Cupid's Bow

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Cupid’s Bow

  Heather R. Blair

  CUPID’S BOW

  By

  Heather R. Blair

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  © 2018 Heather R. Blair

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Also by Heather R. Blair

  Love is bullshit.

  ~Cupid

  Chapter One

  Valentine’s Day sucks.

  Especially when you’re spending it in a tacky North Las Vegas bar being lectured by your older sister. She’s concerned about me. Hell, I’m concerned about me, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.

  I could have ignored her summons, but hiding from my sister is the original exercise in futility.

  “. . . then there was that whole thing with Psyche.” She doggedly continues down her checklist of the bad shit that is my life so far, those eerie silver-gray eyes sharp.

  Artie is tiny, but that doesn’t fool anyone with half a brain. Which excludes most of the mortal population. I’ve seen the way they look at her, like she’s some cute little imp.

  The imp part is true enough. She’s petite, with long dark hair perpetually braided in one of those complicated styles women are so fond of.

  Artemis and I don’t look a thing alike, which is to be expected as we have different dads. The legendary Aphrodite does get around. I look way more like Mom than Artie, but my thick blond hair is darker and buzzed short on the sides, long and spiky over my forehead. And unlike Mom or Artie, I’m certainly not small.

  “Dude, I’m over it,” I say with a sigh, wishing it were true. I may be over Psyche, but I don’t think I’ll ever be over what she did to me.

  Artie, being Artie, just rolls her eyes. “Really, Cue, ’cause I don’t see it. For a while there you were going through women like I go through paper targets. Now, nobody since . . . Can you even remember the last time you got laid?”

  “Does it matter?” I tap my fingers on the bar. “I’m pretty sure no matter how long it’s been, they haven’t changed how it works.”

  She smirks at me. “Even if they had, I’m sure you could keep up.”

  True enough. My prowess in bed is almost as legendary as my sister’s with a bow. It’s funny how even though we’re both archers, nobody thinks of me as skilled in that area. My lips twist. Yeah, real funny.

  “Maybe you’re just bored.” She cups her pointed chin in one hand, studying me.

  “Bored?”

  “Of love.”

  Oh, for Zeus’s hairy-ass cheeks. “Such myths don’t interest me.”

  “It’s only a myth until you fall in love again.” Artie looks unconvinced. It ticks me off. And as per usual when I’m pissed, I do something rash.

  “I swear by all the gods, if that ever happens, I’ll shoot the bitch myself. Right through the heart. Spare us both the grief and stupidity.”

  Artie grabs my shoulder, appalled. A flicker of unease works its way through my gut before I shake it off along with her hand. “What a stupid thing to say,” she whispers. “Gods, Cue—”

  “It’s only stupid if I’m not absolutely serious. And I am. This is what you and Mom don’t get. This isn’t an act.”

  “So the god of love really doesn’t believe in love anymore?” Her eyes narrow. “No wonder Mom broke your bow.”

  Even though this is the whole reason we’re here, the mention of that incident has my teeth grinding together. While I hadn’t used the damn thing for its intended purpose in over a year, I still feel naked without my bow. It should be between my shoulder blades, invisible to human eyes, but warm and solid against my back. But it’s gone.

  Maybe forever.

  “Right there. That’s the problem. I am the god of desire. Desire, Artie, not love. I believe in desire all right, and a good, honest fuck. But love? The hearts-and-flowers kind this stupid day represents? Give me a break. Mom has lost her damn mind.” The bartender finally appears. He has more tattoos than Artie, though he isn’t much bigger. He’s eyeing me with a wary expression, so I grin, showing all my teeth. “I’ll have a glass of Assyrtiko,” I say, in Greek.

  He blinks at me, eyes wide. Then at Artie, as if to say, Is this fucker for real?

  Artie gives me a stern look for letting my power get away from me. It’s not nice to scare the humans. “My brother is being an asshole tonight. Ignore him. Give us two shots of Patrón. Please.”

  Turns out tequila is a perfect accompaniment to my maudlin, slightly pissed-off mood. Not that I miss my job all that much. But Mom still didn’t have to break my fucking bow.

  I know Artie means well. She always does. Unlike her twin. My lips tighten. Lo definitely takes after their dad.

  Ares, the god of war. Who despises me only slightly less than I despise him. Of course, he’s got his reasons. It was my birth that broke him and Mom up.

  No one knows who my real dad is, but everyone knows it’s not Ares.

  And while I hate that son of a bitch, I still envy my sister her old man. At least the god of war claimed her and Lo—something that Lo loves to rub in my face every chance he gets. Apollo shares his father’s opinion of me, though again, the fucker has his reasons.

