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God of Wine Excerpt

God of Wine. Book #3 of the Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. Series by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff


Acan, God of Wine and Intoxication, entered the upscale fitness club that boasted some of LA’s tightest asses with one thing and one thing only on his mind: Sweet. Fucking. Revenge.

“Fucking human.” His eyes scanned the ocean of disgustingly healthy people, all tanned, glowing, and annoyingly perky for five a.m. I want to end them all. Starting with the woman from last night. Because of her—one lowly human—he had been unable to partake in his usual one hundred tequila shots and fifty beers or “accidentally” burn down the posh Santa Monica hotel with one of his legendary, crowd-pleasing, exploding mojitos. All because of a random woman he’d met in the hotel elevator whilst in transit to last night’s rooftop party. He’d said, “Hiya,” paid her a “compliment” and then invited her to the event. She’d shockingly said, “Fuck off,” more or less. So he’d said, “Fuck off back, you old bag.” She’d said, “Shove it and come to my gym so we can see who’s really old.”

You! You are, you wilted vag. Yeah. That’s right! She was some disgusting fitness-freak mortal who spent her days denying the truth: she would grow old, her beauty would fade, and her little lady “flower” would wither and die like an old tomato.

Yet she had the gall to metaphorically slap his perfectly bronzed cheek and challenge him to a fitness duel? Simply because he’d complimented her by saying she had nice tits or something like that? (Honestly, he couldn’t remember.) But nooo… She’d turned her nose up at him in the elevator. So what if he hadn’t been wearing any pants! Or underwear. Honest mistake.

What a fuzzy cunt! With his horribly clear vision, due to the lack of alcohol, Acan zeroed right in on the blonde woman in her forties as she did squats and hip thrusts inside the fishbowl aerobics room.

“There you are…” His growl faded into the background as she raised her toned arms above her head, clapping her hands, laughing and “wooing” with the other fitness hags in the room. Acan suddenly felt his heart beating so hard that his knees began to knock. His breath stuck in his lungs, and his eyes didn’t seem to want to move away. She is so…radiant. So lively. Her lovely creamy skin, pert nose, and beaming smile reminded him of an angel. With really nice jugs. And something about the woman’s tight, tight ass and long legs made him feel a little tingly.

What? No. I can’t stand her. Must be the lack of tequila in my system, making me all crazy. Being sober was awful.

“Hey, dude. No offense, but that’s pretty fucked up,” said a male voice.

Acan looked down—way, waaay down since he was over seven feet tall—at the stumpy little weight-lifter dude with bleach blond hair, wearing a black spaghetti strap tank top.

“What?” Acan pushed his snarled brown hair from his eyes, but it wouldn’t move. Why is my hair so sticky? Was it always like this?

Stumpy dude’s eyes flashed to Acan’s groin. “Pants, man. Pants. I mean, yeah, that’s a huge shlong, but there’s a time and a place to impress the ladies. Yunnooo?”

Acan looked at his lower extremities. “Hell.” He’d forgotten his pants. Again. And his fucking underwear. Again.

That’s the fifteenth time this week! I think. Either way, going to kill Jill, he thought. Jill, his full-time assistant slash deity-nanny, was supposed to make sure he didn’t go out the door showing off the man-gear anymore. Of course, it was now five in the morning, and she was never on duty this early because he was never awake before noon unless on his way to bed after partying all night, which was almost every night. Jill didn’t usually get in until—well, he didn’t really know. He was passed out most of the time.

It’s a tough job being the party god, but someone’s got to do it.

Acan jerked his head, playing it cool. “Thanks, dude.” He turned to leave, wondering how he’d arrived to the gym naked. Uber? Chauffeur? Battery-powered kiddie tank?

Gods, I hope I didn’t ride my bike. That seat was the worst on his bare balls.

“Hey!” an angry female voice called out.

Acan turned. Dammit all to hell. It was her. The giant CrossFit fuzzy cunt. Okay, she was hot and all vivacious and whatnot. But so? She was rude! And she didn’t know her place in this world. He was a god, a force to be feared and…well, to have fun with. After all, he was the embodiment of festive excess.

