“Oh, look. We’re here.” He pulled up to the valet, alongside a line of a few hundred people wrapping around the block. They were all dressed in a plethora of unicorn garb—hats, headbands, full-body suits, and papier-mâché unicorn heads—eagerly awaiting the world-famous Randy Unicorn experience.
The irony is if they ever met Minky, they’d never want to look at anything unicorn again. She only showed herself every few decades, but it was said that one look into her blood red eyes could eviscerate a man and liquefy his brains. Others said that her unihorn was a straw she used like a mosquito’s beak to suck the blood from her victims. Personally, he’d never seen Minky—that he remembered—but he knew she did one hell of a Bee Gees impression on unicorn karaoke night every Thursday. Free Forgetty treatment at the door on the way out!
“Are you ready for some real fun?” He glanced at Margarita as she took in a woman strutting by in nothing but a rainbow thong and two miniature unicorn heads taped to her nipples.
“Uhh…well, this is interesting.” Her voice was tinged with disdain.
He sighed with contentment. “It is, isn’t it? Shall we?” The valet opened his door, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his favorite cocktail—Margarita. Not until he knew she was coming inside. The shock on her face told him otherwise.
“I realize you do not approve of drinking, but may I ask why you are so nervous?”
“Umm…I’ve never actually been in a nightclub.”
How shocking! “Why not?”
She shrugged but did not offer more.
It struck him as odd that she’d never gone to a nightclub, and whatever her reason for such an oversight, she did not seem prepared to tell him.
The loud bass from inside the building vibrated the windows of the car. He already felt the people inside subconsciously calling Belch, Belch, Belch!
Ah, yes! The masses were looking for their king to guide them through a night of excess, letting loose, and decompression. Well, not tonight. He would keep his oath not to partake in any libations, but he would serve a few rounds.
He slid his hand over Margarita’s and let the beat of the awaiting party pulse through him into her. She remained frozen, staring at the windshield.
“Breathe, Margarita. It is merely a building filled with souls in need of happiness.”
“Says you,” she snapped.
She was behaving as if she were a nun and he the devil taking her to a demonic orgy. Oh! Great idea for next year’s Halloween party. They threw one every year. He usually just went as the pantsless horseman.
“I just don’t feel like this is the place for me. They’re all so young and…drunk.” Margarita frowned in her seat.
He suddenly remembered a woman who’d come into the club last year. She’d been sitting at the bar with a sour face, unenticed by his standard drinks—blue balls, a horny bandit, a chocolate T-bag. Turned out that she was an aspiring singer who’d been burned every way possible by her famous ex-husband. The man had taken her car, her home, and her three small children, all because she refused to be cheated on and he could afford a better lawyer. Acan recalled the moment clearly: The song “So What” by Pink filled the club, and that was when it hit him: The perfect drink. Acan had reached across the bar, laid his hand over hers, and said, “You’re still a rock star. You got your rock moves. And you don’t need him.” He then handed her a fuck you hurricane, better known as the fuckuicane:
In a plastic yard glass, fill:
- ½ with ice
- ¼ with pink lemonade
- ¼ tequila
- Add a splash of grenadine for color and garnish with a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry on a toothpick.
The woman had smiled, thanked him, and hit the floor. By the end of the night, she had a record deal and would soon have enough money to get her kids back.
God times, god times. Sometimes, people simply needed to be reminded of who they were.
He mentally patted himself on the back and then looked at Margarita. “You are Wonder Woman. Nothing frightens you, least of all a club full of people dressed as unicorns, dancing their worries away.”
“Okay.” She bobbed her head. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
Ha. I really am good with people, aren’t I?
They exited the car, and the moment the line of patrons spotted him, they cheered.
Acan waved at the crowd as he walked around the vehicle and took Margarita’s hand. “Ready for the night of your life?”
She drew a breath. “Ready.”
The bouncer unlatched the rope and high-fived Acan on their way inside.
