“I’ll figure something out,” I vow.
Because I want to be a good cupid, dammit. I’ve wanted to be a good cupid since I woke up in the afterlife and picked cupidity as my new job. I was supposed to have an affinity for this, so why can’t I make just one damn Love Match to save my afterlife? It’s like the Veil is mocking me.
I’m absolutely convinced that Mr. Worst-Asshole-Bachelor, Warren Knight, needs to find the love of his life. For some reason, I have a feeling that he’s the key to everything. If I can just help him get his happily ever after, then everything will be alright.
I just need to get this asshole to fall in love first.
Chapter 2
Katie Asspants Welsh is annoying the cupid-loving shit out of me.
She sits there, right in the front row like always, wearing her tight asspants that show off every curve of her cheeks, and completely ignoring today’s lecture.
I’ve been coming to this university since I first got assigned to the human realm, and this chick is the bane of my existence.
Okay, not really. But she does annoy me. Like right now, she’s sitting front and center in Professor Sokolov’s class of Comparative World Mythology 340. But is she paying attention? No. Is she ever paying attention? Double no.
She’s not even pretending to pay attention to the lecture, which, by the way, is very interesting. Instead, she’s either scrolling lazily on her phone, looking at pictures of beautiful people, or holding primp sessions with her compact mirror.
“Katie, pay attention!” I snap at her, while Professor Sokolov continues talking about Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Katie has no hope of following in her footsteps if she treats all her learning opportunities this way.
Sure enough, she just keeps on zooming by pretty people pictures while I hover in the seat beside her. Unlike her, I’m front-row material. It’s common knowledge that the slackers are supposed to sit in the back row. Apparently, Katie Asspants Welsh didn’t get that memo. Or maybe she’s just so much of a slacker that she can’t be bothered to slack in the back like a respectable slacker.
“What you should be doing is taking notes,” I inform her. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a stick of gum instead. I sigh. “I wish I could take notes. I’d ace the hell out of this class.”
It’s true, I’m not even being arrogant. My partner and I stumbled into this class by accident one day. We figured college students would be easy pickings to spread around some Lust. One Hundred Sixteen made about fifty Matches that day. But me? I flew into this class and heard the professor talking about Eros, the god of love and desire, and I got hooked.
Maybe it’s vain, but he’s basically teaching about how all of cupidity got started, and it interests me. Eros doesn’t actually do the grunt work anymore. That’s what he made us for. I figure learning about him is the least I can do, since I’m kind of sucking at my job in every other aspect of my afterlife. I even thought it might help me become one with my powers or some shit, but no such luck.
“Your paper on the classic art depiction of a Greek god or goddess of your choice is due first thing Monday. If you don’t turn it in, the gods will punish you,” Professor Sokolov jokes as the class comes to an end. He makes that same joke for every assignment. Nobody laughs except me. Too bad he can’t hear me giving him the appreciation he deserves.
Katie Asspants Welsh leaps to her feet, already talking on the phone before her jiggly butt even makes it out the door. She’ll probably get some other student to write her paper for her, while I’m dying to be able to hold a pen. So unfair.
“See ya around, Professor,” I tell him before flying out of the classroom and making my way off the campus.
“Hey, anything?”
I turn around in the quad as my partner comes flying up to me. Her brown eyes are all sparkly like they always get when she’s just Lusted the shit out of a bunch of people.
“Oh...umm…” I look around guiltily.
She sighs. “Did you sit in that classroom again instead of trying to give people Flirt Touches?”
“Kinda.”
“Thirty! You have to keep trying.”
“I know,” I reply, more frustrated than ever. A group of college dudes walk through us, but we’re so used to it that it doesn’t even phase us anymore. “Really, I know. I do try. But it never fricken works! I’m a failure.”
Her face softens. “You’re not a failure. You just need to keep trying. You’ll get there.”
She’s sweet for saying so, but we both know it’s probably not true. Still, I’m no quitter.
