“How about two? Since you’re feeling so generous.”
Though Bacchus could’ve easily paid his asking price, he would garner more respect if he negotiated. “One point one.”
“One point seven.”
“One point five. I’ve been apprised of the property values in Miami, and that’s more than fair.”
Santos sucked in his cheeks and rubbed his forehead. “All right, done. Keep Bach at gunpoint until the wire transfer is made.”
Pan would know what to do. Bacchus need only wait for his steward to place the money into Santos’s account.
The kingpin ate a pork sandwich and washed it down with a bottle of beer, of course without offering Bacchus anything. Once the man finished his meal, the call came from his accountant. The deep lines around Santos’s lips softened. The waddle beneath his throat jiggled a bit as he nodded. He dismissed the thug and handed Bacchus another cigar. “Now, we can be friends again.”
Not wishing to ruffle the man’s freshly smoothed feathers, Bacchus took the cigar and lit it. “Thank you.”
Santos took a couple drags and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Shaking his head, he asked, “Why?”
Bacchus shrugged. “Why not?”
“Estas loco. You are one crazy son of a bitch.” Santos turned to Ariana. “Mi’ja, why don’t you get your new boss here another drink?”
Chapter 6
But Now Can See
Pan’s voice dragged Bacchus from his slumber.
“Sire, it’s two in the afternoon.”
Bacchus rolled over and put a pillow over his face. “One more hour.”
“Sire, you have to leave by three-thirty. Now, come on. Up, up, up.” Pan clopped away toward the master bath.
“No.” Limbs heavy, eyes drifting shut, Bacchus gave over to the warm pull of sleep.
The covers flew away, and cold water rushed over Bacchus’s bare body. He sat up, heart racing, teeth clenched. “You are the most vile, contemptible, uncivilized—”
“Cruel, heartless and unloved soul that ever existed. Yes, sire, I know. We go through this every morning.”
Bacchus dried his face on his duvet. “Well, as long as you know.” Pain and nausea racked his body. He rubbed his eyes and temples. “Did you bring my morning kit?”
Pan handed over a grocery bag with a sports drink, Advil, and Alka Seltzer. Bacchus dissolved the seltzer tablets in the sports drink and washed down four ibuprofen with the foul-tasting concoction. In about twenty minutes, he’d be right as rain.
Pan had researched the cause of hangover symptoms and formulated the restorative combination.
Now that Bacchus had somewhere to be every afternoon, he couldn’t afford to lounge in bed all day, lamenting the night before. The club had been a positive influence in many ways. To his surprise, Bacchus enjoyed his newfound business owner status. He’d made some rookie mistakes, like placing his first order with the liquor supplier under the assumption the club goers would drink at the same rate he did. But hey, now he had back stock that would last for a couple years, so no biggie, right?
The employees were a source of endless fascination for him. All the lovely young women dressed in tight satin dresses, flirting with clients they’d rather spit on all in the name of good tips. The young men who worked security at the bar tried they’re damnedest to get those same young women to leave with them each night. Few of them possessed the skills to seduce a woman. Bacchus could leave with any of them at any time, but since he dreamed nightly of the beautiful Ariana, and awoke often enough screaming her name, he forwent the pleasure of nightly company.
Ariana, Ariana—she proved a constant distraction. If only she’d acknowledge Bacchus’s existence. Since their meeting on the yacht, she had barely spoken three words to him, unless he solicited conversation. Even then, she was polite, but never warm or welcoming.
Shaking away thoughts of his unrequited love, Bacchus pulled himself out of his soggy bed. “How was your night?”
“Fine, sire. Thank you for asking.”
“I don’t know why you don’t sleep here.”
Pan shook his head. “Thank you, sire. Not to complain, but it’s hard for me to be so far from nature and in human form. I’m struggling enough with the long hours at the club. The last one of your employees who saw me in my true body ran screaming. The swamp suits me just fine at night.”
“As you wish.” Bacchus trudged into the master bath of his beachfront condo. Catching a glimpse of his torso in the mirror, he paused. With a flex left and a flex right, he admired his sculpted abs. He’d been no fatty in the many millennia he’d spent as a god—despite the manner in which that cheeky bastard, Cornelis de Vos, had portrayed him—but Bacchus’s mortal form possessed an amazingly lean firmness. He’d never known the body encompassed so many individual muscles. As a god, he’d never gained, lost, or expelled anything for that matter. Urination and defecation had been adventures to master. He flexed his obliques again and marveled at his resemblance to a marble statue.
“Vanity, thy name is Bacchus.” Pan appeared behind him and nudged him toward the dressing area. “Please, sire, you must get dressed.”
“Right, sorry. I got caught up in my reflection. Am I very handsome?”
A sincere expression crossed the satyr’s features. “You are as beautiful as I’ve ever known you to be, sire, which means you’re stunning.”
“What would I do without you, old friend?”
“Show up late every day to the club. Now hurry, hurry.”
Bacchus donned a garment known as a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from some singularly talented tailor named Calvin or was it Klein? First and last names still confused him. Though the clothing lacked the grace of a chiton, he had to admit the vestments accentuated the positive. He checked out his buttocks in the mirror.
Satisfied with his appearance, he swept into the living room.
Pan had prepared a platter of fresh fruit, a green salad with feta cheese and honeyed walnuts, and fresh coffee.
Another result of daily hangovers, he’d developed a taste for coffee. Miraculous potion. “This looks wonderful, Panny.”
“Thank you, sire. You need to replenish your body.”
Munching on a fig, Bacchus mumbled his agreement.
After breakfast, Pan shaved him with a straight razor and slapped cologne on his master’s baby smooth face.
Bacchus collected his wallet, keys, and a bottle of eighty-two Lafite-Rothschild he’d purchased while in Paris. No special occasion. Really, did one need a special occasion to enjoy a gorgeous vintage such as this?
Jingling the chain holding the key to his Alpha Romeo 8C Spider, Bacchus turned to Pan. “Are you ready to ride with me to the club?”
Blanching and turning a little bit green, Pan gave his lord a forlorn look but didn’t object. Instead, he assumed his squat, troll-like human form and walked with his master to the parking garage.
* * * *
Going from zero to a hundred kilometers per hour in less than five seconds always gave Bacchus a rush. Even if Pan constantly questioned the wisdom of tearing down Ocean Drive at breakneck speeds.
At his club, Eliseo, the driving hip-hop beat made Bacchus want to take off his clothes and pulse around the nightclub. How the music captured his fancy remained a mystery, though he wasn’t alone. Glittering, coiffed, and bejeweled revelers pulsed with him. They