Time passed unnoticed as Cupid’s race car climbed the winding cliff roads of Monte Carlo. As he managed a sharp curve near the peak, the phone hummed and vibrated in his hands. Cupid made the split-second decision to answer the call. He pressed the flashing button on the screen, then being caught off guard over what might be the appropriate greeting, he stumbled.
“Present,” he said timidly, startled when his voice reverberated around the interior of the truck.
Pan’s loud snort boomed immediately after. “You’re supposed to say hello.”
Cupid jerked the phone away from his ear, ended the call, and scowled at Pan. “I was just about to clear level four.”
“Way more importantly, you passed your first test. I need to know I can trust you in an emergency.”
Irritation quickly turned to dread. “Do you think something terrible is going to happen to me?” Pan paused long enough to confirm Cupid’s fears. “Pan?”
“Look, at some point, you’re gonna get whatever’s coming to you. Frankly, when that time comes, the whole Trojan Army won’t be able to save you. Until then, this phone will help me keep you out of any trouble you might kick up with the humans.”
Hearing his fate delivered with such certainty left Cupid feeling like he’d driven the Lotus off the cliff and into the craggy valley below.
“We’re here.”
Cupid hadn’t realized the truck had stopped, had no idea, in fact, how long he’d been sitting in stunned silence.
“They’ve got a great steak here,” Pan said, reaching over and pushing the bright orange button releasing Cupid’s seat belt.
“Mutton?” His spirits lifted slightly.
Pan chuckled and gave his friend a light pat on the cheek. “Come on. Let’s go inside and have some fun.”
Cupid heard the unspoken “while we can,” but the promise of female companionship lured him out of the car. He pushed his phone into his back pocket and followed Pan inside.
9
Gogglers
The silky techno beat wrapped its tentacles around the two men, drawing them smoothly across the crowded room and straight into the heart of the buzz. Pan strode in rhythm to the pounding bass as he led Cupid to the thick slab of dark mahogany forming a U-shaped bar.
Pan allowed himself to enjoy the pleasant thrum of anticipation snaking through his system. Whether the pendulum between Pan’s legs had swung back to boys in general or just for his impossibly hot friend with his singular charms, Pan couldn’t be sure. I am an evolved being, Pan reminded himself. He would deal with these new stirrings—somehow. If he couldn’t have Cupid for himself, he’d take the next best thing: riding shotgun with his best friend in the driver’s seat. Heads were turning, and Pan didn’t blame them.
He recognized the well-endowed but otherwise petite, brown-haired bartender from his many trips to The Stagecoach, and on a normal night, Cheri might’ve recognized Pan too, but by the time she got around to noticing Pan, she was already good and dazzled.
“What can I get you boys tonight?” she asked, dropping two cocktail napkins onto the bar.
“Not beer,” Cupid answered, punctuating his statement with a crinkled nose and a finger pointed at Pan.
“Well, that narrows it down a little,” Cheri replied with a smile.
“What would you recommend?” Cupid asked her. Pan doubted whether Cupid even had a clue how his eyelids closed halfway, giving off that “come hither” look, or how his voice took on a rough, husky quality around a pretty girl. Cheri was a goner.
“That depends. You got ID, honey?” Cheri may have been spellbound, but she needed her job.
“Yes,” Pan answered before Cupid had a chance to cock his head and ask for a definition.
Knocking knees with Cupid under the bar, Pan snagged his wallet and thumbed out his ID onto the bar in front of them, and Cupid followed suit.
Cheri shot Pan a suspicious look before picking up Cupid’s ID. “Quentin Arrows?” she read, then lifted her eyes from the picture to Cupid and back again.
“Yes,” Cupid replied with a solemn nod.
Pan had to admit, he was pretty darn impressed with Cupid’s smoothness—no widened eyes, no lip biting, no nervous twitching. But then, his new name wasn’t exactly a lie. Pan tuned out whatever followed Cheri’s, “Are you in the mood for something sweet?” and spun on his stool to survey the scene.
