Excerpt: A Match Made in Hell (Patreon)

MinionS: Got something cool for you guys! Adrienne has a lot of story ideas lying around. When he gets inspired, he'll write parts that come to him. He had an idea for a humorous paranormal romance-y novella... A Match Made in Hell. You guys are getting the first 12 pages! (I'm going to share maybe a page in the newsletter today)

Let Adrienne know what you think of Martin and Bazil.

*****

The bus was the last thing Martin Hensley remembered.

Oh, and the coffee he held. His favorite. Vanilla bean, double shot, extra whipped.

Iced.

Hundred-degree weather in the deep south wasn’t hot beverage country.

But Martin never got to take a sip. He stepped from the coffee shop, plastic cup in one hand, his notebook tucked under his arm and walked to the bus stop.

The seven-ten weaved through traffic. The driver sped up to cut off the VW bug trying to pass him on the left.

Typical for downtown traffic.

The bus moved into position to stop at the curb. Martin put his cup to his lips, his tongue screaming for that first-morning sip to soothe his caffeine-starved brain.

And…

So the bus and the coffee, or the lack of coffee, he remembered.

Oh yes, and how the cup arched from his open hand, splattering its gloriousness over the asphalt in front of him.

That was it….

Nothing else….

Until…

Martin squinted at the ticket in his hand. The tiny white double-tailed paper sperm typically ejected from the number pickup for a queue.

He held it closer counting the digits, the commas, the additional digits.

This had to be a mistake.

His eyes had to be going bad.

Did they even make numbers this large?

People milled around him, in line, each with a ticked pinched between their fingers. Some wore robes with slippers, some in suits, club wear, more than a few who were buck naked.

Martin slapped a hand against his chest. The soft cotton of his favorite button-up pressed against his palm.

His only button-up. The rest of his shirts were pullovers.

Pants? Did he have pants?

He slid his hand downward, smoothing out a nonexistent tie, to the tails of his shirt. A strip of leather, denim.

Jeans, his favorite jeans. He owned two and these were definitely his best. He wore them today because…

“Hey.” A chubby finger pecked him on the shoulder. He turned.

The woman behind him wore her hair in curlers. Lipstick scribbled a line over her mouth. A bruise surrounded her right eye. Raw skin crossed her knuckles.

The oversized t-shirt hanging to her knees might have had a picture of a duck on it, but the food stains made it difficult to tell.

She glared. “You’re holding up the line.”

A couple of feet now separated Martin from the man in front of him. A man who stood well over six feet tall with tattoos covering his bald scalp. He wore a bright orange jumper.

Chains hobbled his ankles.

Martin’s heart stuttered. He fought the urge to step back.

“Will you move already?”

The lady behind Martin shoved him.

He scooted forward a few inches.

“Jesus Christ you fucker.”

She shoved him again.

The world tipped, Martin threw out his arms as he headed face-first toward the floor. His fingers brushed the orange jumper but before he could close his grip, the man moved out of reach.

A bolt of agony shot through his chin, copper covered his tongue. Feet surrounded him.

Voices rose up, most of it laughter. A barefoot with long yellow nails came down on Martin’s hand. Chubby fingers with bright red nails plucked his ticket from his grip.

A spitball landed near his arm. Two tails stuck out from the sides.

The lady in the curlers stepped over him. “Asshole.”

Martin stood.

His lip throbbed. He touched it, crimson stained his fingers. He wiped them on his jeans.

Several of the people sneered at him, a few continued to laugh.

“You’re going to need that.” The man beside him had the ends of his beard tucked into the waist of his pants. “They won’t let you in without a ticket. And if you don’t have one, you’ll wind all the way back at the end.”

The end?

A meadow of people swayed behind Martian. More appeared from the row of doors at the far wall. Ahead of him, nothing but people. On either side? More people.

“You better get that ticket.” The man nudged it closer with the tip of his boot.

Martin picked it up.

The roll of paper collapsed into a wet goo. He grimaced.

The man beside him shook his head. “They ain’t gonna take that all wadded up. They gotta scan the back.”

