Cupid's Bow

by Heather R. Blair

  “You like this?” I tap a finger on the formulas that look a lot like Uncle Heph’s chicken scratch when he’s working on a new project.

  “Sure. It isn’t easy, but it is fascinating.”

  I shake my head and set the book back down.

  She shuts off the bathroom light and stands in the doorway, a hand on her hip. “Honestly, Q, don’t you have any hobbies?”

  Well, I used to. Besides women, two things make me happy: shooting arrows and making shit. Mostly bows, but other things, too. I’m good with my hands, not drawing the way Artie and Lo are, but shaping things. Out of wood, mostly. I’ve always liked the way it feels under my hands: full of promise.

  “I did.”

  “Maybe you should get back into it. Sometimes a hobby can become a full-time gig.” With a contented sigh, she slides into bed and curls into my side.

  I sleep over fairly regular now. And though she’s been to my place once or twice, we never stay the night there. I think it makes her uncomfortable. It’s not a mansion or anything, but it’s obviously not a tiny apartment in the city either. Despite her crack about millions and jet planes, since she saw my place, Katie hasn’t expressed any curiosity about why I’m not worried about being without a job. Her eyes got big and she went kind of quiet, but that was it.

  We don’t really talk too much about stuff like that. Though we talk about plenty of other things.

  Which casino has the best breakfast buffet. What to do in this town besides gamble. Because, apparently, despite living in the casino mecca of the world, neither of us has dropped more than a couple bucks on a game of chance in years. I also found out during that convo that despite her dedication to the hard sciences, Katie has a secret fascination with art, most particularly sculpture. She confessed to spending hours in the Barrick Museum between her classes at UNLV. So I told her about the pieces I’ve seen in Greece and Italy. Turns out we are both huge fans of Bernini. I thought she was going to cry when I told her I’ve seen The Rape of Proserpina in person.

  I didn’t mention I’m sort of related to both the subjects in the piece.

  One night after a long shift at the bar and a few too many glasses of wine, Katie also told me her dream is to help find a cure for cancer. It’s a big fucking dream, but her confession didn’t surprise me. Though it did shame me more than a little.

  Humans get a hundred years on this planet if they’re incredibly lucky. Katie is determined to do something worthwhile with every one of those years. Me? I’ve been around for a couple of millennia and don’t have shit to show for it. It’s not entirely my fault; gods mature slow. And we’ve never really gotten a handle on the emotional roller coaster that is mortal life.

  But I could do better.

  I think about that a lot when she’s sleeping next to me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time I stopped trying to live for some invisible approval that is never going to come and just live for me. Because right now, I realize I don’t like me very much.

  And Katie makes me wonder if I could.

  Chapter Seven

  “I got a job.”

  “Hmm?” Katie’s putting up her hair a couple nights later, getting ready to go to the bar. I like watching her braid it. In fact, sometimes I do it for her, but today I’m too keyed up.

  “I said I got a job.”

  She drops her hands along with her jaw, staring at me in the mirror.

  Grinning, I hand her a hair tie from the counter in front of us. “Fix that or you’re going to have to do it all over again.”

  She fastens her hair with her mouth still half open, then squeals and jumps up and down before spinning around to give me a hug. “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Teaching kids archery at this camp for the YMCA.”

  “Wow, really? That is so cool. I didn’t know you liked archery.” She frowns. “Wait, is that what you meant about shooting things?”

  “You could say that. I was kind of bullshitting about the whole tattoo thing, you know.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I kind of figured that out when I saw you naked, Ace. What kind of a tattoo artist doesn’t have a single tattoo?”

  “A shitty one?” I shrug. I feel bad for bullshitting her, but her tone instantly softens.

  “It’s okay. People spin a lot of tales when they think they’re never going to see someone again.” She blinks, then grins at me again. “This is awesome! Oh, I wish I didn’t have to work.” She whirls back around to finish off her makeup, her eyes sparkling at me in the mirror. “But you could come to the bar. Maybe we can sneak in a quickie to celebrate.”

