“Maybe if the guy with the golden arrows had helped a brother out once in a while . . .”
“Have you forgotten how much trouble we got into when you talked me into shooting Pitys for you?” Yes, there was that.
“My point is,” Pan said, “they gave me this smokin’ hot earth-bod when I got tossed off the cloud, and I foolishly assumed my hooves and tail were ancient history. The cruelest punishment of all was ascending to Mount O and becoming half goat again.”
“That is rotten,” Cupid said, adding, “no offense.”
“I could almost bear living as a satyr before I experienced the glory of human legs, but it was a low moment in my existence when I felt that tail hanging from my ass again.”
“I see your point.”
“So you can understand why I asked for a Permanent Descent.” And away we go.
Cupid’s mouth fell open. “You’re allowed to do that?”
“I found a way to make myself useful to the gods, and they arranged a convenient cover story.”
“Your death.” There was no way not to hear betrayal in Cupid’s voice.
The old, familiar guilt reared its ugly head. Pan had never been keen on the hunting accident ruse, but what choice had they given him? “I’m so sorry about all of that, Q. Silence was part of my deal.”
“But why?”
Pan had practiced this response all morning, yet the words tasted wooden on his tongue. “You can see where . . . others might start breaking the rules to try to earn themselves a one-way ticket to earth, right?”
“I guess so,” Cupid began, “but if you’re the only god catcher—”
“I prefer ‘Concierge to the Divine.’”
“Concierge,” Cupid repeated with a thick French accent. “Isn’t that one of those proper gentlemen who bring people tea and press their trousers?”
“That would be a butler.” Considering Cupid’s whole world was about to crash down around him, Pan let the indignity slide. “My job is to smooth the transition of fallens from Mount O to earth.”
“And how many divines have fallen while you’ve been down here concierging?”
“I stopped counting when I hit triple digits.” Over time, as the early Olympians diluted the gene pool by mating with anyone they pleased, each new generation seemed more inclined to test the authority of the Divine Council, hence more fallens for Pan to acclimate.
“Triple digits,” Cupid repeated, muttering to himself as he shook his head. “Hundreds of fallen divines and part–divines have kept your secret all this time?”
“Pretty much,” answered Pan, bracing for impact.
“But how is that possible? Nobody can keep a secret from anybody on Mount O.”
They’d come too far to walk it back now. “Aphrodite can be most persuasive.”
“Mother is behind this?” Cupid’s shoulders shuddered as if calling on his wings to carry him away, but there was no escaping this terrible truth, not for Cupid and not for Pan. “But why would she want to keep me from knowing you were alive and well?”
“I believe she was afraid of losing you.”
Cupid slumped against his seat in disbelief, aiming his comments toward the floor. “I mourned my best friend every day for two thousand years while my own mother stood by and watched.” His voice, broken and rough, sent a shiver down Pan’s spine.
“I’m so sorry, Q. You know I would have told you if I could have.” Of all the shitty things Aphrodite had done to Pan, this was the most despicable, dealing the permanent blow to the friendship she’d always scorned.
Cupid’s head snapped up, his moist eyes meeting Pan’s. “Of course I know that.” Maybe Mercury was right; they’d get through this. “But you did choose this life over me.” And there it was, Cupid’s innocence taken for real this time—and not in a good way—by his own mother and his best friend.
The air inside the truck closed in around Pan, hot and thick, choking the breath from his lungs. Sweat rolled out of Pan’s pores like earthworms tunneling to the surface after a hard rain. He took the coward’s way out, fixing his gaze dead ahead through the windshield while Cupid’s eyes lasered two holes into Pan’s right cheek. With great effort, Pan forced out the words he’d rehearsed for the last 2,005 years, hoping he’d never have to say them but also fervently hoping he might.
“I want you to know, I never planned any of this. I’d been kicked off the cloud for the third time, and I wasn’t any too eager to go home and start the cycle all over again. Let’s face it, I wasn’t winning any popularity contests up there.” Pan chanced a look at Cupid, whose tightly clenched jaw offered no reassurance. “So, while I was down here serving my sentence, I came up with a win-win-win scenario: the gods have their dependable servant on earth, the nymphs can roam freely on Mount O, and I get all the action I can handle down here.”