Martin picked at the mashed corners. They tore into tiny bits. He gave up.

Two rows over a clown handed out animal balloons. The line shuffled forward.

Martin leaned closer to the guy with the beard. “Um, do you know where we are?”

He cut Martin a look. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

A man in a top hat and tux held a broken bottle of wine. He stared at the thing with tears coursing down his cheeks.

More orange jumpsuits, a few striped, business suits, a scuba suit, a…

Big cartoon dog eyes turned on Martin.

“What are you staring at you, pervert?” The person waved a stuffed paw at him.

Martin dropped his gaze to the shiny red marble floor.

High-pitched feedback screeched the air. Martin winced, everyone winced.

“Attention guests. Will a Martin Hensley please come to the front?” More feedback wailed in agony. “Will a Mr. Martin Hensley please step to the front of the line?”

Murmurs rumbled across the tide of bodies.

“Move it!” A tall thin man in nothing but slippers shoved his way past. Another man followed. Voiced echoed from in the back.

The announcer cleared her throat. “A Mr. Martin Hensley, five-five, one hundred and sixty-five pounds, size nine shoe, brown hair, Caucasian, wearing jeans and his favorite emerald button-up shirt because they match his eyes, boots, and mismatching socks.

Silence slammed into place. As one the entire room turned in Martin’s direction.

He hugged himself.

Anger, rage, disgust… jealousy?

The man with the beard snorted. “Well, ain’t you special.”

Martin shook his head. “It’s a mistake.”

The man with the beard dragged his gaze from Martin’s head down to his toes. “Doesn’t look like mistake.”

It was. It had to be. It could only be a mistake. “My socks match.”

A shadow crawled over Martin.

The man in the orange jumpsuit stared down at him.

“No, I swear.” Martin tugged up the pants leg of his jeans. “See, both of them are black. They--”

Navy blue and black.

Shit.

Martin swallowed. His throat clicked. A bead of sweat dripped from his temple to his chin.

The sea of bodies parted opening a passage to the front of the room. He didn’t want to go wherever that path would take him. But he didn’t want to stay there either.

Martin walked. Angry glares pushed him faster.

“Bastard…”

“Should cut him real.,.”

“Beat the shit out of him that’s…”

“Fucker’s been kissing someone’s…”

Martin ran until his ribs ached, his breathing hitched, until the muscles in his side pulled. Up ahead a counter, he stumbled to a halt, grabbing the edge to keep upright.

The cat lounging on top, yawned.

A cat.

The woman sitting on the other side of the counter cleared her throat.

Martin stood straighter.

“Mr. Martin Hensley.” It almost sounded like a dare.

“Yes, I’m—”

She slapped a plaque with ‘closed’ engraved on the front down on the counter.

A barrage of nasty curses rose up.

“Mr. Hensley, follow me please.” She pushed her bifocals higher on her nose.

Threats joined in.

Martin rushed around the corner. Another cat slithered in front of him. He twisted to the right, lost his balance.

And once again the world tilted.

The ground punched Martin between his shoulders, his head smacked the marble. Light from the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling blurred.

The cat from the counter landed on his stomach, jabbing its paws into his gut as it springboarded away. The one he’d tripped over stepped over his head leaving long hairs stuck to his lips.

“Mr. Hensley, get up. You do not want to be late.”

Martin rolled over. His nose itched, he slapped at the hairs clinging to his face.

The woman walked, Martin followed.

They exited through a door in the back into a wide hall with short industrial carpet. It entered into a room filled with a cacophony of dings, ticks, and grinding slides.

Young people, old people, dressed in Sunday wear to mohawks and leather, sat in front of massive steel desks, typing away on archaic typewriters surrounded by stacks of manila folders..

Two spots down, a large man slumped over his desking pecking at the keys of his typewriter, crying. A fat, blue-eyed tabby cat, with its feet tucked under leaving its body in the shape of a bread loaf, looked on.

Not all the desks had cats, but a lot did.

Two sauntered down the aisle past Martin.