“You showed up. I didn’t expect…” Her voice faded as she realized he was down a pair of pants (and underpants) and up one man—involuntarily, of course. “I didn’t expect to see your penis.” She swallowed and made a disgusted face. “Erect.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What? Never seen a god before?”

“If you’re referring to a beer-bellied slob reeking of stale beer, who’s standing nude and aroused in the middle of my gym, then no. I’ve never seen a god.”

“Boom!” He threw up his arms, making eagle talons with his fingers. “Well, now you have.” He turned and strutted from the gym with his head held high. Godsdammit. I gotta get a drink.


“You did what?” The Goddess of Forgetfulness winced as she slid the uncapped Corona across the narrow width of the bar into Acan’s awaiting hand.

He licked his lips, greedily grabbing the ice-cold beer, and chugged it down, not spilling a precious drop. He slammed the empty bottle on the counter and pushed it to the side with the other ten he’d just guzzled. “I think you—” Hiccup! “—heard me.”

Forgetty, as he liked to call her, was a tall blonde who usually wore nightclub party clothes—white go-go boots, miniskirts, or little tank dresses like she had on today—because, like him, her life was all about the party. After all, nothing complimented a night of getting hammered better than blacking out and forgetting all about the crazy shit one did the previous night.

We are like peas and carrots.

In any case, his “sister”—the gods were not related by blood since they had no parents—DJ’d at their global chain of successful nightclubs and bars they owned together. She also worked the private parties for their immortal brethren while he bartended, which was his gift. As God of Wine and Intoxication, he merely looked at a person and knew what sort of drink to serve and the quantity they required to reach the ideal state of jubilation. Between him and his sister, they served a vital function that allowed humans—and the occasional immortal—to blow off steam.

Forgetty blinked her turquoise eyes at him. “I did hear you, brother. I merely cannot believe you went into a gym. At five in the morning. Are you absolutely certain you’re feeling all right?”

He tapped his index finger demandingly on the bar.

Forgetty reached into the trough of ice behind the counter, uncapped another cold one, and plunked it down in front of him.

“Feeling great!” He grabbed his frosty treat, saluted her with the bottle, and then threw it back.

“Belch, Belch, Belch.” She shook her head with worry, using his nickname. “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you just called the elevator woman a cunt.”

He set down his empty bottle and shrugged. “Correction. Fuzzy cunt. And so?”

She tipped her head to one side. “So you called her a cunt.”

Where was Forgetty going with this? He stared at her, hoping she’d open another beer.

His sister sighed and then rolled her eyes. “Belch, don’t you find that just a tad bit abrasive? Even for you?”

“Fuck no! She was being a bitchy shrew. I should rip out her throat and make a Bloody Mary out of it.”

Forgetty stepped back, cringing.

“What?” he snapped defensively.

“Belch,” she said softly, “you are many things—a drunk, a flasher, a very loud snorer, and occasional arsonist. But you are not an asshole.”

“I am an asshole!”

She slammed her fist down on the counter. “No, Acan.” She used his real name. She never did that. “You’re nice, and you’re fun, but you’re never cruel or so outrageously rude. Especially not to women.”

He wasn’t? “Well, fuck that! Let the bitches die. Burn them all.” Belch slapped his hands over his mouth. “What was that?” he mumbled.

Forgetty’s face turned ghost white. “I think—and please don’t panic and break out the absinth when I say this—bad, bad things happen when you break out the absinth—but I think you’re flipping.”

Fuck. “Fuck.” Maybe he was.

She nodded. “Yes, brother. It is the only reason I can think of for your recent change from happy drunk to mean drunk. Which means—well, you know what it means.”

Fuck, I do. Acan sat there on the barstool, staring into the empty bottle, his quickly sobering mind feeling far too lucid for his taste because he actually understood the implications. He didn’t like it one little bit. Cimil—world-renowned garage-sale huntress and Goddess of the Underworld—announced almost a month ago that something had upset the order of the Universe. No one was sure why, but the evidence was there: good immortals were beginning to change into bad immortals and vice versa, the only remedy or vaccination being a mate. Yep, a significant other. Having a special someone seemed to act as a counterbalance of sorts to prevent the immortal from “flipping,” as they now called it.

