He was absolutely going to kill Jill for this disaster, he thought while having his scalp massaged. For starters, she’d sent him to a salon where fitness woman, Margarita, just happened to show up—very funny, Universe, harhar—forcing him to pretend to be his own damned brother. All right, perhaps Jill is not to blame; however, I do not have time for such ridiculous charades. Nor did he have time to deal with human women fainting and requiring medical attention when he entered a room simply because he’d done a few hours of toning.
Prior to his God of Wine days, he did not recall such bizarre behavior, although ten thousand years ago, the human population was significantly less and he rarely spent time in it. Nevertheless, he was a deity. He supposed he should’ve known that his form would bounce back so quickly and that the ladies would become excited by it.
Still, that was a bit extreme.
As the stylist finished his soothing scalp pampering, he reached to touch his stomach. Although, I must admit, the ripples are quite magnificent. And strangely, while he’d been working out last night, he hadn’t thought about partying one little bit.
Nor had he thought about fucking her, the CrossFit fuzzy cu—
No. That is your evil side speaking. Her name is Margarita.
He glanced over at Margarita from the corner of his eye. She was at the sink next to him, having her hair rinsed out, too. His eyes washed down the length of her stretched-out body in tight workout clothes. Plump breasts, lean arms, and long, long legs.
Very fucking sexy. Ironic. Her name is Margarita, one of my all-time favorite drinks.
“So,” she said with her eyes closed, “do you come here often?”
“Are you speaking to me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No. Never. I rarely have time for such things.” I’m quite busy partying. And if I’m not partying, I’m thinking about partying.
“Of course. You must spend a lot of time working out.”
He tried not to laugh. “More like working.”
“Really?” The woman rinsing Margarita’s hair turned off the water and began towel drying her hair. “What do you do?” Margarita asked.
Besides showing the entire world a good time, turning evil, and accidentally decapitating my brethren? “I own a global chain of nightclubs and bars. My sister is the co-owner.” But headless. And soon to be very, very cranky with me. He wondered if he could get Forgetty to use her powers on herself.
Margarita sat up. “Wow. Very impressive. So when do you find the time to work out?”
He stared blankly at her.
“Oh. Sorry. I’m not trying to be nosy. It’s just that I own a gym and many of my clients are successful business owners or working mothers. They find it difficult to juggle family, work, and exercise.”
“I have no wife or children, and my work allows me plenty of leisure time.” In fact, his work was leisure time.
“Right. You probably have a lot of downtime during the day.”
“Yes,” he replied. And downtime at night, weekends, and holidays, too.
The young blonde stylist, who was currently drooling over him while rinsing out his hair, finished and wrapped a giant towel around his head before sitting his chair up.
Margarita snickered at him.
He must look like a fool with a towel on his head. No. Never. I am a god. I look awesome.
All right, but just to be certain, perhaps I should remove my shirt again. He thought about that for a moment and decided that would not be prudent. Accidents and all.
“Well, if you’re free tomorrow,” she said, “you should join me—I’m one of the sponsors for the Run Wild Marathon and we don’t have a man on our team.”
Run Wild? That sounded like something he should stay away from until he was cured and settled down. “I’m afraid I will be occupied tomorrow.”
She nodded politely and then looked down at her lap. “Sure. Of course you are.”
Her words and body language told him that she had just regretted her decision to ask him for a playdate.
Loud banter in the front of the salon, followed by women hollering and woop-wooping, echoed through the room.
“Sounds like they’re having fun.” Margarita stood.
“Indeed. Listen, about tomorr—”
“I should get going. Nice to meet you…”
“Acan.” He pulled off his towel. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, too.” He felt a twinge of guilt for lying to her, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t very well tell her he was a deity who had transformed his body with merely a few hours of exercise or that he couldn’t waste time on any females who were not potential mates. Millions could die if he became distracted.
She beamed down at him with those wide green eyes. “How is it possible that two brothers could be so different?”
“In what way?”
She laughed. “Oh, come on.”
“Come on to what?”
She made a little huff and cocked a golden brown brow. “You really don’t see the difference?”
“Aside from our physical appearances, not much.” In fact, there could not be two brothers more alike. Simply because we’re not brothers.
“Oh no. Trust me. You’re like night and day.”
“Elaborate.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“He’s a misogynistic a-hole.” She rubbed her forehead and added with a mumble, “And yet, still surprisingly attractive at the same time.”
Interesting. So his little CrossFit queen saw something sexy in the sloppy, beer-belly version of him?
“So you feel like he might have a few pleasing qualities?” he asked.
Margarita gave him a strange look, one he could not interpret. “Only one, and he’s got a lot to learn about women.” She glanced at the clock on the wall above the sinks. “Dammit. I’m late. Gotta run.” She smiled at him again, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Perhaps because her smile was genuine.
Just like the old people. Maybe that was the reason he’d hit on her when they’d first met. He liked her authenticity.
“Bye, Acan. Nice meeting you.”
He watched her sexy little behind exit the room while a few thoughts clicked around in his mind. He genuinely found her tempting and attractive, which was odd given her squeaky-clean persona and lack of immaturity. Can you say uptight and in need of some fun? That said, he could not afford distractions because his priority was finding Mrs. Party Like It’s 1999.