“Mr. Hensley.” The counterwoman stomped her food. “Now.”

He obeyed.

They headed through the rows of clacking typewriters to another door, another hall, then an elevator.

She pushed the call button.

“The supervisor is on the top floor.” She picked a cat hair off her blouse.

“Supervisor?” The supervisor of what?

“He will have questions and you will answer them.”

“What kind of—"

“It would be in your best interest not to lie.”

“I don’t normal—”

“And whatever you don’t stare. He gets very upset when people stare.”

“What would I—”

The elevator dinged. The woman ushered Martin into the lift. She hit the button. “Remember, don’t stare!” The doors closed.

Electric guitars filtered from the speakers in the back corner of the box. Black reflective walls drank away the light from the recessed fixture in the ceiling. Brass chair rail cut a line through the darkness. The only break in the perfection.

The lift hummed.

There were no buttons by the door or a floor number display.

The lift continued to hum.

The song ended another began. Martin folded his arms, he unfolded them. He hummed along with the familiar rift born during his teenage years. He was pretty sure he’d danced to the song at his prom. Same night he lost his virginity to Tom Kirkland.

The jerk.

Not that Larry Carson, Martin’s college roommate was any better.

He’d been sure Jim would work out. Then Ray.

Wait, he and Ray were still dating.

Weren’t they?

Martin rubbed his temple. No, no a few nights ago the walking asshole had called Martin at twelve midnight to tell him it was over. Ray had to repeat himself three times because of the club music blaring in the background.

So Ray was done.

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. It was less than a week to Thanksgiving. If he showed up at his parents without a date, they’d start trying to stud him out to any eligible bachelorette they knew.

And knowing Martin’s mother, she’d spent all year collecting a line of them. She loved blonde hair and blue eyes cause she was dead set on a grandkid with blond hair and blue eyes. Or at least blonde hair.

Martin huffed a breath hard enough to pop his lips.

Shit. He needed to get laundry done. And vacuum the carpet.

Had he paid the light bill? He was pretty sure he—

The lift shuddered to a stop. The black panels parted with a ding. A large foyer welcomed Martin. Flowers spilled from the vase on a table in the middle. A white cat sat next to it washing its face.

Martin inched to the edge. On one wall, paintings of raging fires and tiny forms spilling off the corner of a flat planet earth. Another framed canvas showed a giant lizard swallowing people whole. On the other side, a portrait of a red-skinned monster perched on a throne of skulls. The accompanying painting had ocean waves of fire.

More red marble, black walls, although the light scattering from the chiseled gems of the chandelier held its own against the oppressive space.

The cat moved to wash its feet.

Martin inched over the threshold. The door closed behind him. He shuffled around the table.

The cat meowed and Martin startled.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

The cat’s long coat flowed on invisible eddies as it walked over. Martin scratched it behind the ears. The thrum of its purr traveled up his fingers.

“I don’t suppose you know where I am?”

The cat jumped down and trotted over to the door on the other side of the room. A brass nameplate read, ‘supervisor.’

Well, at least he wasn’t completely lost.

Martin followed the cat. It rubbed against his ankles, the door jam, then stood on his hind legs stretching upward and flexing its claws against the door.

“That where you live?”

The cat meowed.

“You don’t happen to be the supervisor do you.”

The cat sat and squinted at him.

“Yeah, okay, dumb question.”

The cat yawned and resumed its routine of twirling around Martin’s ankles and rubbing on the door.

Martin started to reach for the knob. Considering he had no idea who or what—

The paintings stared down at him with their images of terrible things.

The cat glared up at him.

“What?”

It looked away.

Great thrown shade by a cat.

“Fine, but if something had happens, it’s your fault.” Martin knocked.

“Come in.”

Martin cracked the door. The cat slipped through the opening.

Unlike the foyer, bright colors christened the walls, lush sofas, chairs, gentle scenes of impressionist gardens adorned the walls.

Cats lounged on pillows, graced the platforms of a multi-level cat tree, huddled at food bowls and drank water from a tiny automated fountain.