“Blahhhh!” Belch swiped his hand through the air. “I don’t need a woman, I need women. Lots of them and a new one every night. And I need my mojito tank.” Yes, it took a lot of upkeep, but the mojito tank was the highlight of his day. An indoor two-person glass tank filled with mojito goodness was ideal for total submersion, drinking games, or a very long straw.

“You’re acting too dense, even for you,” she said.

“I am the party god. Density is my immensity.”

“Acan, stop! If you’re turning evil, think about what this will mean for humanity.” Her turquoise eyes—same color as his and all of the fourteen gods—filled with intense emotion. “Everyone else might underestimate your powers, but—” she tapped the side of her head “—I know. We’ve been partying for ten millennia. You have the power to influence an entire hemisphere. You do it every New Year’s.”

True. New Year’s Eve was all him, with New York City being the epicenter. He influenced billions around the planet to drink in excess and party hard. It was the equivalent of his Super Bowl.

“Brother,” said Forgetty worriedly, “New Year’s is less than four weeks away.”

He looked up at his sister, who stood on the other side of the counter, not reaching for the tequila bottle behind her on the mirrored shelf like she should.

“What are you waiting for?” he scolded.

“I’m cutting you off, Belch.” She crossed her arms over her chest.


“You heard me. No more cocktails. No more beer. No more flaming assholes or Jell-O shots or even cough syrup.”

Belch gasped. No more flaming assholes? But those were the highlight of his mornings:

– ½ ounce grenadine

– ½ ounce crème de menthe

– ½ ounce crème de banana

– ½ ounce 151 rum

Light on fire.

The breakfast of champions. “What is this blasphemy I hear from your lips, sister?”

She poked his forehead from across the bar. “You! Have to. Get. Sober.”

Why the hell would he do that? People needed to party. He needed to party. It was the Universe’s will and purely instinctual for him. Asking him not to party was like asking the sun not to shine or for glue to stop being sticky.

“Because you have less than four weeks to find your mate—wait, make that two weeks.”

“Why two?” he asked.

“You know we all like to take the last two weeks of the year for vacation. So should you fail to find a mate, we really should lock you up beforehand. Wouldn’t want to ruin everyone’s fun, would you?”

“No. Fun is an essential part of a balanced and complete existence. Which is why I refuse to give up mine.” He stared defiantly, feeling disgustingly sober already. After all, he’d only had a few—ten or eleven beers. Or was it twelve?

“Brother, you can’t find your woman if you’re passed out or drunk. You need to be coherent and focused, and above all your senses cannot be dulled, or how will you know when you find her?”

He grumbled incoherently and stared into the mirror behind his sister, watching the old janitor sweep between the empty tables to his back. The bar wouldn’t open until four p.m., but he always loved to come early and prepare to greet the sad, the forlorn, the overworked masses in need of a little fun. To stressed-out humans, he was like an instant happy pill, and frankly, he enjoyed seeing their faces light up when he prepared the beer bong.

“Sorry. Nocando. I’ve been partying for over ten thousand years.” Merely a teenager in deity terms, but he’d been a late bloomer in finding his special powers.

“And?” Forgetty grabbed a rack of clean glasses and a dish towel and began checking for spots before storing them under the counter.

“And…and…if I stop, I will get a hangover. An epic, immortal-sized hangover.”

Forgetty blinked at him. “Don’t be such a child. You can handle a little headache.”

“Headache? Dear gods! I thought a hangover was feeling tired. Now I have to deal with a headache, too?”

She rolled her eyes.

“What? I’ve never had a headache, and in case you haven’t heard, headaches hurt. I am not a fan of pain.”

“You either get it over with now, or you’ll be doing it when we lock you up in Sedona, where there’ll be no booze, no fun, and no partying until the Universe has sorted things out and this flipping issue is flipping resolved, which might be a very, very long flipping time.”