  Her waggling eyebrows make me laugh out loud. As if I need an excuse to hang out with her, especially after her reaction to my little announcement. “Works for me.”

  On the way to the bar, Katie’s excitement is infectious.

  But the thing is, I was pretty excited about the new gig even before I told her. Because she was right. Doing something just for myself is kind of its own reward.

  I’m itching to get started, even if the thought of all those kids makes me nervous. What the hell do I know about kids? I’m the baby in my family. But I’ll figure it out. The head of the Y asked good questions about my experience and seemed pretty knowledgeable in general. He also told me he goes bowhunting a couple times a year and that there is a definite market for handmade and custom bows in the area. It got me thinking about doing some designing again. I’ve already started shopping around for tools.

  I shake my head as I open the door for her. My workaholic girlfriend is definitely rubbing off on me.

  Then I freeze, realizing what I just said, if only in my own mind.

  Katie turns around when I just stand there with the door open. “You looking to moonlight as a bouncer now, Q? I think two new jobs in one day might be pushing it.”

  I laugh weakly and shut the door, watching her take off her coat and slide behind the bar. As she checks in with her coworkers, I slip into a chair at a table, unable to take my eyes off her. I’m not nearly as scared as I should be by that label. Girlfriend.

  It’s a silly word, a childish word, with a meaning that is anything but. For me, it’s a step. A really big one. For her, I know it will be even bigger.

  I frown. But it’s one in the right direction, for both of us. Problem is, will Katie agree?

  I’m still watching her with that frown on my face when some guy takes a seat across from me.

  It’s Apollo.

  My shoulders tense, the way they always do when my brother and I occupy the same room. He’s big, darker than me, though still blond.

  Like Artie, Lo has these weird eyes, but where hers are silvery, his are a molten gold. He’s got a slightly sinister look, courtesy of his dad, but Mom’s lush features are there, too. Like me. But we couldn’t be more different.

  Or so I want to believe.

  “How’s it hanging, baby bro?” Emphasis on the baby.

  I grit my teeth at the ancient dig. Every single image you see of me as a goofy-looking cherub—in paintings, movies, Valentine’s Day cards, in fucking cartoons—is because of Lo. He went on a campaign to smear my legend. Petty, yes, but Lo’s got a weird sense of humor.

  “So, I hear you got a new piece of ass. Got to say, man, glad to hear you’ve climbed back on that horse. Been a while. I was afraid something might have atrophied.”

  He cocks his head, then turns away from me with a hard smile. Those golden eyes narrow as they sweep the room. Once. Twice. My hands tighten into fists under the table. He’s playing with me. Apollo has the oracle’s gift; keeping secrets from him is almost as effective as hiding from Artie.

  When Lo’s gaze finally stops, it’s on Katie as she sets down a foaming mug of beer, laughing with a couple of customers. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

  I just stare at him, my jaw locked tight.

  “She’s pretty fine. Not in Psyche’s league,” he smirks in a way that makes me want to knock out every one of his teeth, “but good en
ough to bend over a table or two.” He grabs the edge of the table and shakes it once before winking at me. “It was this one, wasn’t it?”

  “Fuck you.” I get to my feet, my voice taut with rage. “You’ve been spying on us.”

  He doesn’t bother to deny it. “Checking in on you was getting pretty boring there for a while. But lately, it has its perks.” He looks back over his shoulder at where Katie is looking over at us, frowning. “Maybe I’ll have a go at that ass once you’re done with it,” he muses, before meeting my enraged gaze with his golden one. “Or even before.”

  I reach for his throat, but he’s already shoving the table at me. It squeaks across the floor and slams hard into my upper thighs. I swear at the hot burst of pain before throwing it out of the way. There are a couple of screams at the resulting crash, a shout that may or may not be Katie’s, but I don’t care. I’m too busy trying to get to Lo.

  He laughs and steps aside as I lunge, slamming into another table, this one occupied by a couple who stay seated as their table careens away with me on top of it. Cursing, I finally regain my feet as it slams into the back wall with an ear-splitting crack. I stagger back around to face my brother.