A man around Martin’s age leaned against a massive cherry wood desk. He wore a blue suit, glasses, and shiny Italian lovers. His styled hair swept to the right. Curved stumps peeked up through the waves. They followed the line of his skull corkscrewing to a stop above each ear.

“Mr. Martin Hensley?” He didn’t look up from the folder he held.

“Yes.” Martin squinted at the strange spirals sprouting from the top of the man’s head.

“Please shut the door.”

Martin did.

Was it a hat? Some type of hair clip? Light sprinkled colors over the ridges. A rainbow of hues barely outmatched by the brightly colored room.

Martin knew what they were, but his brain refused to accept it. People didn’t have horns. Goats had horns, rams had horns.

The man walked over. His short stature gave Martin a perfect aerial view.

Nope, Martin was pretty damn sure those were horns. Sparkly, glitter-bombed horns. There was no way those could be real.

Martin lifted a hand.

The man cleared his throat. His dark eyes burned from behind his glasses.

Martin tucked his hand behind his back.

“Quit staring Mr. Hensley.”

“Are those…”

“Mr. Hensley, my name is Bazil.” He held up the manila folder. “Do you know what this is?”

“Horns? I’m pretty sure those are…”

“Mr. Hensley.” Bazil’s cheeks reddened.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Horns. It’s the only thing they could be.

“Mr. Hensley.” Bazil slapped the file against Martin’s chest. “That is your file. You’re redacted, sealed, file.”

Martin took it. “My file?”

“Yes. Your file. Your personal list of all your sins. An oddly short list, considering.” He waved a hand.

Martin opened the folder. His smiling face stared back at him at the corner of the first sheet of paper along with his date of birth, weight, height—Five foot five?

“This is wrong. I’m five-seven.”

Basil huffed. “You’re five-foot-five.”

“No, I’m sure I…” Below his incorrect height, his shoe size, inseam, the length of his—

Martin skipped to the next column, the number of fillings he had, dates marking the loss of baby teeth. His birth weight. His conception date. The place where he was conceived? He turned the page. Dates for kindergarten, dates he had colds, the flu, fell and skinned a knee. Another page listed swear words and dates, including today.

Martin looked at his watch. The time marked it at 9:50. That was five minutes ago at the most.

“I didn’t say ‘shit.’”

Bazil rolled his eyes. “Is it in italics?”

“Huh?”

“The swear word, is it in italics?”

It was. “Yes.”

“Regular print, you said it aloud. Bold print you yelled it. Bold print italics, you yelled it during sex.”

There were at least ten rows of microscopic bold print italics.

A cat jumped up on the desk. “Plain italics,” Bazil picked the cat up and put it on the floor. It promptly jumped back up. “Plain italics means you said it in your head.”

“I don’t understand.” Martin flipped to another page where short summaries starting from the day of his birth, gave overviews of Martin’s daily activities. He flipped forward. Right there on the date of prom, Tom Kirkland’s name and exactly what they’d done, in the back of his mustang, parked on the side of a deserted road.

Martin shook his head. “How do you know this?”

The cat sitting next to Bazil slapped a cup of pens. It went tumbling off scattering its contents across the paisley rug.

Bazil frowned. “You do realize that’s exactly why you’re here right?” He picked up the cup.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you.” Bazil picked up the last pen next to Martin’s shoe. “You’re here for a totally different reason.” He stood and the horns on his head caught the light glinting in pinks, bleeding to yellow, merging into violets.

“Mr. Hensley.”

Martin had his hand out and hovering over Basil’s head.

“I’m sorry. I just…I didn’t mean to… Are those—”

“Horns, Mr. Hensle. They’re fucking horns. Yes, I have horns.” Basil snatched the file from Martin’s hands and threw it on the desk. The orange cat glared. “Get off my desk.”

It continued to glare.

“Do not push me. Off.”

The cat stood, stretched, twirled, sauntered to the edge, leapt, and landed in the high-back executive chair. There it promptly curled up tucking it’s nose under its tail.

