Besides, the bar I"d named Nexus was mine. Lock, stock, and mortgage. My retro-eighties bar served as a haven for all the abnormal people in the area. Not my idea. I"d originally just wanted a regular karaoke bar, but of course, bad blood will always interfere. In my case, my satanic side mixed with who-knows-what. Whatever had created me, other than dear old Lucifer, had packed a potent punch. With no effort on my part, the space around me for about a hundred feet or so ends up being a magic-free zone. Seriously, I"m like a walking null field. That didn"t stop the natural-born abilities of the supernaturals who liked to frequent my place, but it sure came in handy for those extras that tended to get lobbed around in other places where too many people with magic gathered and drank.
Falling-down-drunken warlocks arguing over who had the more powerful grimoire? Never good.
Unless you were in the Nexus, of course; then all you saw were two old men swinging feeble punches, instead of devastating earthquakes and meteors falling from the sky. Once word got around about my magic-free bar, it became the hottest place in town for supernatural beings to hang out at, and somehow the mortals just walked on by; funny coincidence, that.
At least the specials tipped well, which made it easy to find staff. I had several dryads who acted as barmaids; Percy, my bartender and bouncer, who, with his half-giant blood, tended to get very little lip; and then there was little ol" me. On the nights Percy was off, I just pulled out my handy dandy baseball bat from behind the bar if people got out of hand. I"d played baseball in the demon female league for years, so I had a nasty swing. Of course, no one at the bar, except for Charon and Percy that is, knew I was Satan"s daughter. I tend to tell that fact only to people I trust because, for some reason, strangers seemed to think knowing a princess of Hell gave them leverage over my dad; and no matter how many times I showed them the errors of their way, they just didn"t get it.
So, nowadays, I go incognito. Instead of going by my first name, Satana, I use my middle name, Muriel. The patrons just assume I"m some kind of a witch, and leave me alone. It"s kind of refreshing, actually, to be considered normal. When I"d lived in Hell, I"d constantly had to prove myself–not to mention save my own life. With flashing eyes–some claimed they could see the fires of Hell in them when I got pissed–I put those who would cross me or try to hurt my dad back in line. Thankfully, that doesn"t happen often anymore. My reputation–not to mention my lineage--tends to precede me when I go back for visits.
My full name, by the way, is Satana Muriel Baphomet; I"m a bastard daughter of Satan, born of an unknown mother who smartly enough ran away from the mess that continues to be my life. I am about five foot eight; I"m definitely not a size 6, but I"ve always preferred my lush frame to the starved look of today"s models. I have chestnut hair almost to my ass, with reddish highlights; brown eyes; and lips made for sucking cock--or so I"ve been told; I"ve yet to test that theory. I am twenty-three years old and still a virgin, but not by choice. I intend to lose the cherry as soon as I fall in love. Not just lust, love.
And speaking of lust, in walked three servings of testosterone on two legs each. Seriously, if I could have bottled these guys, I would have made a fortune as great as the creator of Viagra did.
Every red-blooded, and one cold-blooded, female in the bar noticed them. It could have been the fact that they had an aura about them that said, “I am the bad-ass your mommy told you to stay away from.” It could have been the fact I coveted the leather, ankle-length duster one of them wore. Or it could have even been the fact that all three of them were fucking gorgeous.
I could smell the hand of my father here. I mean, come on. What were the chances that on the same day Daddy Dear showed up whining about my virgin state, these three most perfect hunks of male flesh walked into my bar? It looked like dear old Dad had pulled out the big guns, and judging by the bulges they packed in their tight jeans, big might be an understatement. And, surprise, they just happened to be my three favorite flavors!
Ranging from six foot to a six foot three, if I was any judge, they were like a rainbow of boy candy–blond, brunette and ebony. Broad shoulders stretched their jackets, while their faces were chiseled perfection. When the ebony-haired one suddenly glanced my way with an aloof stare, I felt dampness in my panties. I also had to fight an urge to go out back to my office and masturbate.
So, of course, that put me in a foul mood. I really hate not being in control. When they strolled up to the bar, I turned my back and ignored them, even though I couldn"t resist sniffing and inhaling the intoxicating scent of men"s cologne and soap. Damn, they smell good. I wonder if they taste just as yummy?