Hold on. All is not lost. Margarita seemed to have an informed opinion about what he might need to change in order to increase his chances of catching his special someone. With mates, it wasn’t always love at first sight. Sometimes it took a while for things to settle into place and for the two to realize they couldn’t live without each other. Take his brother Votan, God of Death and War, for example. He’d met his mate when she was born and obviously had no clue she was the one. As she grew older, he felt more protective and possessive. She hated his guts. When she finally grew into a woman, those two fought every time they got into the same room, like two snakes determined to devour one and other. Then it happened: They realized who they were to each other. But it was a painful process for them or anyone near them, including the gods. I’d rather rip out my ears than listen to those two fighting. And he could not afford to wait years.
That reminds me, I must check in with Zac. He had heard nothing about this mixer to assist him with quickly finding a mate. The party was supposed to happen in a few days. By then they’d be done with the house setup, his brethren would be back—looking for a little sweet revenge—and he would have to show them that he was in control of the situation.
Sadly, I am not. He felt miserable, haunted by how he’d hurt Forgetty. He also had no clue if his efforts to find Mrs. Right All Night would pan out.
Alone in the back room of the salon, he slid his phone from his pocket and called Zac. It went to voicemail. “Zac. It is I, Acan, God of Wine—I mean to say…Decapitation, so you sh
ould fear me when I tell you that we are running out of time and this party better happen. Call me back.”
Acan shoved his phone into his jeans pocket and made his way out front to pay. Before he could utter a word to the receptionist, the women in the salon rushed toward him, screaming like a mob of sex-starved groupies. “There he is! Ohmygod! So sexy!”
“Back off, ladies!” He held out his hands, but they continued to scream like wild kittens, grabbing at his arms, torso, and hair.
“What in the world?” He reached into his pocket, threw a wadded-up hundred at the receptionist, and ran for the door, not stopping until he reached his eco-friendly, chick magnet of a car—a black Tesla. The saleswoman had told him that being green was the new black, so he went with it.
Once safely inside his vehicle, Acan took a deep breath, but an effort to find calmness only resulted in millions of voices chanting his name across the planet: “Belch, Belch, Belch…”
“Dammit.” It killed him to turn his back on the people he was hardwired to help. “And I need a Big Gulp-sized mojito.” It was Friday, after all.
No. No partying. He started the engine and headed straight for the gym. He would do crunches until his urge to throw down passed. Yes, I will focus on perfecting my body for my future mate. Of course, his body was already perfect—a forgotten perk of being a deity. But keeping away from the fun and focusing on his abs was the only thing standing between him and world destruction.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Zac lay on his king-size bed atop his red satin comforter, shirtless, leather pants unbuttoned, and staring at the cell in his hand. He’d had two women over earlier tonight but lost his motivation the second he thought of Tula marrying that buffoon. He’d sent the women home—or more accurately put: they left in a huff, pissed off that he had not pleasured them. But it seemed his own temptation demon now ruled his life. Simply stated, he couldn’t have Tula, yet he couldn’t allow her to marry this man Gilbert. Yes, yes, it was the classic case of “if I can’t have her, then no one can.” Yet he truly did care for her and wished her to be happy.
I need to be happy, as well.
Zac set his phone down to his side and slid his hand into his pants, closing his eyes and thinking of Tula’s sweet little legs and round ass. He’d only seen her body once when he’d convinced her to wear her enormous granny panties and granny bra—and nothing else—on casual Friday at the office. He’d claimed that if she started acting and dressing a little more provocatively, it would subdue his urge to tempt her. Little had he known that her prudish, nun-like undergarments would only give him a perma-erection.
Saucy little vixen.
With his hand tightly fisted around his cock, he began stroking hard, imagining taking her over his desk at work, hiking up her giant flowery muumuu she often wore—so sexy—while kissing her neck and mouth, and then plowing his hand into her giant panties. He would find her wet and ready. Yes. Ready for her first time. Ready to experience a god who knew exactly how to take her virginity and leave her begging for more. He would be rough and gentle. He would show her how good it felt to be ravished and fucked and touched softly with his breath. He imagined her sweet vanilla perfume filling his nostrils as he ground himself against her thigh while he massaged her bud and prepared her for the mind-blowing event to come. She would moan softly in his ear, “Yes…yes—”
Zac’s cell phone chirped the “Hotline Bling” song in his ear. “No! No!” He picked it up with his free hand and glanced at the screen. Tula?
“Hello?” he answered, eager to hear her voice.
“Zac?” Tula’s voice trembled.
What was the matter? “Yes. How are you, Tula?”
“I’m fine. Great, really.” The sadness in her tone told him otherwise. “Am I bothering you? I know it’s late—but oh god. Do you have guests? I know you like to have guests.”
“No. I have no guests. I was just—” Zac glanced down at his hand, which was still wrapped around his hard cock. He jerked it away. “I was just reading.”
“Anything good?” Her tone perked up.
If you enjoy stories of me wacking off, then yes. “Not really. Just some articles about global warming—the usual god stuff.”