  Lo is standing in the middle of the suddenly cleared room, big body loose and ready. Like his dad, he’s huge, but I’m no lightweight. He’s only got maybe an inch and twenty pounds on me.

  And a few hundred years of training with the world’s best fighter.

  I correct my stance and go for him again.

  He sidesteps me once more, sending a short punch into my jaw. It’s hard and vicious. Bells ring through my skull. I stagger into another table, but it’s empty. The patrons have gotten smart, ditching the tables to stand along one wall, cell phones in hand. Fucking humans.

  Katie is standing in front of the bar, one hand outstretched toward me. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear her. Only him.

  Lo is laughing.

  My brother doesn’t make idle threats. The fucker is planning to go after Katie, like he went after Psyche. He just wanted me to know first.

  I thought he was satisfied. My woman for his. But apparently, Apollo will never be satisfied.

  I can’t let him hurt Katie. I won’t. I get to my feet again, shaking my head to clear the ringing in it.

  “Oh, Cue, come on now. What are you going to do without your bow?” Lo taunts, his lips twisted in a nasty sneer. “That’s the only way you were ever able to hurt me, asshole.”

  I did. I still remember the anguish on my brother’s face when that arrow hit Daphne, the way he ran to her side, falling to his knees. It was only then that I realized he really loved her, that she wasn’t just another conquest.

  But by then, it was too late. I was stupid to think he’d ever forgive me.

  He dodges the fist I aim at his face but to my surprise, he steps right into the other coming for his ribs. I give a grunt of satisfaction when I feel bone crack beneath my knuckles. Lo twists away, not as gracefully this time, then dives for my legs. As always, he’s faster and meaner and just plain more skilled. He slams me into the ground with such force that for a second I can’t move. All I can feel is a blinding pain emanating from my spine that soon wraps around my whole body. Before I can catch my breath, he’s on top of me, sinking a fist into my face.

  The last time we fought, that would have been lights out for me. But Merc and Heph have stepped up my education since then. I’ve learned to take a hit. Besides, right now, I’m running on pure rage and terror. I just realized how important Katie is to me. I’ll be damned if anyone takes her away.

  The table I knocked over is listing on its side, close to my brother’s hip and my right foot. I kick at it as Lo grabs me by the hair. Wood creaks, but nothing happens. Blood flies as my brother slams my head into the floor. Lo raises his fist as my vision starts to darken. If he hits me one more time . . .

  I kick out desperately and am rewarded with a splintering crack. The table leg falls off, inches from my hand. Grunting, I twist hard with all the strength I have left, throwing Lo off of me to grab the fractured piece of wood. I slam it into the side of his head, the resulting crack so loud several people scream.

  Lo falls face-first onto the floor, his nose breaking audibly. But he’s already pushing up by the time I knock him upside the head again. Before he can move, I shove him onto his back, planting a knee in his chest, the splintered table leg in both hands, dripping with blood.

  With a curse, I wave it in front of his eyes. “I don’t need a goddamn arrow to cut out your heart this time, you bastard.”

  Lo laughs, blood bubbling over his split lip. “You forget, baby bro, I’m not the bastard here.”

  My arms tighten as I lift the piece of fractured wood.

  “Jesus Christ, Q.” It’s Katie’s whispered plea that stays my hand. “Don’t kill him.”

  So I don’t.

  The night winds down pretty quickly after that. Lo won’t press charges. And after I slip a wad of hundreds under the table to Katie’s boss, neither will the bar. The cops come and go. I’ve got a court date for disorderly conduct, bloody knuckles and a cold, hard knot of fear in my guts.

  Not because of the way Lo looked at me, then at Katie with a sly smile on his battered face before he left the bar, but because of the way Katie looked at me before telling me in a thin, shaky voice that we needed to take a break.

  Starting immediately.

  Chapter Eight

  The next couple of days don’t feel quite real.

  It’s crazy how quickly you get used to having someone in your life. Even though we weren’t seeing each other every day, the idea that I can’t see her makes me restless and on edge. I drive by her apartment once, twice, then make myself stop. It’s one thing to be teased about being a stalker, quite another to actually become one.

