A Queen Among Gods

Hello!

And welcome to the 6th instalment in the main Queen Among series line-up. 

Before you dive in, it is important to know that understanding terms, character names, and major climactic events in this book is dependent on having read books one to five before this, beginning with A Queen Among Alphas. Each book in the Queen Among series has been meticulously leading up to the climax of this book with events continuing into the upcoming 7th book. 

While I welcome all readers to join these characters on their journeys and even encourage them to continue on with the next generation series releasing next year, I want readers to be able to have the reading experience they deserve, and reading this book before the others will impede that from happening.

Now, I can't make you do anything, but I hope you take this into consideration before you begin.

With that being said, on with the story!

xo

ADB_Stories

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I don’t always get migraines, but when I do, I’m tempted to stab myself in the temple with a spoon and scoop out part of my brain in hopes that the torture will finally cease.

For as long as I can remember I’ve suffered from debilitating migraines. The funny thing is, is that, unlike most people, being exposed to light has never aggravated them, in fact, light seems to settle them down. I’ve been to every doctor and every specialist, had every test known to man and all I get is professionals with collectively hundreds of years of experience under their belt telling me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Sometimes I want to sink my fingers into their skulls and then shake their brains like a snow globe, and when they look up at me to tell me they are in pain, I can look down at them and tell them there is absolutely nothing wrong with them. Sadistic, I know, but hey, pain makes people crazy.

Here’s more information about me you didn’t ask for but are going to get anyway. My migraines always occur the day after I have one of my vivid dreams. This is going to sound crazy, but my dreams always end up coming true. Sometimes it’s something small, like a dream of a woman dropping a coffee at my local Starbucks, but the worst one was when I dreamt of my parents dying in a car accident. The night I had that dream, I leapt out of my bed, ran to their room, and begged them not to drive their car any time soon. They said it was just a bad dream and to go back to bed. But my dreams are never just dreams. The following day my parents were T-boned by a drunk driver and killed on impact. I was sixteen. I’m twenty-six now, but I remember that day like it was yesterday, and since then I don’t ever question my dreams.

Today’s migraine was brought on by a dream last night involving my boyfriend of 2 years screwing my neighbour. I endured the migraine at work for as long as I could, but then used it as an excuse to head home. I don’t give a sh*t about the migraine, after twenty-six years of pain I’m f*ck*ng indestructible. No, I’m going home to catch the b*st*rd in the act.

I stand in front of my door, bracing myself. I know what I’ll find, and yet part of me hopes it really was just a dream this time. Not because I’ll be devastated and heartbroken that the twat is cheating on me – nah, he can get his d*ck sawed in half with a rust handsaw for all I care. I just for once don’t want to feel like my dreams are going to earn me a one-way trip to the funny farm.

I slide my key into the lock and let myself into my loft and as soon as I enter I can hear the laboured moans of a woman who is definitely not me and the pleasured grunts of my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.

“That’s it, baby. F*ck, ride daddy’s c*ck just like that,” I hear my boyfriend moan making me want to gag. Since when does he have a daddy kink?

I quietly enter the loft and slowly close the door being sure not to make a noise. I step over to the small kitchen to the right of the door and place my keys and bag gently on the counter. I then proceed to tie my long blonde hair up into a ponytail as I quietly retrieve the bucket I keep under the kitchen sink. I place the bucket in the sink, slowly turn on the tap, and let the bucket fill with water. I was going to fill it with boiling water, but I don’t want to end up scolding anyone and getting a lawsuit for hospital bills in the mail, so cold water it is.

As the bucket is slowly filling with water and I’m forced to listen to my boyfriend screwing another woman in my bed, I suddenly remember that viral trend from like 12 years ago. The Ice Bucket Challenge. With a malicious smile on my face, I go to the freezer, pull out the ice cube trays and do my best to quietly empty all the ice into the bucket. Once the bucket is full I let the ice sit for a minute to really bring the water down to an appropriate freezing cold temperature.

After waiting impatiently, I carefully lift the bucket out of the sink, walk over to the stairs that reside over my entryway, and quietly carry the bucket up the stairs. I make my way to the upstairs landing which is actually my bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. I love my loft. It’s spacious with a huge floor-to-ceiling window and a vertical garden against the brick wall to the left of the window. Downstairs has laminated floors while upstairs has grey carpeting and a small window off to the far side. I apologise to my poor defenceless carpet for what I’m about to do, but it has to be done.

