Pan could have complained plenty about how Cupid’s ass looked in those shorts, but focusing on it wouldn’t help any. Instead, he reached over and yanked the tags off. Those were keepers.
“Which shirt are you going to wear?”
Cupid carefully considered his choices, finally deciding on the gray Train Like a Boss tee, and Pan snapped off that price tag too. “Throw on your sweats and sneakers while I pay.”
Pan tossed the plastic bag onto the rear seat where it landed atop the accumulated treasures of the morning—jeans, boots, shirts, and a generous pile of new underwear. Cupid fastened his seat belt without being reminded and set to work on his driving app with impressive dedication. Since Cupid had cleared level six on the way to lunch, Pan had assigned him the racetrack through suburbia. In no time at all, Cupid would be driving himself around. The thought of his imminent independence hung over Pan like a storm cloud, leaving him uncharacteristically melancholy.
Pan enjoyed his job well enough—though the high-risk, high-reward nature of his employment had earned him more than his fair share of agita—but he rarely took his assignments personally. Divines fell; they suffered. They figured it out; they ascended. Pan moved on. With Cupid, everything was different, had been right from the start. If Pan were being honest, he rather enjoyed the responsibility of taking care of Cupid, relished the chance to prove himself worthy of Cupid’s faith and easy forgiveness. When the time came to push the bird from his nest, Pan would set aside his own complicated feelings for his best friend and facilitate Cupid’s destiny with the utmost gravity and care. No matter that Cupid’s “freedom,” however the gods defined it, would tear an even bigger hole in Pan’s heart.
The Titan pulled neatly between the painted lines of the parking lot in front of the gym. “We have arrived at our destination,” Pan announced grandly, pulling Cupid’s intense concentration from his game. “You’ll need your membership card.”
Pan led him through the turnstile and into the locker room. Cupid watched and mimicked Pan’s routine, stowing his sweats in a locker, grabbing a towel, taking a pre–workout leak, and following him through the heavy metal door to the weight room.
The sea of heads swiveled to gawp, Pan noticed with great amusement. If Cupid had the inclination and the stamina, he could’ve easily had his way with every girl in the room and a good portion of the men to boot. The air around them clotted with sexual energy, and Pan resigned himself to another wait in the truck.
“Why is everyone running inside on machines and going nowhere?”
Pan chuckled. “Temperature-controlled environment, predictable routine, cushy running surface, all the comforts of the locker room, and a whole lot of mutual eye-fucking,” Pan explained with a waggle of his eyebrows. “It’s also easier to get a whole-body workout this way. You go straight from aerobics to free weights, then over to the floor to stretch. Here. Hop on, and I’ll show you.” Pan slung his towel over the treadmill next to Cupid’s and demonstrated how to start the interval workout.
“Can you imagine Hercules on this contraption?” Cupid imitated their muscle-bound friend with a deep voice. “Am I a mouse chasing its supper around in circles?” Cupid broke into giggles, and Pan couldn’t help doing the same.
They warmed up with a slow jog. Damn, Q was a thing of beauty, running with the grace of a gazelle, long legs kicking out from under those tight shorts, quads popping and rolling. Their belts picked up speed, forcing them into a brisk run. Pan pushed his earbuds into place and shifted his focus to the soccer match on TV.
It wasn’t long before he was in the zone, that runner’s high buzzing through his system like the good ol’ days of romping through the wooded hills of Olympus. Unlike the humans who came to the gym to whip their bodies into shape, Pan’s earth-physique did not require sculpting or aerobics. If he ever packed a few extra pounds onto his frame, Pan would revert within a day or two to his “factory settings,” whether or not he lifted a finger or his heart rate in the interim. Not surprisingly, there had been stretches during his sojourn on earth where Pan had tested—if not abused—this predictable cycle with jags of overindulgence in food and drink and long absences from productive activity. While his body always bounced back, his state of mind wasn’t always as resilient. In the end, Pan worked out for the endorphin rush, whether that was to be found on the treadmill, under a barbell, or in the arms of one (or more, on a good day) of his fellow gym–goers.
“Pan. Pan! PAN!” The last repetition included the sharp snap of a towel against Pan’s arm.
“OW! Fuck!” Pan tugged on the soft wire hanging at his chest and the earbuds popped out. He swung his head to the left. “What?”
Pan’s annoyance changed to fright as he caught sight of Cupid’s pained expression and the hand clutching at his heart. Pan flailed across the handles and smacked the emergency button on Cupid’s treadmill but couldn’t stop his own before losing his stride.
“Get off!” Pan yelled, thrashing his arms and legs and fighting to right himself while somehow keeping an eye on Cupid. Mercifully, Pan found his balance, slapped the stop button, and rode the slowing belt to the rear of the machine. He hopped off and knelt by Cupid, now lying flat on his back.
“What is it, Q? Are you in pain?”
“It’s my heart.”
Pan tried to quell his terror, having realized too late he’d simply assumed Cupid’s earth-body operated on the same principles as his own. I will never forgive myself. He placed a soothing hand on Cupid’s shoulder. “I’m going for help. Keep breathing.”
Pan started to bolt, but Cupid yanked on his arm so hard the socket clicked. “Ow! Hey!” Pan protested, but the anxiety in Cupid’s eyes drew him up short.