Cupid’s entrance had clearly been noticed. The ranks were closing in gradually but surely: girls angling their bodies so they could be first in Cupid’s field of vision if he happened to glance their way, maraschino cherries tugged seductively from stems, straws teased by tongues that would rather have been wrapped around something else—something of Cupid’s. Some of the men subtly rocked their shoulders, sipping at bottles, sizing up the newcomer. Pan huffed, idly calculating which of Cupid’s leftovers he might score for himself.
“And for you, Panthino?”
Cupid thumped him on the knee. “Yes, Panthino, what are you drinking? More donkey piss?” Cupid offered an apologetic palm to Cheri. “No offense. I don’t like beer.”
“None taken. I wouldn’t drink the stuff if you sat on my lap, pinned my hands down, and poured it down my throat. Oh dear, did I say that out loud?”
Cupid’s brow jumped right up to his hairline as he barked out a happy chuckle. “Except for the force-feeding, that sounds interesting.”
She giggled and pivoted back to Pan. “Hon, you better give me your drink order before I get myself into serious trouble here.”
“Too late,” both men answered in unison, causing the three of them to break up again. “I’ll take a Heineken and a couple of dinner menus while you’re at it, please.”
“Be right back, guys.”
“So, what drink did you and Cheri decide on?” Pan asked Cupid.
“A yelling orgasm or something.”
“Nice.”
Cupid settled into a rhythmic sway equal to the insidious bass, his head bobbing like the hula girl that lived on Pan’s dashboard during the sixties. “Is this more of that Clapton person?”
“Nope, this is pure sex music. Feel that throbbing beat?”
“Is sex all you ever think about, Pan?”
“Look who’s talking. What are you thinking about, the Iliad?”
Cupid’s eyes twinkled despite the diffuse lighting. “I was thinking about Cheri’s breasts, to be honest.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Goat.”
“Here we are . . . a Screaming Orgasm for the dick, a Heineken for the goat, and a pair of menus. I’ll be back in a few to take your orders.” Cheri gave both men a smirk before skittering away.
“Shoot, do you think she heard what I said about her breasts?” Cupid asked, lowering his voice this time.
“Probably, but she didn’t seem offended.”
“Oh, look. They have french fries.”
Pan chuckled at his friend. “Don’t you want to try something new?”
Cupid held up his drink and said, “I’m about to have a screaming orgasm. Doesn’t that count?”
“It sure does in my book,” said a female voice behind them.
Cupid whipped around as one of the goggling ladies boldly insinuated her hand onto Cupid’s arm and worked it up to his shoulder.
“You’ve really never had one before?” she asked, adding extra breath on the “had.” The girl had just assaulted Cupid with 150-proof alcohol directly into his divine olfactory system, but he didn’t even flinch. Her friends tittered over her audacity, egging her on so they could enjoy the vicarious glow of Cupid’s sexy gaze.
Cupid soaked up the attention like a thirsty sponge, answering with the greatest of ease. “Not in a glass with ice.”
A ripple of exaggerated laughter rang out, and more fingers chanced the trail up Cupid’s blue a
nd white pinstripes. Pan was tortured by a vision of the women hoisting Cupid onto their shoulders and carting him away like a rock star riding a mosh pit.
Cheri returned to the spectacle, took stock of the unwelcome competition, and captured Cupid’s attention with a slightly desperate, “Know what you want, hon?”
“Yes, I’ll have the cowboy steak and french fries.”
“How’d you like that cooked?”
“Medium rare.” Pan answered for him while Cupid directed his attention to the girls tussling over who would treat him to his next orgasm.
Pan used his one-on-one time with Cheri industriously, capitalizing on his opportunity to cash in on the residual sexual energy Cupid had churned up. Pan poured on the charm, reorganizing the probabilities for Cheri until she’d calculated that the certainty of Pan ranked higher than the increasingly unlikely possibility of Cupid.
She straightened the menus with a tap on the bar, gave Pan a meaningful tip of her chin, and winked. “I’ll put that right in for you.”
