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.
She never knew where she’d found the will to leave him, but she had, and it was the toughest time of her life. Worse than being hit. Worse than being eighteen and telling her Amish parents and two sisters that she—officially known as Margaret Miller at the time—wanted to live a different life with “the English.” Worse than trying to adapt to a world she didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to be a part of for the simple reason that she felt her calling was elsewhere.
Alone with a new baby, living in her car because Mike refused to leave the apartment she was paying for, Margarita was terrified. Absolutely terrified. So she’d prayed like she’d never prayed before. She begged for the strength not to go back where there was a warm bed and roof for her and her child. She prayed for the strength to face the unknown.
Then something unexpected happened: She hit emotional rock bottom. And the funny thing about rock bottom was that there was absolutely nowhere else to go but up. Suddenly, the mountain she’d been destined to climb became crystal clear, and that rocky bastard was one she became determined to conquer. That night she went to a shelter and began figuring out what it would take to climb high. From there, she didn’t stop. Years later, it had cost her everything she had to do it—tears, pain, sweat, food stamps, donated clothes from churches or anywhere she could get them, and secret handouts from her estranged older sister—but she’d scraped together a living for her and Jessica. They’d shared a one-bedroom apartment in a run-down building in Sawtelle, but she eventually saved enough to move them to a slightly better place and open her own gym.
Why a gym? It hadn’t really started out that way. Her idea had been to offer single working moms a place to come and exercise while their kids were supervised. It sounded strange, but at her lowest points, those days when she barely had anything to eat because there was only enough money to buy food for Jessica, or those days where she only slept two hours because she needed to work, she remembered being grateful that she had her health. It had saved her and Jessica. Because as long as she could work, there was hope for a better life. Her wish became wanting to give that same hope and health to as many struggling mothers as possible.
But soon, word started to spread. People liked the laid-back vibe and the classes she gave. From there, the gym kept on growing and she eventually qualified for a loan to expand her business. It took Margarita sixteen years to pull her life back together a piece at a time after Mike, but Jessica had been her motivation every painstaking step of the way. Now, she finally made enough money to pay off her debt, save for Jessica’s college, and put a little bit away for retirement. In LA money didn’t go far, but Margarita’s life was tied to her business. She could never leave unless she sold the gym, and it wasn’t worth enough. Not yet.
Please let me get that second loan. Please… With it, she would open two more locations and be impressive enough to franchise.
Yet you risked it all for sex with some horrible strange man in your office? What if word got out? Everyone would see her as a fraud. Her gym had been built on her reputation for living a clean, healthy life where fitness was at the center. If her customers knew she’d cavorted with a drunken slob who clearly did not believe in caring for one’s body, they’d all think she was a giant hypocrite.
God, I hope he doesn’t have any diseases. Really. What had come over her? It was so unlike her to become overwhelmed with so much…well, hard hot lust.
She shook her head. Stress. It’s got to be stress. Or perhaps her hormones were messing with her?
Margarita threw her keys and purse down on the small glass entryway table of their very modest condo overlooking a sushi restaurant. “Jessica! I’m home!”
No reply.
“Jess?” The lights in her daughter’s room were out and her school backpack wasn’t on the bed—its usual place.
Margarita went for her purse, dug out her phone, and dialed Jessica’s cell. Voicemail? Dammit, Jess. Don’t do this to me again. I can’t support us and be home to babysit you, too.
She looked up at the ceiling, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. This was the third time this month that Jessica had decided to do as she pleased, ignoring the rule to come home after school and to always tell her where she was. LA was a big, big city and no place for a young woman to be running around. If anyone knew that, it was Margarita.
Why? Why would she do this to me?
Margarita sat on her brown, secondhand couch and pushed her palms to her eyes, trying her best not to cry. Jessica meant everything to her, but it felt like everything she sacrificed meant nothing to her daughter. Every day they grew further and further apart.
Margarita clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. “Dear God, please help us get through this.”
“Gods, not God. Either way…you rang and I’m answering,” said a snappy female voice.
Margarita shot up from her couch. “What the…” She found the room empty. Holy shit. What was that? Her blood chilled.
“I think I need a vacation.” She picked up her phone and started calling Jessica’s friends. It was going to be another dramatic night. And yippy. I’m going crazy.
The next morning, Margarita got up early, opened the gym and rushed home through the insane traffic to make sure Jessica was up in time for school. They’d spent two hours last night, after Margarita picked up Jessica from the mall, going around and around about the fact that Jessica was grounded for breaking the rules again, to which Jessica responded, “You’re never here, so what are you going to do if I go out with my friends? Huh?” Margarita had pointed out that every day she wasn’t working her butt off put them further away from finally having enough money to buy a house or to have more money available for Jess’s college. But Jessica just didn’t care, and she was right. Margarita couldn’t do much to physically force her daughter to obey.