Bazil clenched his eyes shut. His lips moved. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and took a breath. “Now, where were we?” Bazil picked up the file again. “Why is your file redacted?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve seen files marked sensitive but redacted. No one has a redacted file.”

“I--.”

“What did you do?”

“I’m a librarian.”

Bazil curled the corner of his mouth up. “I know what your profession was Mr. Hensley. What did you do to get put down here?”

“Down…here?”

“If I don’t know what you did how am I going to assign you to the correct level for rehabilitation.”

“Rehabilitation for what?”

“To hopefully improve you as a human being, so next time you won’t come back.” Bazil folded his arms. Despite coming to Martin’s nose, he managed to stare down at him.

Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh…”

Bazil tapped his foot.

“I…”

“You murdered your parents didn’t you.”

Martin jerked his gaze up. “What?”

“I should have known.”

“Murder my parents?”

“But why would that be redacted? I have thousands of people guilty of parricide. None of them has a redacted file.”

“Why would you think I killed my parents?”

Bazil took off his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth from the inside of his jacket. “I don’t know of any kind of murder that gets a file redacted.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” Martin ducked his head. “Sorry I didn’t mean to yell.” He dropped his shoulders.

Bazil put his glasses back on. “Then what did you do to get put here?”

Martin flopped his arms in a messy shrug. “I don’t even know where here is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Martin met the man’s gaze.

Another blush ghosted Bazil’s cheeks.

Martin’s chest warmed. If the circumstances were different, he’d consider asking Bazil out.

Bazil narrowed his eyes.

Or maybe not.

“You’re in hell Mr. Hensley.”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “Excuse me?”

“Hell. You know the opposite place of the pearly gates.”

“Hell?”

“Did I stutter?”

“No…” Martin snorted a laugh. “This is a joke.”

“Does it look like a joke?”

“This can’t be Hell.” Martin straightened up.

“It can’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Hell is supposed to be all fire, brimstone, flailing souls, if it existed.” Which it didn’t. “Only thing I’ve seen so far are some long slow lines, bullies, convicts, crazy ladies, a bunch of miserable office workers, a long-ass elevator ride, some scary paintings.” A cat rubbed against Martin’s legs. “And cats. Just cats. Where are the demons?”

“Yes, cats Mr. Hensley. Lots of cats, every cat, and we’d have ten times as many if they didn’t have nine lives. Cats are a near-permanent fixture in Hell.”

That made no sense. “Why would a cat go to hell? They’re animals. They aren’t cruel like people.

The cup of pens tumbled off the desk again. A big brown tortoiseshell lay in the spot it cleared.

“Goddamn it, will you stop?” Bazil picked up the pens, the holder, arranged them on the other side of the desk. “Cats don’t go to hell because of what they do. They all go to hell because they’re cats.” Another cat leapt up on the desk. Basil growled. The cat sat and stared at him. “And they all go to hell because they’re born assholes.”

The cat flexed its whiskers then flicked out a paw missing the cup of pens and knocking over a picture. It clattered to the floor.

The cat turned, swished its tail and dropped to the floor. It made its way over to the water bowl, each step swaying its hips.

“This can’t be Hell.”

Bazil picked up the picture frame and sat it back in place. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Hensley. This is hell.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue.

Bazil scratched his head close to one of his…

No, people didn’t have horns but the devil did or was supposed to, or something. “Oh god.”

Bazil rolled his eyes.

“I’m in hell?”

Bazil picked up the box of tissues and carried them over. “Here. Don’t snot all over the furniture I just had it cleaned.”

“I’m in hell.” Why? What had he done? Granted he wasn’t a saint but Hell? Martin’s knees folded, and he wound up sitting on the floor. “This isn’t a joke?” He asked but he already knew.

“No, this isn’t a joke.” Bazil examined his nails.

“I’m really in Hell.”

“Yes, you’re in Hell.”

“Why?”

Bazil sighed and leaned back on his desk. “That’s a question only you can answer because your file’s been redacted.”

There were birthdays Martin forgot, but usually because he worked late. He’d canceled a few appointments at the last minute or not shown up at all. No, it would have to be something worse. Speeding tickets? The package of gum he stole when he was ten?

