God of Wine

  But I bet she’s never had real fun. I bet she could stand a night of getting wild and letting loose with—the perfect drink popped in his head. Oh, oh, oh…what a naughty girl, this one. She was in need of a banana daiquiri, or as he liked to call them, banana cockeries…

  In a float glass:

  - two shots of vanilla vodka

  - one shot of banana liqueur

  - a scoop of vanilla ice cream

  - a dollop of whipped cream

  - drizzle of caramel

  Slide an entire peeled banana down the side and place a thin straw carefully through the top of the banana, pushing it all the way down.

  The drinker had to suck the banana bits from the straw in a very salacious manner before getting to the creamy good stuff inside the glass.

  Very provocative. Yes, he must prepare it for her immediately and kiss her all night and—

  He pushed back, breaking their kiss. He’d almost forgotten again. Prolonged contact was dangerous without the black jade.

  She opened her eyes and blinked at him as if waking from a long sleep. “Okay. I kissed you. Now you have to go.”

  “That wasn’t good enough.” He walked her backwards until her ass hit the desk. He cupped her between her legs, allowing a pulse of energy to hit her right where it counted.

  She gasped with pleasure.

  “One more kiss, and then I’m gone,” he said.

  She hesitated for a moment. “Promise?”

  He nodded and covered her mouth with his, cupping her ass.

  That ass. So fucking tight. He thought about how easy it would be to turn her around, push her forward, and fuck her hard from behind. In and out. Five seconds. Quickly and safely. He could slide inside her, open up the gates and flood her with cum. She would whimper, given his semen would make her orgasm instantly, and then she’d be grabbing fists of papers, moaning his name. Why coming inside a woman made them orgasm instantly, he didn’t know, but it came in handy.

  Dear gods. I must try.

  Whoa. Whoa. I am too excited. The thrill of sexual arousal without any alcohol to stifle the pleasure had gone to his head.

  Must go! Without a word, he made a swift exit through her office door.

  “Wait!” she called out before he was halfway out the door of her gym. She’d obviously dressed but looked freshly fucked, her blonde hair a mess and her shirt hem caught in her gray sports bra, showing off her flat stomach.

  Nice abs. He gave her a look, wondering what she might say. Maybe “come back later?” or “please don’t go, I need you?”

  He waited. She said nothing.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You’re still a disgusting slob, but good luck. And don’t ever come here again.”

  What the hell! What was her problem?

  “Horrible woman, I wouldn’t come in you if you cried and begged me.”

  Her face turned bright red. “God, I hate you.”

  “Gods, I hate you back.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For the rest of the horrific morning, Acan traded texts with his realtor, his lawyer, Zac, and his assistant, Jill—she’d miraculously resurfaced after he’d reluctantly offered to double her salary. Desperate times. But there was much to do in preparation for finding (and keeping) his future Mrs. God of Wine, including Zac’s task of organizing a singles mixer for later in the week.

  Would his brother pull through? The guy seemed to be a complete mess over the loss of his assistant, Tula.

  Yes.

  No.

  Trust, but verify?

  Halt the chatter. He will make it happen. If anyone knew how to gather women, it was Zac.

  Hmmm…Acan wondered what his mate might look like. Tall? Red hair?—Wait. No red hair. Reminds me of Cimil. He shivered with disgust. All right, brunette or blonde. Young. Energetic and extraverted so she wouldn’t mind accompanying him to parties. Or beheadings?

  He shook his head. Gods, there was nothing on this earth he’d rather do less. Why had the Universe bestowed such a gruesome power upon him? And where the hell does popping heads off come in handy? As for killing, there were hundreds of cooler, less gory ways to do it. Take his brother K’ak (pronounced “cock”), for example. K’ak still had not found his flagship gift—a power he truly connected with—but nevertheless he had many skills, one of them being the ability to summon lightning. Very badass. He’d once taken out an army of Maaskab priests—those bloodthirsty Mayan witch doctors. Just when all had seemed lost…boom! Sizzle, sizzle. Evil priest charcoal. Not a drop of blood. K’ak was not only the hero that day, but he’d looked like a manly deity while doing it. Over seven feet tall with ankle-length black hair and a two-foot-high serpent headdress, K’ak put the “awe” in awesome, the “zing” in amazing, the “tudi” in pulchritudinous.