Dammit. Teenagers were so tough, and even tougher on single working mothers. She had to keep Jessica on track, away from any paths of recklessness that would lead Jess down a path as hard as hers. So from now on, she’d be picking Jessica up from school—forty-five minutes each way in traffic—and bringing her back to the gym to do homework and study. Hell, maybe Jess would see how hard she worked to support them.
For the time being, though, Margarita had to rush to the salon to get her hair touched up—always had to look her best. And in LA “best” meant looking young and hot.
CHAPTER NINE
What is this place? Acan had stayed at the gym all night—all right, two hours—okay, okay, an hour and forty-five minutes—but he felt exhausted. Last evening he did more exercise than he had in seventy thousand years, and he was in no mood for stupid games. Okay, also not entirely accurate. He was very much in the mood to put on his tequila shot-glass belt and do the rounds at a retirement home, as was his custom on weekends. If anyone needed to have fun and live a little, it was the elderly, who understood their days were numbered. He also found the older humans to be…well, comforting. He liked that when they smiled, they meant it. When they lectured, it came from heartfelt experience, and when they told you to make every minute count, they said it out of love.
Old people rock. This place does not. Acan looked around the stuffy salon filled with snobby-looking women and wondered why the hell he’d allowed Jill to send him here. Couldn’t he get a trim at the zoo with the llamas like he normally did? Yes, like old people, llamas were cool to hang around. They didn’t judge a
nd found pleasure in the simple things in life. Hay. Chewing. Making fun of zebras. Simple.
“Sir, may I, like, help you?” said a young female with spiked blue hair, standing behind the reception counter, her brown eyes wide with lust.
Instinctively, Acan looked down to ensure that he indeed wore pants. Check! No need for help there. “Yes, I have an appointment to trim my hair.”
The young woman looked over his entire body like a squirrel eyeing a tree it wanted to climb in search of nuts. “We can totally help you with that. What’s your name?”
“Acan.”
She scanned her appointment book and made a pouty frown. “Oh no. I’m not seeing ya.”
Dammit. Jill likely put him under his nickname. “Try Belch.”
“Belch?” She giggled and then looked at her magic book. “Here you are. Under ‘Mr. Belch, God of Wine.’” She looked up at him. “OMG. You a celebrity? ’Cause that’s some name, mister.” She winked at him. “It screams fun. So do you.”
Sure. He was a celebrity in a way, but not in the manner she meant. He was more like toilet paper—people needed it but only noticed its importance when lacking. When fun went missing in their world, the journey of being alive felt more like a burden. Which was why he needed to get back to work as soon as possible. Duty calls.
“Haircut. Now,” he ordered. “And you must cease the flirtation. I’m on vacation.”
She gave him a confused look. “Uh…right this way.”
He followed her into the depths of the chemical-scented girly jungle and took a seat in the chair, facing the mirror. The women—customers and stylists alike—gawked and drooled behind him.
“Linda will be right with you,” said the blue-haired girl. “Can I get you water or coffee? Or meee?”
He tried to hide his impatience. This hair-grooming business was seriously annoying. “No. Thank you,” he said dryly. “I am looking for the perfect woman to dedicate my existence to, and though it pains me to say it, you are not her.”
“Okay. If you change your mind.” She sighed and slinked away.
“Good morning, I’m Linda. Jill said you needed a…” The Asian woman, with lovely hazel eyes and short ringlet hair, stopped in her tracks and stared at his face in the mirror. “Oh, dear god of hotness.”
“No. I am not the God of Hotness.” How ridiculous. No such god existed. Of course, he could not disclose he truly was a god or what his call signs were: Mr. Decap and Mr. Goodtime.
The woman shook her head from side to side, trying to get a hold of herself. “Uh-uh. All right. You’re here for a trim and deep-conditioning treatment, right?”
“Yes. You must make my hair soft and silky so that it beckons a woman’s attention and fills her with the irresistible urge to run her fingers through it as I make passionate love to her body with my enormous cock.”
The woman’s mouth fell open, and she wobbled to the side.
“Are you all right, Linda?” he asked. “Because you do not look all right.”
She swallowed hard. “Um. Yeah. I’m, uh…uh…really—phew! Is it hot in here?”
He understood that humans became a little wild in his presence, but he never recalled them swooning.
“Gods, this was a dumb idea. I should have gone to the llama man at the zoo.” Acan stood to leave, not wanting to waste another moment.
“No. Please, I’m sorry,” Linda said. “I’m not sure what came over me. I’ll have you done in twenty minutes, thirty tops.” She held out a black poncho-looking thing. “Let’s get this on you.” She glanced at the chair, urging him to retake his seat.
“What is the poncho for?” He hoped it did not have a picture of unicorns, clowns, Buck Rogers, or Hannibal on the front, as Cimil’s often did. Her poncho collection was getting out of control.
“It’s to keep the hair off your clothes.” Reluctantly, he sat back in the chair, and the woman quickly fastened the annoying cloth around his neck. She went to work, dousing his hair with spritzes of bottled water and then applying some other stuff. With a giant comb, hand a trembling mess, she raked through his hair. The tangles came out quickly with her magic solution, and she then moved to the trim.
