IMMORTAL MATCHMAKERS, INC. (5 page)

“Cimil wanted to come herself, but when she foresaw that you would be sleeping nude, I wouldn’t allow it.” Roberto’s eyes flashed down to Andrus’s naked groin.

Andrus shrugged and then reached for his leather pants, which were in a heap on the floor. “Sleeping in pajamas is for pansies.”

“Sleep. I miss sleep.” Roberto’s dark eyes glazed over. “You get one down for a nap, and the other wakes. By the time you get that one settled, the first one is done napping. And it goes on…and on…and on.” He sighed. “Why did Cimil’s sister have to overdo it on the fertility spell?”

Akna, Goddess of Fertility, was one of the fourteen gods. It was said she was so powerful that one misdirected touch or look could get animals from entirely different species to go at it. The jackalope and tree octopus, for example?
Oh no, my friend. Those little buggers are real.
He’d seen them with his own eyes during his many years of travels.

“Try the white-noise machine for naptime,” Andrus suggested, opening the khaki velveteen curtains to let in some depressing, smog-tinted sunlight. He liked his sunshine pre-industrial revolution. “I used it for Matty. Helped drown out the noise pollution of the city.”

Roberto bobbed his head. “I most certainly will. Thank you.”

“So, might I ask: Why the water in my face?”

Roberto gave him a cold stare. “Cimil made me promise to,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “‘throw a drink in the asshole’s face.’ She said it was for some woman named Samantha. Ring a bell?”

He rubbed his jaw. “I said two words to the female, and she fled.”
Women. So infantile
. “And what the hell is Cimil up to anyway? That woman from last night was supposed to be my mate. As if I would ever be joined with a human.”
They are so weak.
Of course, the options in the immortal world were very limited: Deities—all crazy; vampires—not many females; angels—too goodie, goodie; incubi and succubae—rare, if not extinct; demigods, like himself, also few and far between; Maaskab—evil Mayan priests—not into that; sex faeries, unicorns, and some others that were in no way “relationship” material.

“You must mistake me, demigod, for someone who cares,” Roberto said dryly. “And now, if you do not mind, I must take your leave to buy a new evil puppy before my little ones awaken. We have apparently misplaced yet another. Or they ate it. We are unsure.”

Andrus cringed.
Fuck.
Universe help them all. When those little bastards got big enough to walk, he could only imagine the death, destruction and mayhem they would rain down on the world. Cimil and Roberto’s children would put the fear of the devil into Satan himself.

Roberto dug an envelope from one of the pockets on the front of the baby pouch and flung it on the bed. “That is for you. Perhaps the answers you seek are inside.”

“Thanks, but I—”

“You will read it, or I will return later when the children are awake. With the children, of course.”

Andrus blinked. “I’ll read it. I promise.”
Please don’t come back.

“Very good.” Roberto glanced at the corner of the room. “Come, Minky. Let us hurry and procure a new plaything for my evil seeds.” Roberto disappeared from the room, sifting to wherever ancient ex-pharaohs shopped for evil pets for evil children.

A shiver rolled through Andrus, realizing that Minky had just been in his room.
I hope they got rid of her fleas.
It was said that being bitten felt like getting stabbed with a knife. And they were invisible, too.

He walked over to the window with the view of a smog-coated L.A. and opened the letter. It was from Cimil, and it better fucking explain why he was here:

Dear King of Asshats,

Since you bombed big time with Samantha, as I knew you would because I know everything, I have already arranged for a second date tonight with Alexis. She is a nice girl who enjoys men with good hygiene and clothes that do not reek of death. She is also partial to men who do not threaten to take her to their hotel room to be murdered.

Murdered? He’d simply told the other woman, Samantha, that he would make her scream…
oh. Oops
. He supposed his looks and assassin-like vibe might have given the woman the wrong impression. He read on,

I strongly suggest, and by suggest, I mean you shall obey or suffer my wrath—I strongly suggest that you tidy yourself up and behave like a gentleman this evening.