  Not so badass, however? Belch. God of drunken pantlessness.

  In any case, it was time to turn over a new image-leaf. Perhaps I will go exclusively by my given Mayan name, Acan. It would help him to forget his party days—i.e., yesterday. And Acan was the very first name given to him by the humans. He and all of his brethren honored this tradition. They first came to the human realm via the River Tlaloc, a current of energy flowing between the two worlds, one end of the current emerging at the very spot where Mayans once thrived. They were the first to see the gods and to whom the gods spoke. The Mayans were the first to produce written records specifically about them and, more importantly, they knew how to party!

  Speaking of partying…dammit all to hell! I miss having my afternoon box-o-wine. Why had the Universe decided to create this mess and torture him? Who the hell knew.

  Well, I really only have to last until I find my mate. He could resist the urge to “bring down the house” for two weeks. Right? Zac was hard at work, doing his best to organize a mate mixer in a few days, which was not an easy task given that his assistant had quit. She was off planning her own wedding, at which Acan was supposed to tend bar. He didn’t know if he could handle the pressure of being around so much temptation at such a critical juncture. And then, he’d have to attend the party being planned by Zac. I will need to remain very focused.

  Acan stood in the circular driveway of his new, superluxurious, beachside palace and watched the movers unload five large vans—red and black sofas, plush area rugs, big-screen TVs, refrigerators for every room, ten king-sized beds, lamps (with naked lady bases), pool table, portable dance floor for the backyard, trampoline, bouncy house, giant bar set with fun saddle-shaped bar stools, a mechanical bull, hay, mojito tank, an assortment of crazy hats, massage table for quiet evenings at home with four or five women (he hoped his mate would be a swinger), case of frosting for orgy night (gods, he really, really hoped), a bubble machine, ten-person video game center, disco ball, jukebox, loudspeakers for Forgetty’s DJ magic, fifty cases of alcohol (for after he found his mate), a supersized ice machine for parties, five blow-up sex dolls (party decorations for one of his favorite holidays: Valentine’s Day), a hot-pink Ping-Pong table (for Cimil and her unicorn) and…a pony (just for shits and g’s).

  “Ah, I love LA.” He sighed contentedly. There was nothing money couldn’t buy in this town and, as a god, money was the one thing he had plenty of. It almost felt like cheating to be so rich, but he looked at it as a simple necessity (and perk) of the job. One could not roam about, going from party to party, worrying about money. Not when his flock needed him! Bottom line, his lifestyle required capital. No, now that he was on the wagon—no more partying until he found Mrs. Get Down and Get Funky—he would behave, but after he found her, he’d be prepared to give the party to end all parties. I cannot wait to honor her with such fun.

  His mind drifted to the woman at the gym. The way her green eyes viewed him with such intensity. Lust mixed with hate. Need met with disgust. The dichotomy made him wonder—not only about her duality but his, too. She genuinely made him ill with her piety and judgmental ways. Yet, he felt drawn to her vigorous thirst for life, and th
e way she’d needed and craved his body made him feel like a god.

  Wait. I am a god. I do not require measly mortals to feel like my awesome self. What he really needed now was to keep his eye on the woman prize. Yes, he lusted after this horribly fit woman like no other, but so what? Lust was replaceable. Focus, Acan. Focus on the vacant gaze of your beloved sister after you took her head.

  I am searching for the one. A woman to challenge him, balance him, love him, and please him.

  But what if he did not find his special someone? He would end up imprisoned for the safety of others, and he wasn’t so certain that would contain the situation. After all, on New Year’s Eve, his powers spiked off the charts and reached humans on the other side of the planet. If he were not in control at the time, then what would a few steel prison bars and cement walls do? Nothing. He would still be a menace to society.

  I will find her. I will find my mate. And when he did, she would not be able to resist him and everything he had to offer. Including the pony.