Gah. Sedona. That was where his brother Kinich had his massive estate. Nearby was one of their largest immortal prisons and Uchben bases. Uchben served primarily as the gods’ mortal army; however, Uchben of every profession—doctors, teachers, accountants, scientists—were dispersed throughout the globe. After all, fourteen gods could hardly keep an eye on so many humans. Thankfully, however, the gods’ role was not to babysit every being on the planet. It was merely to ensure humans weren’t wiped out as a species, as was the case seventy thousand years ago when the super-volcano Toba erupted. The entire human population dwindled down to a few hundred as ash blocked out the sun for a decade. That was when the gods simply appeared. No one knew why or how exactly, but over time, they evolved along with humans and slowly began to specialize. Lately, the gods had begun taking mates and having children. A very new event in their history. Some had even transferred their powers to their significant others and shared their divine duties.

Well, fuck that. I’m not sharing my powers! And I’m not going to that horrible prison. Arizona is hot, and they have big bugs. Ick.

“I won’t do it. I’d rather die. Now, pass me that tequila.” He pointed to the expensive stuff on the top shelf.

“Nope.” Forgetty shook her head.

“How dare you defy me when I’m thirsty and in need of a tasty Mexican spirit…” His words faded as she dialed on her cell phone. “Who are you calling?”

She gave him her back. “Hi, all. This is you-don’t-know-who. I’m leaving a message in the emergency voice mailbox to inform you that Acan’s evil switch is flipping.”

Oh no! Forgetty was sending out an alert to his brethren.

He jumped and reached across the counter, swiping the phone from her hands. “You quisling! You cannot do that.”

She cocked a blonde brow. “I can. I will. And you’ll end up locked away.”

“Fine. Okay. Name your price. I have some thirty-year-old Margeaux tucked away. Or how about a nice Chateau OohLaLa.” He couldn’t remember the name of the winery, but OohLaLa sounded fancy, right?

“You will stop partying. You will get into shape. You will make yourself appealing to more than just drunk women looking for a good time they’ll forget they had, and you will find your mate in two weeks.”

Now standing and trying not to get annoyed by the room not swaying, he planted his hands on the bar. “Just how do you propose I do that?”

She smiled, her turquoise eyes twinkling. “We’re calling the Immortal Matchmakers.”

He scoffed. “Zac and Cimil? They couldn’t find their way out of an empty beer can.” Zac, God of Temptation, and Cimil, Goddess of the Underworld, had been banished to the human world for breaking several divine laws—illegal use of powers, lying to fellow deities, acting without regard for another god’s mate, the list went on and on. Zac and Cimil had also been stripped of their powers until they matched up one hundred immortal couples. The punishment was supposed to teach the two about the importance of love, family, and helping others rather than themselves.

Stupid. Zac would never learn, and Cimil was evil to the core. Always would be. Gods, I love her. So much fun.

“They do not have powers. What is the point?” he asked.

Forgetty sighed. “They don’t need powers to throw a party and invite every eligible single immortal woman they know. All you need to do is show up sober. And wear pants. Pants would be a nice start. Feel free to practice that one starting today.” Forgetty lifted a brow.

He looked down, past his beer belly, finding his big salami dangling against his thigh. “Damn. I could’ve sworn I stopped by my taco truck and grabbed my pants.”

“Taco truck? What happened to your house? Wait.” She stuck out her hand. “Don’t tell me. You threw another wild party and burned it down.”

How did she know? The woman was psychic. “Not on purpose. It is simply that I enjoy creating those flaming drinks the crowds so love.”

“You could make them outside.”

“What fun would that be?” The thrill of a flaming cocktail was just as much about the flavor and presentation as it was about the subconscious fear of something exploding in a blaze of glory.

Forgetty picked up her cell and began dialing.

“Who are you calling now?” he asked.

“Jill, how the heck are you?” Forgetty said with a bland tone, speaking to his assistant. “We’ve got a situation.” Forgetty listened for a moment. “Nope, Belch did not superglue himself to the Empire State Building again.” She listened and then laughed. “Ouch. Yeah. I forgot about that rope burn accident. But his junk appears to be intact and enjoying its usual fresh air.”