“VIP treatment. This is nice,” she said.
“Just wait. It gets better.”
The moment they got inside, they were swallowed by the cheering crowd.
Daddy’s home!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wearing her favorite pink flannel nightgown, Tula lay on her flowery bedspread with a box of tissues, her mind a swirling mess of emotions: humiliation, heartbreak, frustration, and anger. This morning with Zac had been a complete disaster. Not only did he refuse to touch her, he’d tossed her out on her perky behind and threatened to call Gilbert if she didn’t go home.
Can you believe that god? Just who does he think he is, treating me like a child?
She was Tula Jones. And while she was a wholesome Midwestern girl raised by two wholesome and loving parents who taught her to always be kind, compassionate, truthful, and modest, she was also a woman. A woman with a heart filled with passion. Yes, she believed with all her being that saving one’s passion for the wedding night was the right thing to do, but ever since Zac had kissed her at that party, all she could think about was how right he’d felt.
And she was no fool. She knew exactly why he’d pushed her away after their kiss the other night. Cimil had warned him half a dozen times that he would ruin Tula’s life if he pursued her or distracted her from her destiny to marry Gilbert. But that was just the thing: Zac had pushed her away. Which could only mean he truly cared. Little did he know that to someone like herself, that was the biggest temptation of all. An irresistible aphrodisiac. Not sexy comments or flirting or promises of lust-filled nights. Nope. Nothing was hotter than a man who did right and put the well-being of the woman he loved first.
Tula fanned her flushed face. Simply thinking about it made her hotter than a Sunday morning griddlecake.
She sighed. Oh, fiddlesticks. What am I going to do now? She couldn’t marry Gilbert. She just couldn’t. Her mama taught her to always tell the truth, and that included being honest with what was in her heart. Gilbert was a good man, but his family looked down on her and her own—too simple, too poor, too uneducated, they said. Her father farmed corn, just like his daddy and his daddy before him. Gilbert’s father owned the only bank in town.
Well, to heck with them! She and her family were good, honest, hardworking people. As for uneducated, well, that was a big ol’ pile of last week’s bologna. She was only one semester away from obtaining her degree in astrophysics with a minor in mythology—sort of a hobby she’d picked up after learning her quantum theory professor, Cimil, was an actual deity. Who owned a unicorn!
Ain’t life just full o’ surprises. And so what if I’m poor? She always paid her way. More importantly, she always did the right thing. Which is why I am calling off the wedding.
Tula’s cell phone rang on her nightstand, and her heart practically leapt through her flannel nightgown. Could it be Zac?
She picked up the device. Oh, phewy. “Hi, Cimil.”
“You can’t cancel the wedding, Tula.”
Tula’s mouth fell open. “Wait. But I just—how’d you know?”
“I am the Great and Powerful Oz.”
“Funny, Cimil.”
“No. Really. You think that whole story about Dorothy and Toto is fiction? No way, baby. That shit was real, and so is this final warning. You must marry Gilbert.”
“Why?”
“The Great and
Powerful Oz does not give reasons. You must simply trust the Ozziness of his ways.”
Tula rolled her eyes. “Unless you can give me a good reason, then I must follow my heart.”
“So you’re saying no to fate. No to the joyous rewards of doing what is best for humanity.”
Tula gave it a moment of thought. “Uhhh…yep. That sounds about right.” She wanted Zac, and if giving in to temptation had consequences, then she was ready to accept that.
“Dammit, Tula. Then you give me no choice.”
Huh? Tula felt a hot breath on her face. She looked up, and hovering above her was the most frightening pair of glowing red eyes she’d ever seen.
Dripping with blood, the horrific beast smiled, bearing two giant white fangs.
Minky? “Oh, barnacles.” Tula dropped the phone.
Zac sat on his black leather couch, drowning his sorrows in a gallon of scotch, a pint of Cherry Garcia, and binge-watching Supernatural. His favorite was Lucifer, of course. Although, Dean was kinda cool, too, he supposed. For a dude.