I step up into the bedroom getting a nauseating view of my f*ck*ng neighbour riding my boyfriend in my bed. She’s really going to town, and I’m surprised she hasn’t thrown her back out. Mitchell is just laying back with his arms under his head like he’s the king of the f*ck*ng world, and I very much want to punch him in his smug face, but I’ll settle for making his d*ck shrivel.

Without them noticing me, I walk over and pour the ice water over them, smiling in satisfaction as my neighbour screams, climbing off Mitchell with the agility of a gazelle while Mitchell crawls back against the headboard screaming from the shock. My neighbour, also known as Julie, is trying to cover herself with her arms while she stands beside the bed shivering from the cold and looking wide-eyed and confused. For good measure, I tip the rest of the water onto Mitchell’s crotch, and I have to say, I’ve never seen a d*ck get so soft so fast.

“Sorry, you guys looked like you needed to cool down,” I say chipperly.

“What the f*ck?! What the f*ck is wrong with you?!” Mitchell shrieks, grabbing a dry pillow and holding it to his wrinkled d*ck while Julie wrangles up her clothes off the floor.

“Me? Absolutely nothing. Well, maybe my health. Since you clearly don’t wrap your d*ck while you f*ck other women I guess I now have to go and get tested to make sure your disease-ridden crotch stick hasn’t infected me,” I say mockingly while gesturing to his d*ck.

“Are you going to let her talk to you like that? Just throw the b*tch out,” Julie snaps indignantly.

“I’m sorry is there a reason your lips are flapping? Shouldn’t opening one set of them have been enough for one day?” I say cuttingly.

Her brown eyes glare at me between strands of her soaking-wet red hair, but I don’t find the drowned rat look to be very intimidating. Comical, but not intimidating.

“Mitch has wanted you out for months, he just didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but since the cat is out of the bag I think it’s time you get the f*ck out of his apartment and out of his life,” she says haughtily, while throwing on her clothes with great effort as the fabric keeps sticking to the water on her body.

I look between the two and see Mitchell looking like he just wants the bed to open up a portal to hell like in A Nightmare On Elm Street and swallow him whole. I look from her to him and back and then clutch the metal banister as I burst with laughter. This sad, dumb b*tch.

“What the f*ck is so funny?” She snaps.

“Babe, I got this, but I think you should go,” says Mitchell, crawling to the end of the bed while still trying to cover his manhood.

“Me?! She’s the one who should leave! You told me you were going to dump her and kick her out, so do it!” She screeches like a banshee.

Tears pool in my eyes as I fall to my knees with laughter, “Stop. I can’t,” I say between laughing fits. I finally manage to get back to my feet and wipe the tears from my eyes. “It’s so pathetic it’s funny. You actually think he owns this place?” I ask in astonishment, before looking at Mitchell who can’t seem to look at me. “So the only way to get women to screw you is to pretend you own property?” I snort, then look back at Julie, “I’ve owned this loft for five years and only known Mitchell for two. Do the math. He is not anywhere on the official paperwork; he doesn’t even pay rent because he has been unemployed for a year mooching off me. So honey, by all means, take him. You two can go and live together and get the f*ck out of my apartment and it won’t be any skin off my nose,” I say happily.

Julie looks like someone just took a dump on her car and if I wasn’t such a classy woman, I might consider doing that, but honestly, she’s doing me a favour. She looks at Mitchell who can’t even make eye contact with her either.

“She’s full of sh*t right?” She asks.

“It’s complicated,” Mitchell says pathetically.

Julie lets out an obnoxious screech and starts slapping him, before storming down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind her.

“Well, that was fun,” I say nonchalantly.

Mitchell gets off the bed, still clutching that pillow for dear life – I’ll need a new one now – as he walks over to me with pleading eyes. “Look, can we just talk about this? I had a weak moment, but she didn’t mean anything to me, I swear,” he says desperately.

“Do I have the word ‘stupid’ tattooed on my forehead?” I ask in a duh tone.

His expression suddenly changes to one of anger, and I’m intrigued to see where this is going. “Fine, so it wasn’t a one-time thing, but can you f*ck*ng blame me? You give me nothing, it’s like you just don’t f*ck*ng care about me anymore and the bedroom was getting boring, you don’t do anything fun. I needed a real woman who could satisfy my needs and treat me and respect me like a real man. You didn’t even give a sh*t!” He screams.