And I’ll happily do the same for you later, he beamed back with unspoken ardor.
Goggler Two crowded in too close to Cupid’s face. “You must be new around here.”
“Mmhmm,” he hummed back.
“Do you have a name?”
“I have a letter,” he answered. “Q.”
“‘Q’ as in ‘quadriceps’?” asked the one behind him, laying her hand on Cupid’s knee and sliding it north.
Pan had reached his limit. Grabbing his beer, he tapped Cupid’s arm with the bottle and leaned in close. “I’m going to take a leak. Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do.”
Leaving his friend among the growing sea of admirers, Pan moseyed to the bathroom, took a leisurely piss, and paused to check himself in the mirror on the way out. Cupid had a point; Pan was no slouch, himself—not that anything could ever happen between the two of them. Pan shook off the buzzkill and yanked open the bathroom door.
Tossing his head back to finish off his beer, he collided with a pair of tatas belonging to none other than his favorite bartender, who latched onto Pan’s wrist to regain her balance. Chivalrously pulling Cheri to safety against his chest, Pan gazed into her startled eyes, down her shirt, and into her eyes again.
“Why, Cheri, are you following me?”
“No! I was taking a quick bathroom br—”
“Easy, doll,” Pan said, smiling sweetly to put her at ease. “I was only teasing.”
“Oh.” Cheri shook off her embarrassment.
Pan curled his fingers around Cheri’s waist and brought his lips to her ear. “What time do you get off tonight?”
10
Hard to Get
After the second Orgasm, Pan convinced Cupid to switch to beer, assuring him the taste would be tolerable now and he’d be grateful in the morning. With a pleasantly full belly and a nice buzz from the cocktails, Cupid took his last bite of steak and swiveled around to check out the dance floor. That’s when the girl with the flame-colored hair caught his eye.
She was spectacular. Fluid—the word lodged in his mind as he watched her move under the lights. With her back to him at first, she had the appearance of a sea nymph, her curly, red-orange hair swishing gently across her bottom, her hips rolling as if performing an underwater ballet. When she raised her crossed wrists over her head, Cupid hopped off his stool and pushed through the crowd, seeing no one but her. He followed her siren song single-mindedly as it called him to the floor, close enough to breathe her in, close enough to touch—but he didn’t.
She spun in place, absorbing Cupid’s presence behind her with a sexy, unrushed assurance. Her dance was a hand-delivered invitation to feast his eyes, and did he ever. While he was at it, Cupid drew in her intoxicating endorphins, the swish of the skirt swirling at her thighs, the sparks popping in the air around her, electrifying every hair on his body.
She roused and fed his appetite at once, tipping her head back, exposing her lovely neck, offering the sexy dip at its base that begged for his tongue—or was it his tongue begging for the dip? Cupid couldn’t sort any of it out, especially when her pouty mouth dropped open ever so slightly, a juicy peach he could already taste on his lips. The more he was offered, the greater his hunger.
The blue lights cast a garish glow, but still, he could make out the tiny bronze speckles on her porcelain cheeks and the dazzling aquamarine of her eyes. Mesmerized, Cupid failed to notice he’d started moving along with her. As loose as she was, Cupid was twice as tense—coiled and ready to spring.
A crowd of spectators closed in tight, their collective body heat and desire pulsing through the two dancers at the center. Wordlessly, the girl floated closer and dropped her linked arms over Cupid’s head. His fingers itched to touch her, but he couldn’t trust himself to stop once he started. He knew enough about the ways of Earthlings to understand intimacy as a private act, not some wild Bacchanalia, but this dance confused him. This girl confused him.
She leaned back suddenly, a dead weight around his neck, and he lurched forward to catch her, his pulse pounding in his ears as his fingers met bare skin where her short top left off.
“Whoopsie,” she whispered with a cunning grin, her lips so close he could feel her breath on his chin.
His voice came out in a raspy growl. “I need to kiss you.”
“Yes,” she replied.