  Like everyone else in my family, I’m more than capable of being an absolute bastard.

  Artie and I part ways a few minutes later, though she’s reluctant to let me out of her sight, even after I assure her I won’t do anything rash.

  Hard to believe she buys that shit. I am the epitome of rash. I leave the bar for another, and another. Don’t really know why, except it’s morbid fun to check out the saps even more miserable than I am.

  Of course, today most of them are miserable because of me, in one way or another. That’s the way it is with gods; we’re always breaking our toys.

  Now with my hand on the door of a new bar an hour or so later, I scowl up at the blinking neon sign. Pandora’s Box.

  “How fucking appropriate,”
I mutter. Too appropriate.

  It’s just the sort of symbolism the Fates love to rub in your face, though this is a little obvious, even for those bitches. But with a shrug, I make my way inside. Like my uncle Hephaestus says, if you’re not going to build a bridge or learn to walk on water, it’s best to just wade on in and get it over with.

  One thing you learn living in Vegas: theme is huge. The cheap Greek and Roman motifs are to be expected, but the huge painting of God and Elvis touching fingers in a mock-up of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam across the far wall is . . . different. Clumps of plastic grapes and laurel wreaths hang from the ceiling, along with mini-Styrofoam columns on each of the tables.

  The place is packed. Then again, all the bars have been. This one seems to have more lovey-dovey pairs than the others though. One duo in particular is nibbling away at each other with such enthusiasm I’m surprised they’re not drawing blood.

  With an irritated growl, knowing already that they won’t last the night, I shove past the couple to get to the bar.

  “Love is sadism at its fucking finest,” I mutter to myself before finally getting my elbows on the bar and lifting my head. The bartender is watching me.

  “I think the word you want is ‘masochism,’ actually,” she says, glancing over my shoulder at the couple in question. Then she cocks her head, seeming to reconsider as I sit down. “Or maybe a bit of both.”

  “An expert on the subject, are you?”

  “Strictly in an observational capacity.” She grins as she sets down a paper coaster in front of me. “I’ve never been in love. And that is the way it’s going to stay.”

  I look her up and down as she takes my order. She’s tall with long strawberry-blond hair, pretty in a wholesome sort of way and obviously a bald-faced liar. I wait for her to set the tequila down, then call her on it. “By that, what you really mean is that you had your little heart broken and have sworn off men forever. Or at least until next Tuesday.”

  She laughs. It’s a good laugh, too loud and goofy to be anything but real. “Not even close.”

  I frown. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  She chuckles and leans forward, her elbows on the bar. “I don’t have to be a nun or a scorned woman not to have taken the great fall, Ace. I just have a good head on my shoulders.” Tapping her temple, she takes my money and turns to the cash register.

  “I don’t believe you,” I mutter at her back.

  I really don’t. Not because she’s a twenty-something female, but because all humans believe in love. Or at least they want to in their secret heart of hearts. That’s why they’re all fucking miserable. I’m Cupid, I should know. “Everyone believes in love.”

  Except me and, apparently, my bartender.

  I wave for another drink as soon as she puts down my change. She snags the bottle from the stock behind her without taking her eyes off me and pours the drink. “I said I haven’t fallen in love. Didn’t say I didn’t believe in it. I just think it’s . . . reckless.”

  “You’ll change your mind, trust me.”

  She gives me an amused look. “Is that so?”

  “Yup. You can’t help yourselves.”

  “Women?” There is a small line between her eyebrows.

  “Humans.”

  Belatedly, I realize how that sounds, but I don’t care. It’s not like she’s going to guess what I am. Humans haven’t believed in my kind for centuries. Most of us are just fine with that. Being worshipped is kinda cool; being blamed for everything that goes wrong in the world, not so much. Of course, there is a dark side to the lack of belief. As mankind has drifted farther away from the supernatural, some of us have vanished completely. The Irish pantheon is holding on to this plane by a thread, and the likes of Odin and Thor haven’t been seen in centuries.

  Nobody misses them though. Those Norse gods were assholes. Except Loki. Oh, he was a prick, too, but at least he knew how to have fun. I had some good times with that crazy son of a bitch. I raise my glass and give a two-fingered salute before downing half of it. If it weren’t for Zeus and the Muses working overtime to weave our history into Western civilization, us Greeks would have had to retreat to Olympus a millennium ago.

  I give another salute to my kind-of, sort-of grandfather and finish the drink.

  “I suppose you think you’re a superior life-form.”