“It wasn’t a win for me,” Cupid said flatly, chaining Pan forever inside his hideous betrayal with the blink, blink, blink of those trusting blue eyes.
“I know, man. You’re right. And this is the lamest apology ever, two thousand years too late, and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for the rest of my stupid, eternal life . . . but I really hope you won’t. I’m being one hundred percent honest when I tell you, you’re the only reason I almost didn’t do it. I’ve missed you, Q. So fucking much.” If not for the driving, Pan would have dropped to his knees and kept right on begging.
“I could never hate you, Pan. You’re my best friend. That hasn’t changed since we were seven years old, and it never will.” Pan’s heart rejoiced, even if he couldn’t quite reconcile their childhood oath with Cupid 2.0’s deep, sexy voice.
“I know I’m a selfish motherfucker to even think of asking, but do you think you could ever forgive me?”
“Hmm, that depends. Will you take me to meet more earth girls?”
Pan’s booming laughter bounced off the truck’s interior. “Hell yeah, I will.”
They really needed to hug this out, but Pan settled for reaching over and squeezing Cupid’s shoulder. Cupid grinned his beautiful, uncomplicated grin, and all was right in the cosmos—not counting whatever the gods had in store for Cupid.
8
Home
“Home, sweet home.”
The truck slowed to a roll up the driveway, and Cupid glimpsed Pan’s home for the first time. A symmetrical pair of windows on either side of the front door interrupted the otherwise unbroken stone facade of the one-story building. Not exactly the home Cupid would have imagined for the god of the hunt, but then, what indoor dwelling would have been?
Pan touched a button over his head, and a door squawked and rattled its way to the top of a set of tracks, revealing neat rows of garden tools and bicycles lining the walls. Cupid surveyed the space with awe as Pan pulled the truck inside.
“All this is yours?”
Pan’s laughter cheered Cupid. “If you’re this worked up about the garage, wait till you see inside.”
Cupid slipped his fingers behind the latch, pushed open his door, and lunged. A sharp pinch at his shoulder snapped Cupid back against the seat. “Go to the crows! Wretched human restraints.”
“Your curses don’t translate well,” chuckled Pan. “We’re gonna have to work on that.”
The clip-clop of Pan’s sandals led Cupid through the doorway and into a large open space capped off by a flat, white ceiling that blocked out the sky.
“These humans do love their walls, don’t they?”
“We live a very interior life down here,” said Pan, “especially when the weather is uncooperative.”
“That must’ve been quite the adjustment for you.”
“I am outside every chance I get, but it’s not the same.”
“Do you ever miss your life as a satyr?”
Pan answered swiftly. “No.” Neither would Cupid miss all
the palace rules or judgy eyes. “Well, mostly no,” Pan added. “I do miss a spirited mountain climb, but these human legs can give me a decent enough run in the woods. I’ll take the trade-off any day. Ready for your tour?”
“Sure.” Artificially lighted hallways led to two smaller rooms designed for sleeping, each with its own accommodations for bathing. Cupid was relieved when they found their way back to the airy main room again. “This is where you bring all the fallens?”
“No. I keep a couple apartments on the south side of town.”
Cupid’s heart sank. “Oh. Is that where you’re going to leave me?”
Pan hooked his elbow around Cupid’s neck. “Not a chance, Q. You’re staying here with me.”
“Really?” Were the two old friends finally going to have the sleepover Aphrodite would never condone? Oh, my darling son, the goat is your outdoor friend.
“’Course. Make yourself at home.”
“In that case . . .” Cupid took off at a dead run and leapt onto the inviting couch, the deep cushions swallowing him.
Pan shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve been invaded by an English Mastiff. How about a beer?” He disappeared into the kitchen, returned with two bottles, and twisted off both caps at once.