“You’re right, I don’t f*ck*ng care. I stopped f*ck*ng caring when you sat on your *ss every day letting me go to work to support us both. You play your videos – which I bought you by the way – and screw my neighbour while I pay the bills, do the cooking and the cleaning. What the f*ck are you contributing? And s*x? I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve made me come in the two years we’ve been together, so why the f*ck would I bother putting in a hundred per cent effort in the bedroom to someone who is giving me f*ck*ng nothing. You’re a lazy, waste of f*ck*ng space who wants to be treated like the big man when he is giving toddler energy. I don’t need to waste my time or money on a manchild who can’t even clean up after himself. I am so happy that I can finally be done with your broke *ss,” I say ecstatically as I grab him by the ear grabbing his shirt and pants off the floor as I drag him downstairs.

“Ow! Let go of my f*ck*ng ear Gabbie!” He cries.

“And for the millionth time, don’t f*ck*ng call me Gabbie!” I shout as I open the door and shove him out, tossing his pants and shirt at him, “Take these. I don’t need the cops showing up because you got arrested for public indecency. As for your wallet and phone, I will leave it in a box by the door for you to collect,” I say smugly.

“What about the rest of my f*ck*ng stuff?!” He screams.

“Well, as I see it, I bought everything you own, so technically that makes it my stuff, so… cya!” I cheer as I slam the door and lock it.

Mitchell proceeds to pound against the door and screaming obscenities at me, but I just don’t f*ck*ng care. I slump against the door and catch my breath as the adrenaline rushes through my system, and finally, when the realisation that I’ve finally gotten this freeloader out of my life and out of my loft, I break out in dance. I dance and jump around squealing with joy as 2 years of stress rolls off me. Ding dong the b*tch is f*ck*ng dead!

*****

After a while Mitchell gave up pounding on my door, probably realising I wasn’t going to give his cheating *ss another minute of my time. Instead of bothering with him, I’m now on glass of wine number two – red, of course – and listening to the very appropriate Women Don’t Owe You Sh*t by the singer Aston.

“You’re at the bottom, I’m high like matriarch. You’re hot and bothered when I don’t give a f*ck. No explanation, no I don’t have to talk. I don’t like you that much, so I’m cutting you off!” I sing at the top of my lungs, taking a break to take a swig of my drink.

I continue to sing along to what I’m dubbing, The Ultimate Breakup Playlist as I throw all my bedsheets into a trash bag ready to take out with this week’s garbage. Fortunately, I have other sheets, so I’ll be fine. I walk over and pick up a pair of scissors off my little desk just as my phone rings.

I reach over, grab it and answer, “Bad B*tch Resident, Queen B*tch speaking,” I say as I walk over to the little rack of clothes that I call a wardrobe.

“That doesn’t sound like someone who left work early due to a migraine,” chuckles my best friend Derrick.

“Don’t worry, my skull is still the site of an archaeological excavation, but I won’t let it bring down my mood.”

He chuckles some more, “You have gossip, I can tell. What has you in such a delightful mood?” He asks eagerly.

“I kicked Mitchell out. He is finally out of my house and out of my life,” I proudly announce, quickly turning the music down.

“WHAT?! You finally kicked out that loser whose face looks like an old man’s scrotum and didn’t call to tell me? B*tch! What the f*ck?” He screams.

I chuckle, “Sorry, I’ve been excitedly clearing out all his sh*t. I would have called you with the good news eventually.”

“Are you okay? Like, what happened? Girl, I need that tea because I can tell it is piping hot,” he says enthusiastically.

“Well, I came home and found him and my neighbour f*ck*ng on my bed, so I doused them with ice water and kicked them out. I’m not as cut up as you’d think I’d be, but I can’t say the same about his clothes,” I say malevolently while cutting through Mitchell’s favourite shirt. F*ck him. I bought it, I can do what I want with it.

I hear silence on the other end and pre-emptively pull the phone away from my ear just in time for Derrick to start screaming through my phone. Do I know the man, or do I know the man?

“YOU WENT ICEBERG FROM THE TITANIC ON YOUR CHEATING BOYFRIEND AND DIDN’T THINK TO CALL ME?!” He screams.