Belch grumbled at Forgetty, knowing that she and Jill were discussing the time Cimil dared him to walk a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. Blindfolded. A very bad choice because when he slipped, he hadn’t been wearing any clothes and…well, his balls took the first hit. He then fell to his death. Luckily, however, when a deity’s body was destroyed, they were sent back into the cosmos, where they could return to the realm of the gods—if they weren’t currently banned—or return to the human realm with a new body. The whole process usually took a few days since the gods depended on sacred portals (aka cenotes, aka underground springs) in the Mexican jungle to rebuild them one molecule at a time—very low-tech, but tried and true. Still, ruining one’s human shell hurt like a sonofabitch.

Forgetty continued her conversation with Jill over the phone. “Sadly, this is a serious matter. Belch has got to find his forever someone or he’ll turn evil and be locked up. I’m putting you in charge of keeping him sober.” A moment passed. “Hello? Hello?” Forgetty pulled her cell from her ear. “I think she hung up on me.” Forgetty dialed again. “Voicemail! Can you believe her?”

“Was going to fire her anyway. I think I’ve gone weeks without pants.” Oh well. Belch shrugged, feeling his throat dry out and hearing that frosty cold beer calling his name. “How about a beer to celebrate going on the wagon?”

“No!” His sister shook her finger. “And so help me, Belch, if you touch one drop of alcohol, I’m going to—”

Forgetty’s cell beeped, and she took a peek. “Cimil is calling an emergency midnight meeting at her office.”

“Wow. We’ve never had one of those before. Must be important.”

His sister gave him a look.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“You turning into a threat to humanity is important. And we just had an emergency meeting last week.”

We did? “You must’ve made me forget.”

“I’ve never used my powers on you, brother.”

Really? Because he could barely remember the last ten thousand years.

She added, “It’s also against our laws to do so without permission.”

“Then why’s it all a void?”

“Uhhh…because you’ve been wasted for more millennia than I can count. But not like you’ve missed much. A few near misses with the apocalypse. Cimil got married to Roberto, the king of vampires, and had evil half-vampire, half-divine quadruplets, and…a bunch of the other gods got married. Even Votan has a son.”

The God of Death and War is a father? I definitely need to drink a keg. ASAP. “When did this happen?”

“Over the last couple of years.”

Gods. He’d only been sober for two minutes and already realized how much he’d missed.

He looked at his sister and blinked hard. Whoa. That’s what she looks like?

Mistaking his expression for despair, Forgetty reached across the bar and squeezed his hand. “Do not worry, brother, we’ll figure this out.”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“I always thought you had four eyes and two heads.”

“Ha. Funny.”

“Who said I was joking?” He really wasn’t.

“All right. I need to finish getting everything ready for tonight’s party.”

“Oh, is it ladies’ night? I love ladies’ night.” Just last week, he’d gone home with five women, who pleasured him all night long. That was the nice thing about being a deity—women found them irresistible. Their scent, their hypnotically sexy turquoise eyes, the divine energy wafting from their bodies. In his case, his very large cock was also a nice chick magnet. There was never a shortage of admirers. The only downside was that a god’s energy could kill a person—fry their brain—if the god didn’t make them wear a very special black jade to help absorb their potent powers. He personally had a lovely collection of black jade bracelets back home.

You mean the taco truck?

Oh yeah. Burned down my house. He’d have to go shopping tomorrow for a new house. Maybe I’ll go big this time and buy a bouncy castle.

“Well, I’m ready to help welcome the women.” He rubbed his hands together.

“You’re getting locked in the closet until I leave for the meeting,” said Forgetty.

It was only eleven in the morning. “No. I’m not.” He defiantly took a seat on the stool again.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Acan, listen to me. The party is over. And you need to grow up. Your reckless teen years are over.”

Grow up. Grow up? I’m the party god and this party ain’t ever gonna end!

“Are you going to serve me or not?” he growled.


“Fine.” He rose from the barstool, his bare ass making a qwiiip! sound as it peeled off the vinyl cushion. “I’ll see you at Cimil’s office.”

“Hey! Where are you going?” his sister yelled as he headed for the door.

“To do what I do best!”

“Belch! Dammit! No more partying!”

Screw that. If he had to find a mate, he wanted one who knew how to throw down and worshiped at the altar of wine like he did, not some teetotaler. Going to find myself a real woman. Fit for a god.