Cupid peered suspiciously into the depths of the amber opening. “Why’s it so dark?”
“It’s ale. Try it.” Pan clinked Cupid’s bottle—“Yamas!”—then sucked down half the bottle in one go and sank to the couch with a loud sigh.
An experimental sip coated Cupid’s tongue with bitter-tasting foam. “Ugh,” he cried, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Dionysus would have your balls for serving this swill. I wouldn’t feed this to our sheep.”
“As if anyone would trust you to care for the livestock.”
“Truly, Pan, how can you drink this donkey piss?”
“Eh, you do what you gotta do to blend in.”
“I don’t know if I can manage the food and drink, but at least I look like I blend in.”
“Sure,” Pan answered, his beard following his smile up the sides of his cheeks. “You look like every other guy who’s a walking orgasm, dipped in a vat of chocolate, drizzled in warm honey, and rolled in sugar.” A dense bouquet of lust barreled straight up Cupid’s nose.
Cupid’s cheeks flared with heat. He’d never thought of his friend that way before, but now that the idea had thrust itself upon him, why not? Cupid took a good, hard look at Pan, the man. The solid upper torso was pleasingly familiar: broad, thick shoulders, an abdomen rippled with hard ridges and valleys, and the same trim waist Cupid had always envied. His gaze traveled lower, to the swells of Pan’s muscular thighs, straining against his pants. He imagined Pan’s Earth body filling out the soft folds of a chiton—even better, running free in his natural wooded surroundings, wearing nothing at all. How exciting a romp with the god of the wild would be. Hard angles colliding, like meeting like, forged iron yielding to pleasures of the flesh.
As if sharing Cupid’s fantasy, Pan pumped out a fresh wave of arousal. Cupid’s groin obliged with an intrigued twitch that quickly readied for action. Never mind that he was still sticky from his encounter with Layla.
“Dammit, Q. Cut that out.”
Cupid didn’t need to ask what Pan meant, and they both knew it. “Why?”
“Fuck,” Pan said with a frustrated groan. “Because that is not happening.”
Rejection already, a first for Earth-Cupid. “I thought you wanted me too.”
Pan’s feral gaze snapped to Cupid’s. “Oh, I want you.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem . . .” Pan chuckled darkly. “The problem is you’re in big trouble, and it’s my job to help you out of it. A joyride on your old bestie ain’t part of the deal.”
The more Pan slipped out of Cupid’s grasp, the harder Cupid reasoned. “But I just . . . joy rode with Layla, and no harm has come of it.”
“Oh, my innocent friend, while I’d love nothing—and I do mean nothing—more than to”—Pan shot him a glance riddled with such longing, Cupid swelled to the point of discomfort—“ride you, I know better than to engage in such reckless activity with one of my charges.”
Cupid sensed Pan knew what he was talking about, but the conclusion didn’t ease his disappointment, and it certainly didn’t take the edge off his hunger. The two men forced their eyes away from each other’s until the thick suggestion of sex dissipated from the air, and pulses returned to normal.
“You need to chill.” Pan pointed a wand toward a big screen hanging on the wall, and a basketball contest roared to life.
“Wow. It feels like they’re playing right there on your wall.”
“Yep, and here’s the remote. If you don’t feel like watching basketball, just keep pressing the up arrow until you find something you like.”
The image changed with each tap of Cupid’s finger: sports, talking, cooking, music, movies . . . a fascinating, endless array of choices. He’d worked his way through hundreds of channels when he caught a snippet of someone calling out Aphrodite’s name.
“Look what they’ve done to Mother!” Cupid could hardly bear to look at the scantily clad, buxom Aphrodite stretched across the laps of three boys—also barely dressed—who could not have been any older than Cupid’s Earth age.
“Ah, Xena,” Pan said with a smirk. “Always entertaining.”
“Those boys are rubbing her feet and . . . and touching her . . . everywhere.” Cupid wailed. “And she likes it.”
“Q—”
“My mother is smart,” Cupid said through tightly clenched teeth, “and she doesn’t dress like a harlot.”
