We love a rough-around-the-edges hero just as much as the next blogger, so we’re pretty pleased to introduce Mimi Jean Pamfiloff‘s newest bad boy: the Demigod Andrus. Andrus is definitly an alpha, with a penchant for dropping f bombs. So please consider yourself warned as you check out this excerpt from Mimi’s brand new series, Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. — out next week! Ready? Let’s do this! (Sorry, Mom.)
“Godsdammit. I’m going to need a snack.” Zac, God of Temptation and the most awesome motherfucking badass deity on the planet, took his Bionic Man lunchbox from his black leather backpack, placed it on his desk, and went for his bologna sandwich.
“Fuck. Me. This can’t be happening,” he whispered and tore off a big bite while staring at the computer screen. One hundred and fifty? They hadn’t even been open for a day.
His computer made that strange little swoosh sound, indicating more of this “email” crap was flowing into his “inbox.”
He took another bite and nearly choked. “What the bloody hell?” Now two hundred and eighty immortals had filled out the online request form.
He looked over his shoulder, across the empty space of the twentieth floor, which they’d rented in downtown L.A. The big corner office remained empty.
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.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Your sister also explained that you’d try to run me off. Because, and I quote, ‘He’s a giant asshat and thinks he’s too awesome to need help from anyone.’”
He growled and reached for her. “Okay, little girl, it’s time for you—”
She leaned away from his hand. “Please don’t kick me out. I really need this job.”
He froze and then dropped his hand. Godsdammit. “My sister told you to say that, didn’t she?”
Tula shook her head. “No. But it’s the truth. I need the money for college. I’ve only got one more year left, and my parents can’t afford the tuition. This is the only job I’ve been able to find that comes close to paying the bills and is flexible enough for me to go to school.”
Bloody fucking hell. She’d found his loophole. No, he didn’t mean his asshole—his loophole. A deity’s purpose was to help humans. It was hardwired into their DNA from day one.
Now he had to help.
He scratched his unshaven jaw, unsure of what to do with her. Why would Cimil hire this naïve little human female to help them pay their penance—finding mates for one hundred immortals—or something like that? Honestly, the other garble the other gods had said at his sentencing about learning compassion and the true meaning of love had gone in one ear and out the other. The part about being stripped of his powers and banished, however? Well, that stuck like dog shit on a shoe.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “You can stay. But just for the time being until you find another job.”
“Thank you! Thank you,” she said. “I promise you won’t be disappointed. I’m a hard worker and great at organizing.”
“Yes. Yes. You’re welcome. You’re welcome,” he said blandly. Now where would he sit? He looked around the empty room that would also serve as their lobby. “I’ll work in there.” Fuck Cimil. She hadn’t shown, so he’d take the big office. Let her sit on the floor. “Maybe you can start by ordering some…” He waved his hand in the air. “Some things to make this hellhole look less like a hellhole.” Gods only knew how long he’d have to keep coming here; might as well make it worthy of a deity.
“Okay. I’ll get right on it.” She glanced down at the desk. “Is that a Bionic Man lunch pail?”
“Yes.” Silly mortal. Could she not see the giant letters on the metal box, clearly stating “The Bionic Man”?
“My dad had one of those when he was little. A huge Bionic Man fan,” she said.
Her father? But the woman at the very “cool and hip” store for younger humans had said that it was what the “edgy” and “fucking awesome” people used these days to transport their afternoon meals. No, he didn’t have to eat but enjoyed doing it anyway. Yes, he was a stress eater. Okay? Even deities had their challenges. Thankfully, I don’t gain weight. I’m just a giant piece of awesome.
Zac looked down at the lunch box and rubbed his jaw. “Well, it’s a…a friend gave it to me as a joke.” Note to badass self: Must smite salesperson at trendy store for deceiving me.
“Aww…well, I think it’s cute,” she said.
In that case, I will merely maim salesperson.