The urge to gag maybe?
No.
He knew her from somewhere. But where?
CHAPTER SIX
“Hello? I’m in urgent need of leather pants.” Zac stood in front of the polished oak counter, ringing the bell next to the register. “Hello! Hellooo!”
Mr. Damien Greystone emerged from the back and looked Zac over with a warm smile. He was a tall man, about six three, with hazel eyes and light brown hair. Today, he had on a pair of pressed black slacks, with perfectly polished wingtips to match his black leather belt, and a baby-blue dress shirt tucked in neatly. Not a wrinkle to be found. Not an inch of extra fabric.
Best tailor in town. But he was not just any tailor. Mr. Damien Greystone had been dressing the gods and other large males in the immortal community for a decade. He’d inherited the business from his father, and his father before that. He and his staff worked quickly and never asked questions. Like when Colel had him make a beehive hat. But most of the male gods came here because it was difficult to find clothing in their size. Being seven feet tall and hung like a stallion required lots of extra fabric. Well, except for Belch, the God of Wine, who hated clothing and only bought his tighty-whities here. Special order. Egyptian cotton. Extra-wide pee hole.
Ridiculous to pay a hundred bucks for underpants when one could go commando, Zac thought. Honestly, he’d walk around naked all the time if it weren’t for his love of leather pants and looking like a badass.
In any case, Mr. Greystone never complained about the odd hours or rush jobs. He simply went to work, knowing exactly what to do and how to make clothes for extraordinarily large dicks. Which I won’t be requiring today.
“How may we help you, sir?” asked Greystone.
“My, uh, friend Zac told me about your store. I am going to a party and require a pair of leather pants. And a top to go with them. You know, something that says I’m successful and a tiger in bed.” Zac looked around the shop with its piles of high-end T-shirts and sweaters stacked neatly on tables. On the wall, fine Italian suits in almost every color hung on racks to display this season’s styles.
Damien dipped his head of perfectly coiffed hair. “Of course, sir. Any friend of Zac’s is welcome here. By the way, you haven’t happened to see him lately, have you? He had me fit him for a tuxedo some time ago, but he never returned.”
The tux was supposed to be for his wedding with Tula. The pants were leather, but the jacket was a fine black satin. He’d asked Mr. Greystone to order new biker boots too. That’s right. I tux like a badass.
“I haven’t seen him,” said Zac, “but I heard he might be back in town soon.”
“Very good. We are used to holding on to things for a while, but with the downturn in business lately because of…”
Mr. Greystone stopped himself, and Zac knew why. The immortal clientele had dried up, and though Damien Greystone likely knew his customers were not human, he would never say it out loud. He would certainly never say that business was down because all the immortals had disappeared. The man was all about discretion. He was also a great listener.
“Well, things have just been a little slow. So, Mr…?”
“Hilbert, my name is Hilbert.”
Greystone pulled out a tape measure from under the counter. “So you need a pair of leather pants and a shirt that says you are a man of fun and means, is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm…” Greystone stepped around the counter and took a better look at Zac’s neckless frame. “I don’t believe I have any leather pants on hand in your particular size, but allow me to take some measurements.” Greystone gestured to the fitting room. “If you wouldn’t mind getting up on the box there.”
The fairy box? Seriously? This was so embarrassing. Zac climbed up and straightened his back, trying to feel more like his tall self.
“Very good. Let’s see…” Greystone measured Zac’s waist. “Forty-four.” And then went for the inseam. “Seventeen.”
Seriously? My cock is almost as long as Hilbert’s legs.
Greystone continued by wrapping the tape measure around Zac’s thighs and then his shoulders.
“Well, Hilbert, the good news is I believe a have a few very nice shirts in stock that will fit beautifully and really accentuate your broad shoulders; however, I do not have any trousers in leather or fabric that would fit such muscular thighs. You must work out a lot.”
Greystone was being polite. Hilbert’s lumpy legs hadn’t ever seen the inside of a gym. “Just give me options. This party is important. The woman I love will be there.”
“Ah, I see.” Greystone rubbed his chin. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a pair of lederhosen?”
The lederhosen were probably a special order for Cimil. She hadn’t been around lately either to collect her orders.
Zac shot him a look.
“No? All right then, let me think,” said Greystone, looking flustered.
Zac had never seen Greystone with so much as a hair out of place. Now he’s flustered? Was it really so difficult to find a pair of pants that would fit?
“I’ll take anything that doesn’t make me look like a slob who just rolled out of a dumpster from the ’70s,” said Zac. These brown polyester pants were incredibly uncomfortable, too. So itchy on my little noodle.
“I think I’ve got it.” Greystone smiled.
“Really?”
“Yes. How do you feel about skipping the pants altogether?”
Normally, Zac wouldn’t care about showing off the godly goods. But this body? “What did you have in mind?”
I can’t believe I’m dressed like this. Zac’s ride pulled up in front of the two-story, Spanish-style villa with bright red bougainvillea hedges and tons of fancy cars crammed in the circular driveway. He shut the Prius’s door, cursing his utter lack of coolness tonight.
Not only couldn’t he drive his red mustang, but he had to depend on lowly humans to get around.
Worst of all is this outfit. But it was either this or come to the party in those brown pants, and he was not about to ask Tula to dance with two cloth Hula-Hoops around his cankles.
Zac made his way to the front door and rang the bell. The hum of voices, laughter, and music poured through an open window at the front of the home.
As he waited, he fumbled with his black bow tie. Greystone swore it gave Zac the illusion of having a neck. The tuxedo shirt checked the “I’m successful” box, while the downstairs said “I’m a cultured man who knows how to have fun.”
Please don’t let there be any wind tonight. Please? Zac looked down at his green plaid kilt and snarled. A demon in a kilt. Now I’ve seen everything.
The wrought-iron door popped open, and Zac was greeted by a tall, slender woman with red hair. Not a good sign. He’d come to expect a disaster every time he saw red hair.
“May I help you?” The woman lifted a coppery brow, disdain written all over her face. Was this really how ugly people were treated? It was kind of crummy. Personally, he was used to people falling all over themselves when he walked into a room with his badass shiny mane of black hair, his turquoise eyes, and olive skin. His tall, perfectly muscled frame was like a manly Christmas tree that women just wanted to hang from.