Zac shoved a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and washed it down with a swig of booze. Of course, none of this helped clear his mind of Tula.
Resisting her pleas to fuck her had been the most difficult exercise in restraint of his existence. Did she not understand the sort of torment she was provoking in his life? For once I’m trying to do the right thing. For her sake! Oh, but nooo… Did she care? She could only see what she wanted.
“Well, she can’t have it!” He glanced down at the bulge in his leather pants. “That’s right.” She could tempt him all she wanted, but he was a god and had his duties to think of. Okay, and he really didn’t want her to die in torment as Cimil had prophesied. He cared about Tula, and if that meant staying away, then he would do the godly thing and stay the hell away! Door closed.
He shoved his spoon into the container and cued up another gooey bite. Suddenly, he felt his soul icing over, covered in a dark, malevolent sticky energy.
Oh hell. His entire body drained of light, quickly consumed by something sinister evil inside him. No. No. Fuck no. I’m flipping. But the acknowledgment did nothing to stop every molecule of his body draining of light and goodness.
Slowly, he stood from the couch, his essence and human shell surging with a powerful thirst for destruction. Pain. I will make the world swallow my pain. I will bathe them all in blood. I will not rest until I bring this world to its knees.
He tossed his pint to the floor and grinned. “And I know who’s going to be the first to kneel.”
Tula.
His cell phone rang on the coffee table, and the name Cimil flashed on the screen. He picked it up and held the phone to his ear.
“You’ll never find her, Zac,” Cimil said. “So don’t even try.”
A blinding rage scorched through him. “What did you do with her?” he growled.
“I’ve hidden her somewhere safe. Away from you.”
“Tell me where she is or I will disembowel you!” he roared.
Cimil laughed. “Be my guest. I don’t really like my colon anyway. And before you utter another inane threat from that stupid evil head of yours, Zac, know this: I saw this coming, and I am ten steps ahead of you. You’ll never win.”
Fucking Cimil.
His front door burst open with a heavy thud. Five Uchben soldiers poured in, armed to the teeth.
“You think a few humans and some guns can stop me?” Zac chuckled and threw down his cell.
Listening to the noise on the other end of her cell, Cimil stood in line at the Quickie Mart, dressed in full clown garb, waiting to buy cigarettes. She didn’t smoke, but the evil man she was hunting tonight enjoyed dressing as a clown and hiding behind trees to grab helpless children. He would then take them to his van, tie them up, and put his smokes out on the bottoms of their feet. Tonight would be his turn. Only she planned to get a little creative with the torture before dragging his soul to the place where bad apples went.
“Oh my god, is that clown wearing a strap-on dildo?” whispered a woman to her boyfriend over by the slushy machines.
“Yay! That’s right. Payback is an evil clown-fuck of a bitch!” Cimil barked at the woman, who scurried out of the store empty-handed.
Okeydokey. Now where was I? Ah! That’s right. She’d sent their best Uchben soldiers to take Zac into custody. Oh cheesesticks. She’d really hoped that Tula would choose to marry Gilbert. Because then, according to her sources—the dead who saw all and knew all—Zac would cling to the hope that Tula might be for him. Then…wedding day! He would see a virginal Tula marching down the aisle in her flowing white dress, looking like the purest, most ethereal creature to ever walk the planet in need of hard hot temptation. Zac would finally crack. He’d be so jealous and enthralled that it would push him over the edge and make him ready to commit to her. He would then stop her wedding, declare his love, and marry her right there on the spot. (After Minky dealt with Gilbert—that lying, cheating man-whore!) But Tula had changed course.
“Hmm…where’d it all go wrong?” Tapping her cheek, Cimil listened to the screams and grunts echoing through the phone from Zac’s apartment. Well, there wasn’t much to be done at this point. Zac would go into custody. Tula would remain Minky’s prisoner in a safe, hidden location. Eventually, things would work out. Of course, Tula would be nearly ninety by then, but hey.