“Oh.”
“So what can I do for you?” Gods, I miss you. Please come back. Please.
“I, uh…” There was a small crack in her voice followed by a muffled sniffle.
“Tula, are you all right?”
Silence.
“Tula?” he said with a deep voice.
“I’m fine. It’s just that…”
“Say it. What is on your mind?”
She sighed. “I can’t help feeling like this is a mistake. That I’m marrying Gilbert because…” She paused for several long moments.
“Because why?” he asked.
“Just tell me that this is what you want me to do. Tell me that you will never be faithful or love one woman. Tell me that you are a womanizing man-whore and that it truly makes you happy.”
Her words instantly made him feel as though he stood on the edge of a great cliff overlooking a bubbling volcano. Tula was giving him another chance. Why? Why would she do that? He’d treated her like garbage. Yes, yes, on purpose to push her way, but why would she want to forgive him?
She went on, “Tell me the truth, Zac. I need to know.”
I just can’t fucking win. If he told her the truth—that he didn’t know if he could ever be a one-woman god because he’d never tried, but that he wanted to try with her—it would be enough to tempt her away from Gilbert, the man Cimil claimed Tula was destined for. But what if Cimil was right? What if the moment Zac had her, he didn’t want her anymore?
Just another notch in the ol’ temptation belt.
However, if he lied to Tula to push her away, he knew that his torment would only continue, and for an immortal, that torment might endure a very, very, very, very, very long time.
“Fuck,” he muttered, feeling his soul and body pulling in opposite directions.
“Okay.”
“Sorry?” He sat up.
“Okay. We’ll do…that.”
“You mean fuck?” he asked.
“Yes. That. Maybe I need to know what it’s like to be with another man before I’m married.”
What the hell? Having premarital sex was the one thing Tula had sworn never to do, and he genuinely respected that about her. Yeah, but if the woman wants to fuck, let her fuck. Who was he to get in her way?
“You know where I live.” He ended the call. This was the perfect solution. He’d have sex with her and give her a night to remember. He would sate his desire and then be able to let her go.
But what if I’m wrong? What if I fuck her and want more and she still marries that loser?
Frantic, Zac quickly dialed Tula back, but his call went to voicemail. “Tula, if you get this, don’t come. I didn’t mean it. You can’t come here. If you do, I won’t answer the door.” He snarled out a breath, knowing it was a lie. He was so going to open that door. “Fucking call me.”
Zac let out an agonized moan. Why am I such a greedy, sadistic asshole? He could not sleep with her no matter what. He could not get in the way of her life.
Oh, but you can. And you will.
He looked up at the ceiling. “Universe, I’m sorry. All right? I’m sorry for being such a self-centered ass. But please, I’m begging you, don’t make Tula suffer for it. Make her change her mind before she gets here.” Because if she came here tonight and offered herself, he wouldn’t be able to resist this time around. He just wouldn’t. She was his Achilles’ heel.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At five in the morning, Acan finally felt like he might be able to breathe again. It was now Saturday, and last night, he had felt the excruciating pull to get out there and party. Somehow, pumping iron had kept him focused. Anyway, he’d gone home, discovering that Jill had been hard at work organizing his new kitchen and decorating his bathroom—a marble palace with fluff
y his-and-hers towels next to the glass-encased walk-in sauna and shower, a bath salt bar next to the jet tub, and a variety of candles on marble pillars positioned strategically throughout the enormous room.
“Very nice.” He glanced at his cell and noted the time. The marathon would be starting in an hour. He’d decided he would go, ask Margarita some questions about his “brother,” and then stop by Zac’s place. Zac had not returned his calls and Acan could already feel his mood beginning to darken. It was difficult to describe, but the sensation felt like a cancer spreading slowly through his body, devouring the positive charge in his molecules one by one.
It’s all right. You can push it back. You can do this. He hopped in the shower, using a nice-smelling citrus soap. Hmmm…Jill will have to get another raise. Now that he wasn’t hammered all the time, he could see how hard she worked to take care of him.
Margarita met her team near the sign-in table, just before six o’clock. Most were members of her gym, but a few girlfriends of hers—Kris and Lauran—joined them, too. Kris was an accountant with three girls ages six to fifteen and Lauran was a divorced PE teacher at a high school in Malibu. They’d met when Margarita first opened her gym years ago and used to run on the beach Sunday mornings. But then life got busier with their kids and work and life. They still got together every now and then, but the Run Wild Marathon was their thing. This year, the team decided to wear purple. Purple underwear, purple bras, and purple sun hats. And yes, purple tennis shoes. It sounded a little risqué until you knew that everyone dressed up (or down), wearing everything from superhero costumes to unicorn heads to almost nothing at all.
Margarita clapped her hands as the team of eleven women helped each other fasten their team number and name to the backs of their bras. They were “Victorious Secret.”
“Okay, team!” Margarita bellowed. “We came in fifth last year. That can’t happen again.” She pointed to Lauran, her good friend, who was a blonde in her late forties, same as Kris. The rest of the ladies ranged in age from mid-thirties to early fifties. “And you! You leave out the bar crawl this time, okay?”
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