  And after the movers left, the decorator would get to work to create an impressive party palace. Jill had also made him an appointment at the gym down the road—no snooty mean ladies he wanted to sleep with there—and in the morning he would go to the salon for something called a “man-over,” which was apparently a makeover for men.

  Acan’s phone rang, and he slipped it from his jeans pocket. Hey! Look. I’m still wearing pants. Nice.

  He answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Belch, it’s me, Tula.”

  “I am now going by my formal name, Acan. How may I be of service?”

  “I haven’t heard back from—dangit. Why can’t I remember her name? Anyway, I haven’t heard back from your sister.”

  Crap on a cracker. He did not want to tell Tula what he’d done.

  “She’s been busy.”

  “Okay. But Cimil hasn’t been sending her usual hourly text messages with photos of guinea pigs dressed as evil gnomes. They’re so creepy, but I know she looks forward to tormenting me. Something must be wrong.”

  “Eh…no. Everything’s fine. My brethren are all out of town at the moment. They’ll be back in a day or two.”

  Tula sighed. “Phew. That’s good to hear, Mr. Acan, because my wedding is next week. You are still bartending, right?”

  “About that, I am afraid you will need to find someone else—”

  Tula began to sob on the other end of the phone. “But how am I going to find someone on such short notice? And you know I don’t have much money.” Sniffle, sniffle.

  Dear gods, he did not need this right now. “I will give you the money to hire someone—consider it an engagement gift.”

  “I don’t take charity. You know that. Besides, you’re the only one I trust to serve drinks. This wedding party must go right, and Gilbert’s father is the pickiest man on the planet. He likes everything a certain way. Including his drinks.”

  My kind of guy. After all, partying with the perfect beverage, prepared perfectly, was a sign of respect for the time-honored tradition of celebrating. Any moron could crack open a cheap beer or those premixed cocktails in a can, but a sign of general awesomeness was pairing the occasion to the drink. For example, one did not perform wedding toasts with “turds in a punch bowl” punch, even if it was a classic and one of his all-time favorites:

  In a large punch bowl, mix:

  - one liter of white chocolate liqueur

  - one pint of peppermint Schnapps

  - five cups of ice

  - cover surface of punch with chocolate-covered marshmallows. Can substitute with dollops of chocolate Cool Whip

  Serve in a glass mug to allow a clear view of the floating turds.

  Hmmm…delicious.

  “Tula, I am truly sorry, but I am afraid I must insist on finding you a replacement.” They had plenty of fine bartenders who worked in their nightclubs and bars.

  “You’re just like Zac. You don’t care about anyone or that you made a commitment to me after I helped you.”

  She’d helped him? “What do you mean, Tula?”

  “Who got you out of human jail the last four times? And who kept you from going to jail when you lit that Beverly Hills hotel on fire at the last singles mixer, huh?”

  Oh dammit. He’d forgotten about that. “You did.”

  “That’s right. Me. I stuck my neck out and convinced the police to let you go. I posted bail and called your lawyer. And I did it all without blowing your cover.”

  Acan now recalled several small pieces of these wild events—god times, god times—when Tula had been there to help him. Which was why he promised to be there for her if she ever needed him.

  “Very well,” he sighed with a grumble. “I will bartend for your wedding.” This would not make things easy for him, but he was a deity. Strong. Determined. Insanely handsome. He could handle going to a party and not partaking in the fun. Couldn’t he?

  “Thank you, Mr. Acan. Thank you for keeping your promise.”

  “Of course, but might I ask you a question?”

  “Okay,” she replied.

  “Why must you worry so much about impressing your fiancé’s family especially at your own wedding? You’re a very nice human. Do they not approve of you?”

  “I-I-I can’t risk upsetting Gilbert, so everything for the wedding has to be perfect. And we have to marry soon.”

  How very odd. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Zac, does it?” After all, she had just mentioned something about him: “You’re just like him. You don’t care about anyone…” she’d said.