“Come on. I heard about a high school dance going on tonight downtown. Let’s go try there, yeah?”
I give her a strained smile and stretch out my wings. “Sure.”
She smiles at me with confidence. “What could be better than horny teenagers, inappropriate dancing, and awkward adult chaperones?” she asks, pretending to smooth back some of my pink hair. “You’re gonna be great!”
Update: I’m not great.
I try to unleash Lust on some teenagers, but after an hour of trying, I’m pretty sure I make every single wallflower decidedly not horny. Which is almost impressive, considering a teenager’s settings seem to always be at least fifty percent ready to go.
I finally give up once I start hacking on my own puny power, my Lust Breath congealing in my throat. I have to hock a sickly orange loogie out into the ethereal in-between. It’s not something a goddess of love should ever have to do.
My cupid partner gets really hyped up behind the bleachers where some of the students are playing spin the bottle. She giggles with excitement every time she gets another couple to sneak off for a makeout sesh in the hallway.
She’s totally in her element, high off of young, bumbling desire. So I decide to leave her to it, because I’m just making things worse. That’s the thing I love and hate about One Hundred Sixteen. I love that she’s into her job just as much as I am. But I hate her a little because, unlike me, she can actually do it.
It makes it hard to be friends with her, to be honest. The green-eyed monster in me sees her twirling around, happily passing out Flirt Touches like they’re orgasms on V-day, but when I try to do it? Either nothing happens, or I cause the opposite effect.
I’m an embarrassment to all of cupidity. And I hate it.
So instead of trying to Love Arrow some poor hormonal acne-ridden schlubs by the punch bowl, I sneak out of there.
I fly all the way to the luxury homes of Cameo Shores, right on the water of Newport Beach. I float over Warren Knight’s front lawn, staring up at the floor-to-ceiling windows and white exterior walls. His whole house is slightly rounded, with precise arched lines and meticulous angles on the roof. It’s modern and sophisticated, cold and handsome. Just like him.
My red wings carry me over the manicured grass and rock walkway, past the private gated driveway and the four car garage. The front of the house is extremely private and precise, but the back? The back is my favorite. A beautiful asymmetrical pool takes up a huge portion of the space, and aside from a few plants here and there, the entire backyard is really just a backdrop to the gorgeous view of the ocean.
Sometimes, while he sleeps, I like to come out and hover over the lounge chairs and just watch the waves wash in and out. If I were corporeal and capable of feeling anything, I’d stand out on the shore and let the ocean mist kiss my face.
I float in through the front doors, heading past the huge living room with its rectangular black couch and marble fireplace. I go by the massive kitchen too, the dim light over the sink making the countertops and stainless steel appliances sparkle. Then I head up the stairs, past the four guest bedrooms and bathrooms, all the way to the back to the other side of the house where his private master suite is.
Inside is another fireplace, a gorgeous balcony overlooking the ocean, and a bed that’s so big it makes him look short when he’s lying in it.
The flatscreen TV is on, the volume turned do
wn low as it plays some sports recaps, casting blue-hued light over the space. His black and white bed is perfectly made without a wrinkle or rumpled pillow in sight.
The door to the connecting bathroom is open, and I can hear the water running inside. I don’t hesitate to fly right in. The steam passes through my body as I glide towards the shower, and I get the luxury of seeing his naked self through the slightly fogged glass.
“You’re fricken glorious looking, you know that?” I tell him, as I perch on top of his marble countertops between the sinks.
I wish he’d turn more of the lights on in here. It’s a bit too shadowed for my taste. If I could, I’d flick all the lights on so that I’d have a better view of his delectable body.
Warren pours some soap into his hands and starts scrubbing at his dark hair, and I watch as suds crawl down his back, slipping over his toned body in the sexiest way ever.
“I just wanna bite your bun cheeks,” I admit to him.