He hadn’t called his mother on Mother’s Day.

Or…

Maybe she was right? Maybe they were all right? How many times had he been told he would go to hell by card-carrying Christians? Apparently, they’d been right about Hell. A cat climbed into Martin’s lap.

Well, sort of right.

Martin hugged the cat to his chest. “Is it because I’m gay?”

“What?”

“I’m gay. Is that why?”

Bazil screwed up his mouth. “No. Gay does not get you into hell.”

The tears blurring Martin’s vision spilled down his cheeks. He sniffled. The cat purred against his chest. “You sure?” Martin wasn’t.

“Yes. Perfectly sure. Trust me. If being gay was a ticket to hell my brother would be buried under it.”

That shouldn’t have made Martin feel better but it did. Kinda. He petted the cat. Hair collected on his hands and stuck to his shirt.

“You really don’t know why you’re here?” The bite to Bazil’s tone softened.

Martin didn’t. He had no idea. “Could it be a mistake?” Did higher powers even make mistakes?

“No. No mistake. All guests are vetted. The unsalvageable ones aren’t even put into the queue. We drop those directly into recycling.”

Martin wrinkled his brow. “Recycling?”

“Yeah, you know, break them down to the stardust they’re made of, fertilize the universe, put back what we take. There’s no rehabilitating some people. We can only grind them up and start all over.”

Martin tightened his hold on the cat. It squeaked. “Am I going to be recycled?” The cat struggled.

“You ever kill anyone?”

“What? No.”

“You ever put your hands where they don’t belong.”

“Put my hands…” Martin crushed the cat against him. “Oh god, no, no, never. That’s…” The cat yowled and Martin opened his hold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” He smoothed down the cat’s ruffled hair. “There. All better.” The cat sauntered away.

Bazil watched him. “No, I’m pretty sure you’ve never done anything bad enough to get recycled.”

“Then what could it be?”

“No idea. But the review team is thorough. They don’t make mistakes, they…” Basil cursed and picked up the file. He folded back the pages stopping near the middle.

He’d found something. Martin was sure of it.

Bazil’s expression hardened.

Oh God, it was bad. It could only be bad.

Martin waited for the terrible, terrible news.

Bazil closed the folder and took out his cell phone. He danced his thumbs over the screen. His glasses slid to the end of his nose. He pushed them back up. A frown pulled at his lips. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth. He typed again. Stopped.

Waited.

His frown turned into a bared-teeth snarl. He pounded the phone with his thumbs.

“Yeah, fuck you, I know how to do my job, brother.” Bazil stuffed his phone in his pocket.

Martin waited while the anger smoothed from Bazil’s expression.

“Did you even go through review?”

Martin glanced over his shoulder. “Me?”

“Do you see anyone else in here?”

“Review?”

Bazil stared at the ceiling. “I take that as a no.”

The fat orange cat parked himself on top of the file where Bazil dropped it on the desk.

“What’s the last thing you remember before arriving here Mr. Hensley?”

Martin chewed his bottom lip. “Uh. The coffee shop.” He wrinkled his brow. “And I went to catch the bus.”

Bazil propped his hip on the desk. “And?”

“Am I supposed to remember anything else.”

“Yes.” Bazil continued to stare.

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Your life, your whole life.”

“My life?”

“Specifically all the bad things you’ve done. You know, life flashing before your eyes before death. It’s the review board’s way of making sure each guest understands exactly why they’re here.” He tapped the file. “Your admission papers are missing. In fact you didn’t even go through the standard quality examination.”

“And that means?”

“Someone brought you in the back door. And there are only three people capable of that. My father, whom I haven’t seen in a hundred thousand years. Me. And I know for a fact I didn’t bring you in here. The only person left—”

The door to the office opened.

“My brother.” Bazil flicked a hand at the newcomer standing in the doorway. He had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, wore a leather jacket, a band-T and black skaters. His long brown hair was tucked into a man bun on top of his head. He stood taller than Bazil and sported a tan.