  “No. What would make you think that?” she snapped in an uncharacteristic manner. Everyone knew Tula was kind and pure hearted. They could all see her perfectly pristine white aura.

  “Tula, there are few secrets among the gods, and everyone knows Zac has been pursuing you.”

  “Well, he blew it! He showed me who he really is—the God of Temptation. Only I wasn’t tempted, and it made him try harder. And then he just…he just…” Tula began to cry again. “This is why I have to marry Gilbert like Cimil said. Then I’ll be happy.”

  Whoa. “You cannot, and I repeat, you cannot believe anything Cimil says. She prays to a shrine made entirely of Twinkies—only on Wednesdays, of course, but still. She’s out of her freaking red head. If you marry this Gilbert man, it must be your decision.”

  “Cimil is my friend. She wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Acan stifled a laugh. “Tula, I have known Cimil for over seventy thousand years. She is not capable of friendship—not by your human definition, anyway.”

  “You only say that because you don’t know her like I do. She gave me a job so I could finish college when no one else would. She believed in me when no one else did, and she trusted me with your secrets. Where I come from, that’s a good friend.”

  Acan groaned. Should he tell Tula about the time Cimil lured everyone into a giant freezer, had them frozen into a block of ice, and then dropped them into the middle of the ocean so they would have to swim to shore once they defrosted? Or how about the time she tried to end the world simply for fun? A few hundred times? Of course, he thoroughly enjoyed Cimil’s chaotic side. She knew how to party like no other. Twister, for example? No one could beat her. Not even those shifty vampires. And her Love Boat marathon sleepovers complete with fish sticks, marimba music, and those little stick-on anchor tattoos? The best.

  “Tula, all I am saying is that you must never do anything simply because another tells you to. Always think for yourself.”

  “Point taken. I think I should marry Gilbert. See you next week at the wedding.” She ended the call, and Acan simply stood there in his driveway, wondering why he felt so displeased by her choice or why he cared so much about what happened to her, as if she were a little sister of sorts?

  Strange. He scratched his scraggly short beard, watching the last of the furnishings being loaded into his new mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He suddenly felt a sharp pinch in
his gut.

  Hell, his brethren were coming through the portal. They were going to kick the shit out of him when they returned.

  Must hurry and find my mate. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to sense her presence out there in the Universe, but all he could hear was the call of the masses in need of libation. Belch, Belch, Belch!

  I am sorry, my flock of fun-doers, but the God of Wine is on a leave of absence until he finds his woman. It was for their own good. But after that, the party would go on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After a long hard day at work, Margarita entered the front door of her modest two-bedroom condo in the even more modest Sawtelle neighborhood just east of Santa Monica, hoping to God her daughter, Jessica, would not notice the residual guilt plastered on her face.

  For as long as Margarita could recall (and it was age appropriate), Margarita had told her daughter to always use care. Not only with her body, but with her heart. “Men are not in charge of protecting you—you are.” Margarita’s ex, Mike, had taught her the lesson. When they’d met seventeen years ago, she’d been working as a manager at a twenty-four-hour fitness chain. He’d been one of those guys who’d turned every woman’s head in the gym. Ripped from head to toe, gorgeous, completely cocky.

  At first, she didn’t give him much attention—she was far more into competing with herself than with another woman for a guy—but after a few months, he began asking her out. She’d said no. Then he asked her out again. And again. No turned into maybe. Maybe turned into yes. Fast-forward a few months, and she’d allowed one night of superficial lust to overcome her sense of responsibility. Nine months later came Jessica and big changes in Mike. Looking back, however, the changes started happening the day she told him she was pregnant.

  By day, he’d worked as a car salesman, but on weekends, he competed in bodybuilding competitions. Perhaps it was the pressure of knowing he would have to support them while she took time off with the baby, or maybe he simply felt trapped, but he’d started taking performance enhancers, pushing himself to the limit. Then he snapped. Literally. His hamstring tore, and Margarita found herself taking care of a new baby and her damaged new husband while trying to make ends meet with not two, but three part-time jobs and a lactation schedule. Somewhere in that sleepless nightmare, he began drinking and hitting.