I admit all sorts of embarrassing things to him. I’m able to say it all out loud because I know that he can’t judge me since he can’t hear me. It’s very therapeutic.
I sigh and pretend to lean against the mirror behind me as he continues to wash. “I tried to shoot a Love Arrow at this fifty-year-old woman at a wine mixer yesterday,” I tell him glumly. “It took nine tries to even get a single arrow to appear in my quiver—and that’s not a sex euphemism, either. Nine tries!” I shake my head in frustration. “My partner’s arrows appear as soon as she uses one. But mine? Mine never refills.”
To prove my point, I motion over my shoulder, where my quiver rests between my red wings. “See? Empty. Always fricken empty. I just don’t get it.”
He groans in response.
“So then, when I finally get one stinkin’ arrow, what do I do? I miss! I shot it out and accidentally hit her little dog that she had hidden in her purse. She had to leave her date early because the dog hopped out and started humping people’s legs. It wouldn’t stop, and that little guy was fast. I think the woman got banned from the restaurant.”
He makes another noise.
“I know, right?” I tell him. “Needless to say, she didn’t get a second date, but I think her dog mated with a light pole, so I guess that’s something.”
When Knight makes another noise, I finally snap out of my own story and sit up. “Wait, can you hear me?”
I immediately zoom over to the shower. As I’m passing through the body wash on the stone inlay, I realize he’s not making noises of affirmation for my story. He’s making noises because he’s jacking off.
I’d be disappointed, but…it’s a sexy fricken cock.
“Oh!” I say, my eyes honed in on the way he’s fisting his dick, stroking in long, slow movements.
“You always do it slow like that,” I muse, standing under the rainfall spray with him.
When I manage to look up from his impressive erection, I peer at his face. His eyes are closed, and he has his other arm stretched out in front of him, his hand braced against the wall. His head is hanging down, and beads of water are drizzling from his dark hair and chin, falling to the floor in steady drips. I wish I could lean forward and lick the water right off him.
He groans again, and I’d bite my lip if my teeth wouldn’t go straight through, because the sound is so damn sexy.
His abs glisten with water, and the last remnants of soap slip between the muscles of his V before licking down his manhood and dropping to the tile floor. I envy those damn soap bubbles.
While I continue to ogle his body, he continues his steady stroke. Base to tip, slowly, slowly, slowly—like he’s purposely holding himself off. Then up and over the head, his thumb dragging roughly over the tip, before he goes right back down, his fist tight, gripping himself harshly.
I’m so turned on, which I don’t think should technically be possible since I don’t have a body with feels, but watching him like this? It makes me feel more real than anything.
I lean forward and exhale, trying to give him an added dose of Lust, but of course, no pretty pink mist comes out.
“Shit,” I grumble. I slump back, disappointed. “Sorry, Knight. Looks like you’re on your own.”
He finishes as soon as the words leave my lips, his cum shooting out, splattering onto the floor and washing away immediately. He strokes himself two more times for good luck, and then finally drops his hold, sighing slightly.
“I know, man. Imagine how much better that would’ve been if you hadn’t been such a jerk and had taken that lovely date of yours home. It could’ve been her hands on your dick. Or better yet, her vagina. You missed out on lovely vagina, Knight,” I tell him. “Not that I saw her vagina, but let’s be real here, we both know it would’ve been a great one. She probably waxes. She seems like the type.”
He washes his hands and then rinses, turning the shower off as soon as he’s done. He grabs a white towel and dries off, draping it around his hips as he walks out to his bedroom. He puts on a pair of boxers and gets into bed, but instead of going to sleep, he drags out his laptop from the nightstand and starts typing away.
I get into bed with him, watching as he answers work emails and does a whole bunch of other things that I get too bored to pay much attention to. The dude is a real workaholic, and he has his hands dipped into several things. I hear him talking about it all the time. Real estate, internet start-ups, his men’s fashion line, restaurants, stocks, production companies, you name it.