Andrus scratched the back of his head, wondering what Cimil’s endgame was. He had agreed to go on one date. One. With a woman who might be his second-chance mate. Now she wanted him to go on another? That had not been the deal.

He flipped over the page to read,

That is a good question, Andrus. The first date was merely a test, to see what we were up against. Holy clown-crap, you’re a mess. This next date is your second opportunity to fine-tune your manly skills of wooing before our big immortal mixer bash in eight days. I’ve arranged to have your new mate be there, but you will have to work to win her over since her heart will not be automatically handed to you like the keys to dear old mom’s castle.

She knows I have a castle?
he thought, and continued reading,

Yes, I know about the castle. And about what’s in the basement. Really? Really? And you call yourself a warrior? Any whoodles, don’t fuck up this match. I have foreseen that Zac will flip out because he probably spends too much time in the mortal world. And flipped-out gods do evil things like destroy planets and pluck out eyeballs and gonads—specifically yours.

Andrus gave it a moment of thought. He didn’t believe her little scare tactic about Zac, and he didn’t want this. He didn’t want love or a mate, now that he’d had a few days to think this all over. Nothing ever worked out well, and he was only setting himself up for disappointment.
No, thank you.

Alrighty, if a deity losing his marbles, ripping off your manhood, and killing everything on the planet will not persuade you to get on the Cimi-train for a ride to everlasting love, then I would like to remind you of the following: Matty’s happiness depends on your success. If you fail, she will never love as she is meant to. She will never be loved as she is meant to.

Andrus sat down on the plush bed, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. It had been a very long time since he’d thought about all that. How had he forgotten?
Probably because you try to ignore anything that comes out of Cimil’s lying mouth?

No, asshole. It wasn’t a lie. As I told you long ago (in that other story you appear in) Matty is destined to grow up and marry your son, her mate. Unlike you, she will not be given a second chance. Have a fan-fucking-tastic date.

Sincerely,

Cimil, milk jugs for the spawn of mankind’s destruction

Andrus crumpled up the letter and chucked it in the wastepaper basket across the enormous room.

“Sonofabitch!” How did he end up in these messes? Now he
had
to become mated in eight days. With his luck, the woman would be a heartless maniac like his first mate. And who the hell ever heard of having to “woo” a mate? Was this some perverse prank? Mates were your ideal. Your other cosmic half. The cream and sugar to your coffee. Of course, his mate history had been an exception to the rules to begin with.
Why stop now?

He blew out a breath.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He envisioned Matty’s sweet little face and what a bright, intelligent woman she would grow up to be. Then he imagined her withering away on the vine, without anyone to love for eternity.

He shook his head.
Very well. I will do my practice date tonight and woo away.

The question was, did he really know how?

CHAPTER FOUR

“No. No. No. I’m going to lose my apartment?” Twenty-three-year-old Sadie Townsend looked at the eviction notice in her hand and sighed. She had exactly fifteen days to pay the rent or she’d be thrown out of her closet, aka studio apartment the size of a steam trunk with horrible brown shag carpet and 1970s pea-green kitchenette.

What am I going to do?

She didn’t want to go crawling back to her parents in Cleveland, where she would be forced to endure the endless stream of lectures.
Why didn’t you finish college? When will you grow up and get a real job that pays the bills? Why can’t you stay in Cleveland and pursue your career?

Because actors didn’t make careers in Cleveland. They moved to L.A. or New York.

She scrubbed her face with two hands and groaned. She could probably pick up a few more shifts between the two restaurants she worked at, but it wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to work double-time, including day shifts, but if she did that, she wouldn’t have time for the auditions that she just knew were coming. Signing up for a shift and not showing wasn’t an option, either. It would cost her the job completely.

She stared at the notice and ran her hand over the top of her head, twisting her long ponytail in her hand.
There have to be some G-rated ways to make a couple thousand.
All she needed was to make it another month or two. She’d gone on four casting calls recently, all for speaking parts in different movies where she was a perfect fit both for the personality of the roles and the physical description—fair complexion, medium build, auburn hair, and brown eyes.
I’m so close to something big. I can feel it.