  Thankfully, I have work. And also thankfully, being a god means I heal quick. The evidence of my brawl with my brother has faded to nothing by the time I clock in for the first time.

  Or so I think until I’m helping a snotty teenager with a faded Legend of Zelda shirt correct his grip. I push up my sunglasses in frustration. His head tilts as he squints up at me.

  “One of your eyes is kind of purple.”

  “No, it’s not.” I push my glasses back down.

  “Yeah. It is.” He smirks. “Did someone kick your ass?”

  “I’m not sure you’re supposed to talk like that.”

  He shrugs and draws back the bow again. “No one gives a shit how I talk.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this, so I ignore it. “Well, you better give a shit how you pull that bow, or your eye is going to match mine.” I correct his grip again. “You hold it too tight, and you’ll torque the shot every time. Relax.” I grab one of the trainer’s bows next to me and demonstrate, my fingers loose on the grip just below the arrow rest.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “What does it matter how I hold it? I’m never going to hit the stupid thing anyway,” he grouses, but he finally eases his death grip on the bow to take a half-hearted shot at the hay bale ten yards away. The rest of his shots are scattered around it, none closer than a couple feet. Seconds later, his arrow thunks into edge of the outer circle.

  “Holy shit,” he breathes. Then he glances up at me, his brown eyes comically wide. “I hit it.”

  I grin at him. “Well, you sort of hit it.”

  He rolls his eyes again, but he’s fighting a grin. “Yeah, like someone sort of hit your face. Come on, show me again.”

  We work on his grip and stance, and over the next hour, he lets another couple dozen bolts fly. Only two sink into the blue again, but none miss the bale entirely. It’s crazy how invested in his success I am. I have to help the other kids but I keep stealing glances down the row. At the end of the round, he waits for the all clear, shifting back and forth until it comes. Then he dashes to grab his shots. When he comes back to the line, his shoulders are back, his chest puffed up just a little.
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  By the end of the day, I’m tired and have a headache from all the whining. Not to mention my back is stiff from hunching over for hours on end. Goddamn kids are fucking short. Who knew?

  But despite those little annoyances, inside, where it counts, I feel good. Weirdly good and somehow satisfied. Almost . . . proud. I’m actually looking forward to working with the Zelda kid again, snotty comments and all. Shaking my head and wishing I had someone to share this craziness with, I pull out my phone as I walk through the parking lot to my Jeep.

  One message from Artie, two from Mom. All of which I ignore. Nothing from Katie. Well, it’s not like we were texting each other regular or anything. I was shocked as shit when I woke up one day to find her number in my phone.

  Under Pearl.

  The memory makes me smile and my thumb hovers over her contact. Finally, I figure, fuck it.

  Had a great 1st day. Maybe this working thing isn’t so psycho after all.

  Then I wait. A minute. Five.

  Nothing.

  With a sigh, I hop into my Jeep, tossing my phone on the passenger seat. Then it buzzes. Faster than that kid going after his arrows, I snatch it back up again.

  Good to hear. Don’t worry, the psycho comes later. There’s even a smiley face.

  My own grin is so wide it hurts. I mean to head back to my place—that’s what I tell myself—but somehow I’m walking up the steps to Katie’s building twenty minutes later. When I knock, I hear the soft footfalls inside. “It’s you, isn’t it, Q?”

  I cover the peephole. “Nope. It’s the mailman.”

  The steps pause, and there’s an audible sigh. “Three days does not a break make.”

  Has it only been three days? It seems like weeks since I’ve heard her voice. I lean closer to the door.

  “Come on, three days is a lifetime in fly years.”

  She opens the door but doesn’t take off the chain. She’s in sleep shorts and a white tank. Her study clothes. Sure enough, there’s a pencil behind her ear. I’m grinning like an idiot at the sight of her, but I can’t help myself. All my aches and pains drift away as I drink her in, from the painted neon green toes to the mass of curls piled on top of her head. “Hey there, beautiful.”