“You should rest, Knight. You don’t sleep enough,” I tell him.
I hover over the blankets next to him, running my translucent hand over his arm. There are circles under his eyes to prove my point. Most nights, when I’m able to slip away from my partner and come watch him, he stays up way too late and then gets up way too early. All he does is work and sabotage his own love life. Nothing fun. Like I said, he’s the worst bachelor ever.
He doesn’t even have a proper bachelor pad. This place is all luxury, without a single sock left on the floor or dish in the sink. He doesn’t have a maid who picks up after him, either. I know, because one time a work associate of his was razzing him about being too uptight to even let someone else dust his shelves.
I lounge next to him, enjoying his presence, wishing I could have a body just so I could fall asleep with him.
“What am I gonna do with you, Knight?” I ask on a sigh. “Your shoulders look tense. You know, if you had a love of your life, she could be sweetly rubbing them for you right now. Relaxing you. Getting you to actually sleep for a change.”
Click. Click. Click. He continues typing away.
I try to glide a Flirt Touch over his toned bicep, but I get weird gray sparks as a result.
“Dammit,” I say, blowing out a frustrated breath. I look up at the ceiling in a silent plea. “What the hell am I doing wrong? I’m a cupid who can’t do cupid shit!” I yell angrily at the Veil.
I don’t want to be a broken cupid. I want to be able to do all the things that my partner can.
“I just wanna make one damn Love Match all on my own. Is that too much to ask? Can you throw me a fricken bone here?” I demand to the nothingness around me. “Help me out!” I finish, my voice slightly hysterical. “Do something!”
I really should know better than to declare challenges into the Veil like that.
Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel a tug. Like a bait hook digging under my skin, right at my cupid mark on the inside of my wrist.
Dread and panic fill me. “Mother fuc—”
I’m yanked right out of the Veil before the curse can clamber off my incorporeal lips.
Guess I’m getting called back to Cupidville.
Chapter 3
You’d think that the afterlife would be peaceful, right? That after all your hard work and effort during life, you’d get a bit of a break? Well, you’d be wrong.
The afterlife is a well-oiled machine, and everyone has their purpose. Angels, demons, cupids, and lesser Ve
il entities—we all have a job to do, and our headquarters inside the Veil ensure that we’re all doing our part to turn the wheels and shift the gears.
Of course, I get spat out right into the cupid cog.
I pop into existence inside the Cupidville waiting room. Shaking off the terrible yanking sensation of getting sucked through space and time, I look around and see a few dozen other cupids around, their translucent bodies standing in lines, hovering over seats, and looking at the motivational love posters hanging on the wall. One of the posters has a huge red heart on it and says, “Meet your Love quota and earn an extra vacation day!”
I’d fricken love to earn an extra vacation day, but unless my powers suddenly start working, that’s just not in the cards for me. Trust me, I asked one of the karmas before. She cackled at me. Cackled. Then she shifted back into her dog form and barked until I floated away. Such a bitch.
Cupid numbers are flashing high on the wall of the reception area, calling cupids forward to where several of the higher-ups are sitting behind glass windows in their semi-corporeal forms. The higher-ups can do things like pick up papers, but they aren’t totally solid like the supervisors. Solidness is only available to us lower cupids during vacation days and holidays, and even that’s a new work perk.
I decide to hover over one of the hot pink seats in the waiting area rather than stand in line. Lines make me antsy. I can sit for hours, but make me stand in a line for five minutes, and I’m ready to stab someone in the eye with a Love Arrow. I’d make sure to stab the person in front of me, though. I’m not an idiot. One less person to wait behind.
I don’t wait for very long before my cupid number, XXX—the one that matches the Roman numerals on the inside of my left wrist—is flashing up on the wall in bright red numbers. I fly over to the reception area and am greeted by a male cupid behind the glass who’s about two feet tall with a nose as long as his arm. Must’ve been a gnome in his first life.
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