“Hey, my brother. My man.” He came across the room arms wide.

Bazil pointed. “Don’t you dare.”

“Come here…” The new guy wrapped his arms around Bazil and lifted him off the floor.

“Jesus Christ will you put me down!”

Bazil’s brother opened his hold and Bazil dropped to the floor, stumbled, and somehow managed to stay on his feet. He tugged on his jacket. “I just had this dry cleaned.”

“And it looks sharp.”

“Until you messed it up.” He brushed at invisible lint and smoothed equally nonexistent wrinkles. “Martin, my brother.”

The man grinned and walked over with his hand extended. Martin stood, took it. They shook.

“Nice to meet you, Mr…”

The man’s widened his smile.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jesus Christ, I just told you,” Bazil said.

Martin tossed a look between the two.

“Jesus.” The man said. “Or Christ. But no mister, that makes me feel old.”

“Jesus.”

The guy puffed out his chest. “The one and only.”

“Jesus Christ, the guy who died and came back.”

Bazil barked a laugh.

Jesus shrugged. “Not really.”

“Not…really?”

“No, what actually happened was…”

“We don’t have time for your conquests.” Bazil brought over the file to his brother.

Jesus Christ, his brother. His brother Jesus Christ.

“I thought you wore robes.”

Jesus grinned. “Only on special occasions.”

“You don’t look like your pictures.”

Jesus dug around in his pockets and extracted a glowing circle. He perched it on his head. “Ta-da, the halo. Everyone loves the halo.”

“Put that away.” Bazil pointed at Martin. “And you, stop encouraging him.”

Jesus pointed to the halo.

Martin shook his head. No, even the glowing halo didn’t really make him resemble his pictures.

Jesus shrugged and put it away. He reached into the inside of his jacket and pulled out a package of chocolate cakes.

“Don’t you dare eat those in my office.” Bazil made a grab for them.

Jesus held them above his head. “I got the munchies.”

“And I don’t give a fuck. You’ll get chocolate everywhere and I just had the carpets done.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’re never careful.”

Jesus extracted a chocolate cake from the cellophane. He turned enough to avoid Bazil’s grab and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth.

Bazil roared and threw the file at him.

Crumbs exploded from Jesus’s lips on the back of a laugh scattering tiny chocolate dots all over Martin’s file.

Bazil shook. Head to toe vibrated. His face reddened. He balled up his fists.

Jesus laughed harder.

“If fucking hate you.” Bazil spat the words.

“Awww…” More crumbs trickled down Jesus’s chin. He made a halfhearted attempt to coral them and wind up grinding the chocolate into the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it.” Bazil walked back over to his desk. “You did this. I don’t know why. But you brought him down here for some ungodly reason. I don’t care how many times you say you didn’t—”

“Yes.” Jesus sucked a flake of chocolate from his thumb.

Bazil looked at him. “Yes?”

Jesus tucked the remaining cake back into his jacket. “Yes, I brought him down here.” He winked at Martin.

What the hell was a guy supposed to do when Jesus winked at him?

Other than putting the cap back on the tequila and going to bed to sleep it off.

“Why?” Bazil walked a few steps closer.

“Because I love you, bro. You’re uptight. You’re overworked. You need to relax, have fun, get laid.” Jesus draped an arm over Martin’s shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Bazil flared his nostrils.

Jesus pointed. “See, that right there. Your blood pressure has to be awful. I keep telling you that whole gluten, sugar-free, no saturated fat, and no dick diet isn’t good for you.” Jesus squeezed Martin’s cheeks forcing his lips into a fish kiss. “Who can say no to lips like this.”

Martin batted Jesus’s hand away. “I don’t think that’s—”

Jesus leaned closer. “A lot of people don’t know this—”

“Jesus…” Bazil marched over.

“But my brother…”

Bazil grabbed Jesus by his arm and spun him around. “I’ve had enough of your shit to last me an eternity.”

Jesus craned his head back. “He’s a virgin.”

Bazil shoved Jesus and he went rolling across the carpet