Deities & Desires: Death On Line One

Chapter One

Chapter One

Steph

Good lord, I’d just agreed to have lunch with the miserable harpy that was my mother. Which meant any minute a giant yellow bird wearing purple platform heels and a black beret would come sauntering through my office door and hand me a one-way ticket to Wacky Land.

“Honestly.”

I tugged the earpiece off before the steam coming out of my ears melted the plastic, and sent it flying across the desk.

Another headache. How funny they always seemed to follow conversations with her. And by funny, I meant not. I rubbed my temples, groaning, and pulled my center drawer open, on the hunt for my trusty bottle of Tylenol. I found the white vessel of relief and shook it.

“Bah. Empty.” An exaggerated sigh pushed its way through my pursed lips as I looked around.

Under normal circumstances, this industry-standard office with bland white walls and ordinary brown carpet would be the saving grace of my sanity. However, since I hadn’t told the she-beast where she could stick her invitation/directive, I was clearly going absolutely bat-sucking bonkers.

The intercom chirped.

“What?” I snapped.

Cara’s over-the-top southern drawl cut through the speaker. “Hey, sugar. Got a guy on line one claiming he’s Death.”

My eyelids shuttered.

“Uh, do what now?” I leaned across my desk and glared at the flashing red light. Sure enough, line one was holding.

She chuckled, the scrape of her ever-present nail file scritching its way across my eardrums.

“I said, there’s a guy, says he’s Death, and he needs your help.”

Huh. I hadn’t misheard. Considering I slept about as much as a squirrel on c***k, that would have been a safer bet.

“Okay.” I drew out the word, giving my brain a moment longer to process. “Did you tell him to take a short walk off a long—or long walk—the pier thing? Did you tell him that?”

“Mmhmm.” Scrape, scrape. “Well, in my own words. Told him to buzz off and hung up, but he called back. He was highly insistent. Said he simply had to speak to you.”

She elongated the “i” in “highly” so long I thought she might have had a stroke for a second there.

My back hit the plush leather of my chair, and I rocked.

What kind of person would . . . Oh.

The chair squeaked to a halt, and my lip curled.

Mom. Well, someone was feeling froggy today.

This was right up her dusty old alley, setting up some rando to call by paying him in batted eyelashes. Or green M&M's. Or whatever currency aging, quasi-famous, former actresses used. She’d just been droning on and on about marriage and my lack thereof. ‘Spinster Stephanie.’ Always hilarious.

So, I was pushing thirty-six and unmarried. Big, fat, hairy deal. I was the proud owner of a successful business, built from the ground up, and I was happy.

I shifted in my seat, my eyes settling on the shrine to compulsive workaholics everywhere: the well-worn overnight bag that lived in the corner. I sucked air in through my teeth. Okay. The significant lack of men in my life might have been due to my moderate obsession with doing things myself, but I didn’t have a choice. It was a painful lesson learned early that working hard and being self-reliant was the only way to be of any value.

Also, no way in hell was I going to let this business go under because I went out for dinner instead of doing one more pass over the books. Or two more.

Sure, I had expected to have a husband by now, especially since I ran a relationship counseling website, but not being hitched at this point didn't mean I’d be alone forever.

Cara piped back up. “I told him; I said, ‘Sir, it’ll be your funeral if I put you through like you’re asking.’ Which he thought was very funny.”

Scrape, scrape, scrape. I cringed. How much nail could possibly be left?

“Anyway,” she sighed. “He’s waitin’. What do you want me to do?”

Fine, I'd play along just long enough to tear this punk a new one.

“I’ll take it.” I cracked my neck. “My hackles haven’t had enough of a workout today.”

“Alrighty. Have fun.” Her parting chuckle was followed by a tiny click.

That left me and this blinking red light locked in an epic stare down. I tugged at the front of my shirt like the phone had eyes, rolled mine in preparation, and picked up the receiver.

Death. Honestly.

I jammed my manicured nail on the button, and when the line popped, I cleared my throat. “Go for Steph.”

My nose scrunched. Why did I always act so ridiculous when I was nervous? For that matter, why was I nervous at all?