Cupid closed the miniscule gap and pressed his mouth over hers. Pleasure buzzed through him. More. When the lip-to-lip could no longer satisfy, he found her tongue and kissed her until his knees went weak. She kissed him back with a fervor that surprised him, considering how restrained she’d been until that point.
Cupid crashed against her, and she crashed back. Her thighs pressed against his sides—teasing, rhythmic taps on either side of him. He slid his fingers up her back, needing more skin, more heat, more friction. He strained against his blue jeans.
The music pounded up through the floor, hammered at his feet, and reverberated up his legs. Sex beat, Pan had called it, and now Cupid understood as his hips pulsed against the dancer even though a powerful instinct nagged at him to stop. It didn’t help his self-control when she arched her back and offered her ripe, full breasts for the taking.
A firm hand clapped Cupid high on his back. “Come with me,” bellowed an urgent voice.
Cupid blinked, startled out of his lusty fog. There stood Pan, and he wasn’t messing around.
“Bring your girl.”
No conversation was necessary. Cupid took her by the hand and led her from the dance floor. The two of them trailed behind Pan’s broad shoulders as he cut a path through the dense crowd and out the door. Outside, the bartender was waiting, and Pan bent to kiss her on the lips. “Sorry about that.” From her dazzled response, it appeared all was forgiven.
Flashing a charming smile to both women, Pan said, “Would you ladies excuse us for a moment, please?” before dragging Cupid out of their earshot. “Are you bringing her home?” Pan asked.
“I just met her.”
“You two were one hump shy of getting tossed out.”
“I don’t know what happened. One second, I was on my stool, and the next . . . I was drawn to her, and I lost control. I don’t even know her name.”
“She’s hot. She’s also the only girl in the place not waving her tits in your face.”
Cupid’s shoulders sagged. “You think she doesn’t want me?”
Pan reached his arm around Cupid’s shoulders and drew him close. “Oh, she wants you, trust me. She’s playing hard to get.”
Cupid’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she’s smart. Guaranteed she wants you every bit as much as everyone else inside the place, but this one gave you a little space for you to want her back.”
“Huh, it worked.”
“Usua
lly does. Go close the deal.” The two old friends grinned at each other. Pan released Cupid, stalked right over to Cheri, and hoisted her over one shoulder. She answered his deep growl with a cascade of laughter.
Cupid sidled up to his dance partner and buried his hands in his front pockets. “Hello again.”
Her sweet, rosy lips lifted into a smile. “Hi.” The quiet, restrained voice left Cupid believing she used it only rarely but otherwise let her body do the talking.
Up close, with the benefit of the streetlight and a clearer head, Cupid could discern all the usual signs of attraction: the soft blush on her cheeks, the hesitation to meet his eye, the subtle offering of her open shoulders, the enticing scent of her own natural musk outstripping her hair and body wash. Earth-Cupid’s charms hadn’t failed him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Rory, but you can call me ‘Rho.’”
It tickled Cupid that her name was a letter too. “Mine’s Q.”
Pan spun around quickly, causing Cheri to wobble on his shoulder and flail for something to grab onto. “You two coming or what?”
Rho’s cheeks turned a deeper pink, and she wrung her graceful, delicate fingers together in front of her skirt.
Cupid reached over suddenly and took both her hands in his. “Would you?”
Her gaze dropped to Cupid’s feet, and she answered with a simple but enthusiastic, “Yes.”
As they laced their fingers together and headed to Pan’s truck, Cupid marveled at how this intriguing creature next to him, who’d danced and kissed him with such wild abandon, now blushed madly just from holding his hand. He considered her game of pretending not to be interested in him and how it drove him nearly out of his mind with want. Staring out into the black of the night sky with Rho’s head on his shoulder, Cupid realized he had an awful lot to learn about the mortal heart—and perhaps even his own.
11
Working Out
“On a strangulation scale from zero to ten, these shorts would be an eleven,” said Cupid, peering over his shoulder at his ass in the mirror. “I can’t complain about how they look, though.”
First Quiver Page 5