“Like I said, the mortals don’t really know what to make of us.” Pan hopped up and clicked off the TV. “Why don’t you take a nice, hot shower and put on some fresh clothes, and we’ll go out and meet some more Earth girls, hmm?”
Slightly conflicted about abandoning his mother’s honor, Cupid gave him a reluctant nod. The shower was unexpectedly pleasant, considering it was indoors, and Cupid emerged feeling both renewed and relaxed.
Adapting as best as he could to the customs of his new world, Cupid fastened the shirt buttons up to his neck and painstakingly smoothed the long tails inside the snugger, darker jeans Pan had left on his bed. Threading the dreaded belt through the appropriate loops, Cupid buckled himself in tight, though that seemed counter to the purpose of their outing. The shoes waiting for him by the bedroom door were already laced; all Cupid had to do was wriggle his feet inside them. It was odd to look down and find his feet swallowed up to his ankles, but the shoes made walking far easier than the flip-flops.
Pan was leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for him, amusement curling his lips as he surveyed Cupid’s outfit.
“What?”
Pan strode over to him and deftly unfastened the top two buttons of Cupid’s shirt. “We need to loosen you up.” Before Cupid could lodge a complaint, Pan yanked the shirttails out of his pants.
“Re!” Cupid protested, swiping away Pan’s hands. “It took me forever to arrange that.”
“Nobody tucks. You’ll look ancient.”
“What’s the point of the belt if nobody can see it?”
“It’s the style. Stop whining. You look hot.”
“Oh.” Cupid brushed his hand over the sudden tingling in his scalp. “Thanks?”
“For crying out loud.” Pan placed a firm hand on Cupid’s chest and pushed him away. “That wasn’t a proposition.”
Cupid shoved his hands in his pockets, and his eyes darted away from Pan, settling on his own shoes for several long seconds.
“Look, Q, this . . . thing between us is not your fault, not mine, and definitely not something we need to dwell on. We’ll both find someone else to tickle our fancies tonight, okay?”
“Ok
ay.”
“Great. Here’s your wallet. Everything you need is inside. Tuck it in your back pocket until you decide to hit the dance floor, then move it to the front. Got it?”
“Sure.”
“Super. Next . . . your phone.”
Cupid opened his hands in time to catch the thin device flying at his belly. “What do I do with this?”
“Same deal. Keep it close; guard it even more carefully. Go ahead and type in your password, 2222.”
Cupid obediently tapped in the numbers. The screen came to life in his hands, small colorful tiles jumping into the black space. “Oh. A game!”
Pan swiped the toy from Cupid’s grasp.
“Kopsto!” shouted Cupid.
“You cut it out,” Pan replied. “I need you to pay attention. Your fate might depend on it.”
Duly chastised, Cupid mumbled, “Fine.”
They spent the next ten minutes at the kitchen counter, Pan teaching Cupid how to answer the phone, place a call, and send a text message to the only programmed number—Pan’s.
“All right. Now that you’ve got the basics down, I have a little treat for you.” Pan tapped the screen a couple of times, and a racetrack appeared. “You said you wanted to learn how to drive.”
Six sleek cars rumbled and hopped to life at the starting line. It took Cupid mere seconds to master the necessary finger motions.
“C’mon, you can practice in the truck.”
Without taking his eyes from the screen, Cupid rose and followed Pan’s voice. Only Cupid’s godly reflexes saved him from tripping down the step between the house and garage while navigating the on-screen Lotus through its first hairpin turn. Cupid vaguely heard Pan remind him about his seat belt, sigh loudly as he shut Cupid’s door, and mutter something about “kids today.”
The backward motion of Pan’s truck disoriented Cupid, and his Lotus went careening off the next cliff in a spectacular display of flames. “Noooo!”
“Fender bender?” Pan teased.
“I made it to checkpoint two,” Cupid said with great pride.
“When you make it around the course six times without killing anyone, we’ll talk.”
First Quiver Page 4