“Hello, Stephanie.”

A shiver danced down my spine as that deep, smooth, syrupy voice all but poured through the line.

Holy crow. Two words and I wanted to say yes, even though he hadn't asked me anything.

Game face, Steph. Game face.

“Why, hello there, Mr.—Death, was it?”

He chuckled, and my stomach fluttered. I adjusted my shirt again like he would see through the phone.

“No need for formalities. You can call me Theo.”

“Th—Theo, then.” Damn it my heart needed to calm down. “So, quick question: who put you up to this?”

The beat of silence stretched for eternity. “Pardon?”

“This.” I swatted imaginary flies. “The whole being 'Death' thing. It was the great and powerful Evangeline Waters, wasn't it? God. You know”—I snatched a pencil from my terra-cotta owl-shaped holder and stabbed the air—“thirty-five isn't that old. And just because my mom's been married half a dozen times doesn't automatically mean I'm chomping at the horse to jump a—a broom. Or whatever.”

Another chuckle, another stomach flutter. “I believe you mean to say, 'champing at the bit.' And I've not been put up to anything. I simply wanted—”

“Uh huh. So, it's just a hobby of yours to announce yourself as 'Death'? You gonna try to sell me a piece of the Brentown Bridge next?”

His thick sigh made chills pop up on my arms. “It seems it'd be easier to say I was,” he muttered. “Very well. Yes. Ms. Waters asked me to call.”

“I knew it!” Jaw clenched, I jammed my pencil through Owly’s eye, imagining mom's face sneering back, beak and all.

I draped my free arm across my chest and tucked my hand under my other elbow, kicking my heels off with gusto. “What else did she say? Oh, wait. Oh, that's rich. I bet she told you to ask me out, didn't she? That she'd pay you extra. Did she mention I NEVER do blind dates? Probably not. The evil sea witch gave you an impossible task because she loves to watch people fail. Well, you know what?”

I shot out of my chair, heart hammering. “You know what . . . Death?” I sneered the word as loud as I could. “I'm not saying no this time. We're going out. So, I hope your wallet is fat, your evening is free, and you're not late. Be here at five.”

I slammed the receiver in its cradle. Mind racing and mouth dry as a sack of dirt, I stood rooted in place, huffing. Then I slapped my hands to my cheeks.

What the hell was I thinking? I gave advice on dating. I didn't actually date. I hadn't dated since . . . My thoughts circled the drain to my last boyfriend nine years ago and his womanizing, drinking, hard-partying ways. God, had it really been that long?

Also, exactly what part of that conversation was me tearing Theo a new anything? Stupid sexy voice. Stupid deprived libido.

I forced air into my lungs and blew it out slow and steady. Okay. I could totally do this. I’d just meet with ‘Mr. Theo’, eat on his dime, tell him off, and leave. Although . . . my lips pursed. What did I always say? Be open to new things; Don’t be afraid to leave your comfort zone; A blind date can turn out to be . . . blah blah, something. If nothing else, I could use this as fodder for an article. I stroked my chin like an evil mastermind. Okay. Maybe I’d give the date a quarter of a shot.

The—no doubt disastrous—decision made, I searched the room in vain for something to distract my stampeding heart. Random pictures of landscapes. My degree from Brentown University. The garish artwork I bought off eBay so some starving artist could buy another beret. A little dusty, but no properly obsessed owner-person had time to swat at things with a feather covered stick. The room yielded the same bland view it ever did. Well, apart from newly impaled Owly.

I groaned and yanked the pencil free, patting Owly as I sat, only to have my stomach quake as my eyes zeroed in on my phone.

“No!” I jumped up, snatched the lying box of circuits off the desk and choked the life out of it. “How is it already 4:39?!”

This shirt was nearly busting at the seams. I only wore it because it had won the ‘still hanging in my closet’ lottery, thanks to two weeks of skipped laundry days. My skirt was wrinkled from sitting. My feet were killing me since the heels under my desk weren't made for walking. My makeup was about as far from fresh as it could get. And I was pretty sure my hair looked like it had been spat on by a camel and blow dried by a turbine engine.

I was doomed.