“Not too much,” he warned. “The hair is a symbol of my sexual prowess.” He’d worn his hair short many times in his existence after accidentally lighting it on fire; however, he liked it long the best. As the official party god, his look needed to scream “reckless abandon.”
“No-no-no, sir. Ju-just the ends,” the poor woman said with an unsteady voice. “And might I add how incredible you sme-smell.”
Hell. She looked like she might pass out at any second. Honestly, he did not comprehend why women were suddenly behaving so strange around him.
After about ten minutes, Linda beamed at him from behind, staring at his face in the mirror. “All done. Now let’s ge-get that power conditioner rinsed out.”
Eager to get the hell on with his day, he stood from the chair and accidentally snagged the poncho on something. It fell to the ground and wet sticky hair dropped on his white shirt.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” She began trying to swipe the bits from his shoulders.
“Do not concern yourself.” He whipped off his shirt and then quickly witnessed Linda fainting backwards.
“What in the gods’ names?” He crouched to help her while the rest of the women in the salon simply stood there staring at him. “What’s the matter with you women? She needs assistance. Call those ambulance people.”
Nobody moved.
“Now!” he barked with his deep, authoritative voice, jolting them back to life. He looked down at Linda and inspected her head. He saw no blood.
“Linda, can you hear me?” He tapped her cheek, and she began moaning—a good sign because it meant she had not expired.
“So fucking hot,” she mumbled.
Acan sighed with a deep grumble. What was getting into these female humans?
Margarita was in the back room of the salon, getting the hair dye rinsed out, when one of the stylists rushed in. “Kay! Linda passed out.”
Margarita’s stylist, Kay—a woman in her sixties with hot pink hair—stopped rinsing.
“What happened?” Kay asked.
“This guy just came in and—” the woman shook her head from side to side “—I don’t know. But you should see him. He’s so damned hot. I mean hot, hot.”
What in the world? A woman had passed out in the front of the salon and this gal was fawning over a man?
Outraged, Margarita sat up, took the towel from her shoulders, and wrapped it around her dripping wet hair. “Did you call 9-1-1?” she asked.
“I don’t know, actually.”
“Well, go make sure!” Margarita grumbled a few choice words and got up, heading toward the front of the salon. She knew basic CPR and first aid—a necessity when one owned a gym and people got hurt or overexerted themselves from time to time.
Margarita turned the corner and spotted a very large, shirtless man hunched over a woman lying on the floor. His back was pure muscle.
The women in the room sort of just stood there staring at him as if he were the last man on Earth.
Seriously, people?
“Linda,” the man said in a hypnotically deep, sexy voice to the woman on the floor, “can you hear me?”
That voice sounds familiar. Where do I know it? As she approached, the man came into view. First, she noticed those eyes. Deep, penetrating, and turquoise like the Caribbean. Then she noticed those lips, the bottom one just the right amount of fullness to give a woman the urge to suck on it.
Wait. That face. It’s that Belch guy. But as that thought reached her mind, “Belch” stood, her gaze following his face as he rose up, up, up. Then her eyes went down, down, down.
Crap. Look at those abs. The grooves were so deep and perfectly formed that they almost looked fake. And the pecs were two smooth mounds of chiseled muscle. His arms were just right. Not overly meaty, but naturally strong and swelli
ng with power.
Perfect. He’s too perfect. There wasn’t a fake, overly done thing about him. One hundred percent man. One hundred percent ripped. One hundred percent naturally gorgeous. She blinked several times, wondering if she’d been the one to fall and hit her head. In all her years of running a gym that boasted some of the most sculpted bodies in the world, she’d never seen a guy like this.
But he looks like…no! It can’t be! The Belch she knew had a beer belly, flabby arms, and perma-bed-head. This guy was not that. This guy was a god. A sex god.
“Ohmygod!” She covered her mouth with a gasp. “You’re Belch’s brother, aren’t you?”
He frowned down at her as if insulted.
Why would that make him angry? Unless he wasn’t that guy’s brother. No. No way. Their faces are identical.
Maybe they didn’t get along. Wouldn’t surprise her. That Belch guy was a piece of work.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It must be difficult having a brother like that and always having to apologize for him.”
The man continued frowning.
“What? Did I say something wrong?” she asked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve bumped into him a couple of times—totally random and—”
“What is your name, woman?”
Woman? How very antediluvian. “Margarita.”
“Well, Margarita,” his turquoise eyes twitched with irritation, “this woman is injured and in need of assistance. Are you going to help or simply stand there?”
He was right. She’d been blubbering over this man like all of the other women in the salon.
Without another word, Margarita lowered herself to the woman’s side. She was conscious, but clearly in pain and in need of attention. “Can you hear me…?”
“Linda. Her name is Linda,” he said.
“Linda, the paramedics are on the way. Can you talk? Can you tell me where it hurts?”
Slowly, the woman raised her arm and pointed at Belch’s brother. “So hot,” Linda gasped.
GOD OF WINE (The Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Book 3) Page 7
