connect the dots, a bit late in the game, but none the less I’m impressed on some level.”
I’m so going to kill this sonuvabitch!
“Karael, the angel who has the power to thwart demons. It isn’t rocket science, asshole. However, isn’t repoing a little under your pay scale? Oh wait, that’s right, you were cast down to the surface like the rest of those soulless pieces of shit that blindly followed Gabriel’s orders and pissed daddy-dearest off. Tell me, whose dick did you have to suck in order to keep your wings, you fallen piece of shit?”