“Ma’am?” said the clerk behind the counter.
“Yeah, give me a carton of Camel’s unfiltered.” Suddenly, she heard a loud scream over the phone, followed by a rustle.
“Cimil,” Zac’s dark, sadistic voice poured over the phone, “next time, I suggest you send real men to fight me. Not these piles of hamburger waiting to happen. And tell Tula that she can run, but she cannot hide. When I find her, I will make sure there’s not an ounce of goodness left in her pure sweet soul.” The call ended.
Cimil blinked, frozen in fear. Zac killed all the men? And he remained free to hunt Tula? “Oh fudgeballs. I did not see that coming.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After saluting the rowdy masses dressed in a wide array of unicorn garb, Acan gave Margarita the grand tour. In the basement, there was a full bar, where muscular men wearing white hot pants danced around rainbow-spiraled stripper poles. The main floor, where they’d entered, had another big dance floor packed with gyrating bodies and several giant platforms—also for their unicorn-themed go-go dancers—mostly female. A huge unicorn head hung from the ceiling, its eyes flashing to the beat of the music, giving it a happy, yet possessed sort of vibe. Upstairs were offices, another bar, and a cotton candy lounge, where patrons sat around on giant beanbag chairs, nibbling on—yes, you guessed it!—cotton candy from the cotton candy bar, featuring forty different flavors, including jalapeño and bacon.
So gross. And unhealthy. Margarita shook her head. Of course, none of that was nearly as shocking as the huge amounts of alcohol everyone consumed from the five different bars throughout the establishment.
“And that bar is exclusively for me.” Acan pointed to a fifty-foot-long stainless steel counter situated below a DJ booth perched above on a separate platform where a blonde woman spun records.
“So what do you think?” Acan sounded like a kid who’d just brought home a finger painting to show to mom.
“Uhhh…” The front of the bar had paintings of white fluffy clouds that turned colors as they reflected the lights from the dance floor. Behind the bar sat five blenders, hundreds of different liquor bottles in a neat line, a punch machine, and a really big fire extinguisher.
“It’s, uhh, it’s festive?” she replied. “Yes. That’s the word I was looking for.”
“Agreed. Festive is the perfect word.” He smiled down at her, his turquoise eyes shimmering with the strobe lights. His long hair fell in gentle waves around his superbly sculpted cheekbones, and his lips were slightly puckered. She just wanted to brush her fingertips over his rich brown scruff and then plant a kiss on him.
More. I want more. She opened her mouth to him, and he took the cue.
His large hands slid down to her hips and pulled her into his tall frame. His warm tongue mingled sensually with hers. Ohgod. He feels so good. So sexy. So…hot! Ouch!
She pulled away. “What was that?”
“Oops, sorry. My energy is spiking. It always happens when I’m around so many humans in a party mood. Kind of gets the old god juices flowing. Speaking of god juices, are you sure you don’t want to go to my place and sample my cu—”
She held out her hand. “Nope. Thank you, but there will be no sampling. Not tonight. But you know what I would like?”
“What?”
“I’d like to know why you’re so happy. I mean, you’re smiling, you love being here with all of these people, and you look like you’re having a good time, yet you haven’t had one cocktail.”
He frowned, confused. “I’m not sure. But you’re right; I am having fun.” A slow smile crept over his lips. “I think it’s you, Margarita.”
“Me? What did I do?”
He placed his hand on her cheek, softly rubbing her chin, his eyes drinking her in. She had to admit, he made her feel adored and special.
I could get used to this.
“I think,” he said, “that you are like a song, one that simply puts me in a good mood. I can’t ever explain why the notes have the effect. I don’t even care why. I simply feel elevated. That’s you, Margarita. You are my ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ or my ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me.’”
God of Wine Page 14