What follows is some incoherent screeching, so I put the phone down as I leisurely cut up more of Mitchell’s clothes and toss them into garbage bags. I’m just about to cut up his third shirt when the vindictive fog lifts from my brain and I realise what the f*ck I’m doing. Sure, demolishing his stuff is feeding my need for revenge, but it doesn’t do me or anyone else any good. These are all good items of clothing. I know because I paid for them and cleaned them. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve them, but I can think of homeless people and shelters all over the place that definitely do. I put the scissors back on my desk and separate the items I already cut up – I can use them as cleaning rags – and place everything else in bags. I’ll wash everything and then donate it to those who need it more, that way all the money I spent doesn’t go to waste and these good clothes get to benefit people who need it.

“Hello? HELLO?! GABRIELLA JONES!” Derrick screams.

I quickly race over and pick up the phone, “I’m here, I’m here! Don’t get your tucking panties in a twist. Look, you are more than welcome to come over and indulge in some snacks and booze with me and I will fill you in on everything, okay?” I calmly offer.

“Very well. I’ll let Wyatt know I’m going to your place. I should be there in fifteen.”

“Great! I’ll have a glass of wine waiting for you,” I say chipperly and then hang up.

I look around at the mess I made, and quickly fix it up and quickly change the sheets on my bed. It’s bad enough the world is full of people who need to go to places like Good Will for bedding, but I won’t let them get crusty sheets still stinking of my now exes philandering. They deserve better than that, so I’ll give them a thorough clean before donating them along with the clothes.

*****

“That vile little primate. I can’t believe he spends a year leeching off you, all the while he’s got his uncut d*ck ploughing into your neighbour and trash-talking you and lying about owning the place,” says Derrick in disbelief while I refill our wine glasses.

I snuggle back into the corner of my grey L-shaped sectional and take a sip of my wine. “I’m not even mad about the cheating or the lying. It’s the fact that I’ve been wanting to break up with him for a year and kept putting it off.”

Derrick nearly chokes on his wine, eager to respond. He swallows and puts the glass down on the coffee table, “My thoughts exactly! You’ve been bitching about this guy for a year, and I kept telling you to just dump him and be done with it. It’s 2026, you don’t need a man to fulfil you.”

I wrinkle my nose at the implication, “I have never needed a man and I’m not starting now, I just felt bad for him. He was jobless and he had no money. I didn’t want to be the woman who dumped her boyfriend at his lowest. I was going to wait until he found a job and then kick him out. I didn’t realise he had no intention of finding work and was more than happy to keep mooching off me while screwing my neighbour, who I am stuck living in the same building with,” I say disdainfully as I take a sip of wine.

“We should put itching powder in her mailbox or something,” he says sneakily.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a federal crime.”

He pouts, “There should be a law against cheaters. How does a boring, ugly, uncut moron like him get a woman anyway?” He says in confusion. I just stare at him. Has he already forgotten I was dating him for two years? He notices me staring at him and quickly waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t count, you’re the sweetest person on Earth, you don’t care about superficial stuff. Though I still don’t know what you saw in that guy.”

I shrug, “I don’t know. And what is with you and uncut dicks?”

“Are you serious? Girl, they look like a Shar Pei,” he shudders in disgust.

I throw my head back and laugh, “That is so stupid! So are you saying you’d have dumped Wyatt if you found out he wasn’t circumcised?” I ask in amusement.

He contemplates my question hard, and then takes a thoughtful breath as he crosses his legs, “It would have given me a lot to think about.”

“You’re so extra sometimes, I can’t,” I chuckle into my glass, taking another sip.

When my parents passed away, I had no living relatives, and I was going to end up in foster care until I turned eighteen. It was Derrick and his family who took me in, treated me like family, and helped me get through the worst moment of my life. Derrick and his parents were there for me when I needed them, which is no surprise because Derrick and I have been friends since we were 12.

Derrick Allan is 26, just like me. He’s a decent 5’8” with tanned skin that he has spent many years working on. He’s very lean, with broad shoulders, and a long neck that leads up to his money-maker. Derrick has the most chiselled face I’ve ever seen and looks perfectly sculpted from clay making it the perfect canvas. He has a sharp jawline, a goatee with some light five o’clock shadow, cheekbones so high they touch the heavens and piercing sapphire blue eyes. He has warm chocolate brown hair that is quaffed at the top and shaved at the sides. Derrick is also the manager/lead entertainer at the gay bar we both work at called the Glitter Hole here in San Francisco and since he just came from work, that would explain why he is in a rainbow suit jacket, rainbow slacks with a white business shirt and burgundy tie. He likes to make a statement.

