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Traitor.
It was well past noon, yet his crazy fucking redheaded mess of a sister Cimil, The Goddess of the Underworld, was nowhere to be found on their official first day of business. Of course, she’d insisted on getting the only office because she was “critical to mankind’s survival.”
What a bunch of deity-crap.As far as he was concerned, they were both equally valuable to humanity and both in this mess for two reasons: One, she was bat-shit crazy. And two, he’d trusted her. Having to open this matchmaking agency for immortals was all her goddamned fault.
That’s right. My only crime was falling in love with my brother’s woman.Yeah, so maybe he’d crossed a few lines, using his powers to try (and fail) to break them up. But banishment by the other gods to this hellhole of traffic, smog, and heat they called “Los Angeles”? Then having to come to this enormous, soul-sucking coffin of glass and steel—called an “office building”—every day to work like some lowly mortal slave to assist the unlaid immortal masses?
No fucking gracias, amigos.
His eyes darted around the empty space, taking note of its tragically undignified decorum of white walls, gray carpet, and artificial lighting.Maybe I can spruce up the place with some paintings of naked women and chocolate—tempting shit like that.
He shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, dusted off his hands on his black leather pants, and went back to his computer, toggling through the profiles.Vampire, vampire, demigod, my brother, my other brother, Uchben, immortal warrior…unicorn?
“Hi. Are you Zac?” said a sweet, feminine voice.
He looked up and found a short woman with a long blonde ponytail and big blue eyes, standing in the doorway, looking very nervous. Her petite body, though covered in a horribly unrevealing dress with disgusting flowers all over it, was cute and curvy.
She batted her big blues in question.
He held up his index finger and swallowed down the lump of food. “Yeah, I’m Zac. Who the hell are you?” She appeared human, but this was a matchmaking agency for immortals only.
With an eager, friendly smile she approached, holding out her hand. “I’m Tula Jones. So nice to meet you.”
He stood from his chair and watched her gaze follow his face up, up, up.
Her mouth fell open. “She wasn’t lying; you really are big.”
Of course. He was a deity—one of fourteen, over seventy thousand years old, and seven feet of masculine perfection right down to his godsdamned dingle berries. Not that he had any, because he was far too perfect for that shit.
Zac crossed his powerful arms over his magnificent chest. “Yes, I am big. In many, many ways.” He cocked a suggestive brow, wondering how many seconds it would take her to reach out and touch him. The ladies always wanted a little feel. “So which lucky lady sent you?” It wasn’t uncommon for the women to talk after an exquisite night with him. A god. A badass god. With a huge cock. And he’d been plowing a whole hell of a lot of mortal fields these past few weeks. Hell, what else was there to do? Cry over his broken, banished, badass heart? No fucking way.
“Uh, well,” she said meekly, “your sister Cimil told me about you. Said I shouldn’t be afraid or let you push me around.”
Cimil sent me a woman to fuck?This Tula was a bit small for his taste, around five feet or so, but she looked like she might know her way around a cock. Maybe this day was looking up.
“She hired me to be your assistant,” Tula added, her nervous eyes continuing to scale up and down his body.
Oh. So no afternoon booty delivery, huh?Maybe he’d go next door to the Starbucks and pick someone up. Banished and powerless or not, he was still a deity and completely irresistible to women. What his body didn’t catch, his scent did. One whiff and the ladies swarmed like horny bees.
“And what makes my sister think I need an assistant?” he said skeptically.
“Your sister said, and I quote, ‘He is a giant asshat and completely useless, so he needs someone to do everything for him.’”
He wasn’t an asshat. An asshole, maybe. But either way, was Cimil out of her immortal skull? Humans were on a need-to-know basis because they usually freaked the fuck out about the immortal community. They’d have everything from vampires to that nightmare of a head case, Cimil’s unicorn, coming through on a daily basis.
Tula added, “She also mentioned that you might need some cheering up and moral support. And, wow, she was right about your hair.”
“My hair?” He ran his hand over the length of his shaggy black mane.
“She said it screamed depression. Want me to book you a salon appointment?” Tula asked.
What?His hair did not scream “depression.” It looked shiny and unkempt and screamed “badass!” The women constantly complimented him on how it set off his turquoise eyes.
Of course, they’re usually looking at the bulge in my pants when they say it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, growling, “but I think there’s been a mistake. We’re not hiring.”
“Uh-huh,” Tula said cheerily. “Should I sit here?” She walked around the desk and slid her petite frame past his body, sending a hard spike of arousal through his groin. She took the seat he’d just been in and looked up at him, smiling sassily.