  Startled, I look up from my drink. The bartender is giving me a look somewhere between amused and annoyed. I force my face to relax.

  “Not really. I’ve just learned better. Because they”—I yank my head at the throngs behind us—“are all looking to fix something that can’t be fixed. Bits and pieces of their souls that have been torn away by loss and anger and pain and god knows what else. Love fills it up, lets them pretend they’re whole again. At least for as long as it lasts.”

  “That’s fairly profound.” She taps her chin, considering me. “And maybe that’s why I’ve never taken the plunge. I don’t have any missing bits.”

  “None at all, eh?” I roll my eyes. “Now who’s claiming to be a superior life-form?”

  She shrugs, then smiles. “If the shoe fits . . .”

  “Oh, come on. Everyone has something.” I study her, squinting slightly. “Daddy issues?”

  Her lips press together, then part in a wide smile. “He owns a landscaping company and likes collecting garden gnomes. I’m his only daughter and he thinks the sun rises and sets just for me.”

  Hmm. I’m usually better at this, but I am not sensing a lie. Though there is something dark in her eyes, something that makes my gaze narrow. “Mommy dearest then?”

  She laughs. “My mom never raised a hand, or a wire hanger, to me in my life.”

  “Ahh, a spoiled princess.”

  “Maybe a bit,” she admits with another laugh. “But believe me, my parents found other, far more inventive ways to punish me if I needed it.”

  “No wacky uncle with an odd tickling fetish?”

  She shakes her head, giggling.

  “God, how boring can you be?” I put my elbows on the bar, leaning closer, intrigued despite myself. Under the smell of beer and tequila and peanuts, I catch a whiff of something light and citrusy, like orange blossoms in spring.

  She shrugs. “I’m a happy person, Ace. I like my life. I like who I am. I like being me.”

  Despite myself, I’m actually kind of impressed. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone who really liked themself. Except Narcissus, and that dude was whacked. The bartender doesn’t seem crazy, just ridiculously well-adjusted.

  And observant. She leans forward as well, until our faces are close enough I can feel her warm breath on my lips. “Now, you’ve obviously got issues. Come on. Spill.”

  Why not? “I never knew my father. My brother hates my guts.” Lo’s only my half brother, but half is as bad as whole in his case. “He actually convinced my ex I was a monster.” Literally. “So yeah, a few issues. Doesn’t mean jack when it comes to the whole love thing.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Her expression flickers between sympathy and something else. Something I can’t put my finger on.

  She’s a cipher, this one. I can’t really get a bead on what she’s into. Nobody at the bar stands out as a target for her. Even when I push, I only get the haziest impression of the type of lover she prefers. Someone adventurous . . . and forceful. Well, that’s interesting.

  I lean back, trying to shake off my curiosity. The curse of the gods. Humans fascinate and repel us by turns. Their world sucks us in. The physicality of this plane is like an addiction. And even after millennia, we can’t let go of the high.

  No matter how much it hurts us in the end.

  The bartender’s gaze turns speculative and sharp.

  “What?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “What what?”

  “You know what.”

  “I would know what if you would tell me what.” She sets the bottle down, her lips twitching. “We’re caught in an Abbott and Costel
lo routine here.”

  Nice lips, really. If I cared about such things, which I don’t.

  But I do care that she’s looking at me like she knows something I don’t.

  “That look.” I point at her face, or try to. Instead, my finger pokes her hard in the nose. She blinks, blue-green eyes watering. “Shit. Sorry.”

  She waves my concern away, grabbing a napkin.

  “Depth perception. First thing to go. Along with judgment, of course.”

  She’s dabbing at her eyes but still giving me that look.

  I throw my hands up. “What?”

  “I think the gentleman doth protest too much, that’s what. You believe in love all right. And that pisses you right the hell off.”

  I stare at her for a second, my throat tight before I force a laugh. “You’re delusional. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  She shrugs, her eyes still reddened, watering . . . and totally unconvinced.

  But I feel guilty for poking her. “Let me buy you a shot.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better,” she sniffs, reaching for the tequila again.

  “Well, the point is to make you feel bet . . .” My voice is drowned out by a slap, then a curse, followed by a shrill, angry voice. The couple that was sucking face when I walked in is now standing toe-to-toe, screaming at each other. With a sigh, my bartender goes over to break it up. A minute later, she’s back, pouring two tequilas with a grimace.

  “Closing time can’t some soon enough,” she mutters before taking a sip of her shot.

  “Are you really here all alone?” I frown, looking around. It’s a small bar, but I haven’t seen sign of a barback or waitress since I came in.