Her phone rang and she jumped. It was buried somewhere in her bed. She threw the floral sheets and blankets to the floor, following the sound.

“There you are, you little shit.” She looked at the screen and felt her hopes fizzle. “Hi, Carlos.” She listened to the owner of the restaurant she worked at. “Yeah, I can come in early tonight.” She listened. “And stay late. Thanks.” What the hell. Extra hours were extra hours.

She hung up and went into her postage-stamp-sized bathroom, with old cigarette stains on the ’70s-orange tub and sink, to get ready for work. Either she got a good-paying job acting or she’d be homeless.

And done with L.A.

Sadly, her friends slash acquaintances weren’t in much better shape. Most of them—okay, all of them—were struggling actors, too. Four or five guys or girls sharing a small apartment. Then there was the reality that many couldn’t be depended on for help anyway. A lot of the folks she met at work or in her acting group would up and leave L.A., never to be heard from again. She supposed it was the reality of pursuing a career in Hollywood. Many couldn’t take the rejections.

I could reconsider Tim’s offer
. He’d asked her to move in with him, but they just hadn’t known each other very long. Two months. On the other hand, he was a nice steady guy who owned a gallery over in Malibu—exactly the kind of man she should date. They’d met when she’d been hired to serve wine at one of the gallery’s big openings. And when she said “big opening,” she meant it. Vaginas everywhere. A huge walk-through vagina sculpture that was supposed to give the feeling of being born, talking robotic vaginas sitting on a sofa and discussing Plato on a hidden speaker loop, and vagina beanbag chairs. There were so many vaginas, she’d wondered if that was what it felt like to be a player’s penis. When she actually shared the thought out loud, the man next to her started to laugh.

“Welcome to my world,” he’d said.

“Oh. So you’re a big dick, huh?”

“I feel like it for having this show in my gallery—the artist is a friend of mine.”

“He must really be into women.” She chuckled.

“No. Just their vaginas,” he replied. “Ironic, because my friend is gay.”

“Well, that sounds like the making of a good psychiatry patient.”

He laughed, and before she left, he asked for her number, which thrilled her. The man was positively beautiful—dark eyes, dark skin, lean and muscular. Around date number four, after he’d given her a very strange evening of sex where he kept telling her to eat him up, he asked her to move in. Regardless of the strange pillow talk, she wasn’t ready. And oddly, every time she started to have second thoughts about dating him, he’d show up at her work or at her door. Then he’d kiss her, and she’d feel all tingly and into him again. It was strange. So strange.

No. You are definitely not moving in with that guy
. In fact, she needed to dump Tim, now that she thought about it. She didn’t quite feel safe around him.
After work. I’ll do it after work.
Yes, it was the right choice. She needed her life cleared of any distractions so she could focus on two things: getting a job to save her apartment and not losing faith in her dream.

Easier said than done.
She didn’t know how much more of the pressure and rejections she could take.

Don’t think that way. You can figure this out, Sadie. Just have faith.

~~~

Later that evening, a few hours into her shift at the
churrascaria
, or Brazilian steak house, three of the
passadores
, or “meat servers,” decided not to show for the dinner rush shift.

Real nice, guys.
Strangely, not a one had mentioned that they’d be ditching work when everyone went for drinks after closing last night.
Probably decided to drive to Baja.
The three boneheads were roomies, notorious flakes, and big-time surfers.

I don’t know who’s worse, surfers or actors.
This was the fifth time something like this had happened since she started working there a few months ago. But they’d never had three no-shows in one night.

Carlos, the owner, who was a middle-aged man with a fake tan and a bald head, shoved a thick leather belt with attached carving knife at her. “You will have to cover for them, Sadie. Go put on your costume.” Being from Brazil, he had a thick accent and conveniently forgot how to speak English whenever anyone tried to tell him no. Not that she was in a position to refuse him, but it might make sense to point out the obvious.