Good Gods

Chapter 4

I can't stand the media. Have I mentioned this? It's worthy of saying again, I hate anyone and everything involved with the press. Especially, if they have a camera shoved in my face. I admit that in my life, before I woke on the mountain, I didn't shy away from catching a juicy bit of celebrity gossip on the internet. Guilty pleasure and all that. I loved hearing about the newly minted movie starlet who got photographed at local night club sans her underwear. Good times.

Things have changed for me. That's why I made sure, post fashion intervention that I still got to wear drawers— if there should be any question, underwear, I'm on it.

I press my back against the leather of Lance's car seat. A cold sweat sprouts on my brow. Ahead of me, between our car and the entrance to the hotel, is a sea of photographers.

"Who tipped them off?" I wonder aloud.

Lance is waving at them from the driver's seat. Blowing them all kisses. "Great, isn't it?"

I feel my lunch rise in my stomach.

From the front seat, Jolene studies me. "Humm, okay chick-a-pee, I got a plan. I'll go first and draw the crowd. Lance, you cover Celina until she makes it to the front door." Lances' face crinkles into a pout. Jolene spies at him over her glasses. "You can double back and get your share of 'em. Pull on them big-boy pants."

With that, Jolene removes the pencil out of her hair, and shakes her head letting her golden locks swirl to her shoulders. She then unbuttons the top button of her blouse, and pockets her glasses into a case. She radiates beauty. One minute Librarian nerd, five seconds later she's gone all knock out diva. I cry unfair, and wonder, not for the first time, why does Jolene wear glasses? She's a goddess. She can do tons of crazy deity-type-a-shit. Pretty sure twenty-twenty eyesight is included. I've never mentioned it because with her wearing specks, the rest of us have a chance at appearing presentable.

Jolene opens the car door and joins the media. Or, to be exact, she leaps from the car, flies into the air, and slowly descends to earth landing amidst the reporters in a sparkle of flashing cameras. She does the whole anti-gravity feat while wearing heels. I could almost hate her.

My queue to move. I sprint for the door with no paparazzi the wiser. It works, of course it does. For Jolene, I also give her the distinction of being the goddess of wisdom, battle, and PR. Funny how those things go together.

I don't know what I figured my first meeting of the New Olympians would be like. If I had thought it would be a bunch of pretty people sitting around one-upping each other, or trying desperately to get laid, looking at you Lance, I wouldn't have gotten dressed this morning. I'm not exaggerating. Pathetic can't touch this group, and it's making me sick.

The Nymths are wearing pasties—pasties! Like the kind pole dancers wear on their nipples that have stars and tassels and other funky junk. They are pairing them with thongs. That's it for their outfits. Oh, and a lot of body glitter, unless their bodies really are shiny. I don't want to examine them close enough to tell. Some of the lesser gods and personified deities are wearing togas. I would have thought those went out of style post college frat party. They've all been drinking. A lot. Like I've been sitting here sipping my diet soda and watching them all consume a lake's worth of booze.

It must have to do with the fact that the personified deities are mostly associated with either drinking, sin, or war. And trust me, there are more personified gods and goddess than one would think. The mess of them all together seems to be the precursor to an orgy. I'm humiliated and irritated. Mostly the irritation comes from Rip, who still hasn't sent me an update on my daughter even after I've texted him for the fifth time.