Derrick and I both got jobs at the Glitter Hole right out of high school even though we were under 21. We both worked odd jobs and Derrick quickly fell in love with the art of drag. He worked his way up to manager as well, whereas I am a bartender and also do the occasional live performance at the club. It’s a great atmosphere, the patrons are amazing, and the tips are incredible.

“We should go out and celebrate,” announces Derrick.

“I still have a head on me. Can’t we just enjoy some wine and trashing my ex?”

“Of course, but you have been stuck with this lump of wood for a year and you didn’t even have feelings for him anymore. You deserve your freedom, and you know what they say, no better way to get over someone than to get under someone else,” he says charismatically.

“I am already over him, so I don’t need to get under anyone,” I argue.

“Okay, but how long has it been since someone pounded your p*ssy like they were tenderising meat? I mean, when was the last time a man went treasure hunting in your Cave of Wonders?” He asks animatedly, making me cover my mouth to stop from spitting up my wine.

I put the wine down and quickly swallow so I don’t choke and then finally allow myself to laugh, “Stop trying to kill me with laughter.”

He gasps and clutches his chest while pressing his fingers to his lips while making a sad face. “Oh my God, it’s been so long your gag reflex has come back,” he says with dramatic hysteria.

I roll my eyes, “F*ck off,” I say, shoving him, “Look, just because things have been lacking in that department for a while, doesn’t mean I need to go and spread my legs for the next guy to show me attention.”

“Why not? Mitchell went dumpster diving into the first woman who spread her legs for him.”

I snort with laughter, “That’s hilarious.”

“But seriously, tomorrow night is Mystery Sinner’s night at the club. Instead of working, come as a guest. It’s going to be a great night of masquerades and sinning. Wyatt and I are attending,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“What for? You’re monogamous.”

“Yeah, but we enjoy the thrill of public seduction, and I know you do too. That d*ckh**d was snuffing out your fun and your light, my young diva. Show him he hasn’t broken you. Go out there and have fun. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but just go and let your hair out and have some fun. You deserve it. You’ve spent so much time taking care of him and everyone else around you, even me. You deserve a little indulgence,” he says, reaching over and squeezing my knee.

I look at the kind and supportive face of my friend who has been there beside me through everything as I have been for him. He’s right. I stopped having fun because I was working my *ss off to support me and Mitchell. I miss the fun Gabriella. I don’t want the times I’m performing at the club to be the only time I feel alive. I want to have fun again, and I’m not saying I’ll go looking, but God I’ve missed good s*x.

“Alright, you’ve broken me down. I’ll go the Mystery Sinners night,” I announce in surrender.

“YAS! That’s my girl!” He cheers, high-fiving me.

“Now I just need to figure out what to wear.”

He gasps, “It’s like you’ve forgotten who your best friend is.”

Derrick gets up, grabs his glass of wine, and makes his way up the stairs swishing his hips, “Time to dust off the sluttiest thing you own.”

I chuckle and shake my head but smile as I watch Derrick up on the landing going through my outfits like he’s judging a fashion show. I don’t know what I’d do without him. But he’s right, I need a night of unashamed, switched-off debauchery, and Mystery Sinner’s night is just what the doctor ordered.

I am so freakin’ bored.

I never in my life thought I’d be bored watching a bunch of people getting hot ‘n’ heavy in public. Maybe I’m desensitized because I work here, and so when the club hosts a Mystery Sinner’s night, I’m usually working the bar and helping clean up the aftermath, which is fucking nasty by the way.

The interior of the club has been decked out like a BDSM sex den with black satin drapes hanging from every fixture and erotic red lighting to set the mood. Sex toys ranging from playful to hardcore, line the walls to give the guests a visual thrill, but they’re only decorative. The club doesn’t supply toys to the guests for health and safety reasons. The music is blaring with melodies to get your heart racing and panties dropping, and there’s a live wax play show happening on stage. There’s plenty here to capture my attention, and yet all I’m doing is tuning them out. Maybe Mitchell killed the fun side of me.

I take a sip of my cocktail and