“I don’t need that kind of help,” Cupid forced out through clenched jaws.
“Huh?”
Cupid rubbed harshly at his chest. “Someone just shot me.”
“What?” Pan, beyond perplexed, spun around to locate the smoking gun he surely would have heard.
Cupid grabbed a fistful of Pan’s shirt and tugged him so close, Pan could feel Cupid’s words on his nose. “I’ve been pierced by one of my gold-tipped arrows.”
“Fuck me.” Pan peered at Cupid’s chest for an arrow he knew damn well he wouldn’t see. An arrow launched from Cupid’s bow on the Mount would become imperceptible the moment it reached the Great Cloud. “Are you sure?”
Cupid stared up at Pan with a pained impatience. “If there’s one thing in this cosmos I know, it’s the sting of my arrows. There’s a distinctive humming noise. The heart vibrates at a high frequency inside the rib cage.”
Pan listened as hard as he could. “I don’t hear anything.”
Cupid rolled his eyes. “And I can’t tell a ram from a ewe in a dark forest. Do you really doubt me on this?”
Pan sighed heavily, wanting to believe his friend was not in cardiac arrest, yet his explanation made no sense. “To state the obvious here, I’m looking at the only guy alive who can shoot one of those gold-tipped arrows. So how could you have—?”
Of course. The truth hit Pan so hard, it knocked him onto his ass.
“Q, I need you to think really hard now. Do you remember anything else about that scene with your parents yesterday morning?”
Cupid’s mouth twisted into a grimace as he forced his mind back to their quarrel. “They argued. Mother cried. Father invoked Oedipus. Mother snapped back that maybe he had his own mommy issues to deal with. Father stormed off.”
“And?”
With a shrug, Cupid remembered the rest. “Just before she pushed me over the edge, Mother said, ‘Follow your heart, son.’”
Pan’s own heart filled with dread. “Motherfucker.”
12
Throbbing
If ignorance really could have offered Cupid bliss, he would gladly have run from his fate, but there was something absolutely unign
orable about a total assault on a vital organ.
“Would you care to elaborate on that profanity?”
No, Pan’s sad green eyes conveyed, I truly would not. Pan leaned back onto his palms and sighed heavily. In response to Cupid’s furrowed brow, Pan’s mouth flattened into a straight line.
Wow. Cupid couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend so morose, and they’d been in plenty of tough scrapes together. “By the gods, Pan, you are scaring me.”
“Sorry.” Pan sprang forward and met Cupid’s gaze. “Okay, from what I can understand, it appears your heart’s been booby-trapped by none other than the Goddess of Love. Whatever punishment she’s got cooked up for you seems to be centered right here.” Pan reached forward to tap Cupid’s chest. His fingertips recoiled as if they’d touched hot coals. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It doesn’t hurt on the outside. Just feels like the sons of Uranus are wrestling a herd of wild boars inside my chest.”
“Oh, is that all?” Pan attempted a smile, but only one side of his mouth lifted.
“So, this squeezing, pounding, crushing war going on inside my heart is my punishment?”
Pan shrugged. “You know how the gods love their poetic justice, so much the better when delivered with a heavy dose of irony.”
“Oh. Ha, ha, ha.” Cupid railed on, lifting his eyes toward Olympus. “Inflaming Cupid’s heart is ironic. I get it. Are we finished now?”
“How’s that working for you?” Pan’s calm voice interceded, a gentle but effective bridle to Cupid’s runaway jabbering.
“Still throbbing,” Cupid said in a defeated whisper.
“Is it very painful?”
Concentrating on his innards, Cupid pinpointed the sensation. “Not exactly. It’s more like an agitation, like I need to go do something, or maybe find someone.”
Pan opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again. Was Pan really going to start holding back now, of all times?
Cupid leveled his friend with a frustrated glare. “What?”
“Okay, thinking out loud here. Wouldn’t a victim pricked with your gold-tipped arrow fall in love with the first person he sees?” Pan’s gaze darted behind, above, all around Cupid—anywhere but meeting his friend’s eyes.
For one eternal moment, Cupid studied the man in front of him and allowed for the possibility that Pan might be the object of the invisible arrow. Setting judgment aside, Cupid studied his heart with renewed purpose, stared long and hard into Pan’s face, and concluded that the exact same feelings as before were present—deep, abiding friendship and an erotic curiosity they’d mutually agreed to repress.
“It’s not you,” Cupid said, sensing more than a twinge of disappointment on Pan’s part. Cupid bit back the apology Pan would have been furious to receive.
Pan’s cheeks puffed up as a long, heavy breath escaped. “Good. That could’ve been awkward.”
“No kidding. Moving on . . .”
“Right. The good news is your signal appears to be very clear. ‘Follow your heart’ is not usually a literal command. In your situation, though, it appears your heart was pre-programmed to guide you . . . like a compass, or what moderns would call a GPS.”
“What’s that?”
As Pan explained satellite signals bouncing from vehicle to sky and back again, Cupid’s face twisted with horror. “You’re saying I have one of these machines inside me?”
“Not exactly. What I think you have is more of a ‘Cardiac Positioning System’—a CPS, if you will.”
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.” Cupid pressed his fingertips more forcefully into his chest, offering all the support he could for his besieged organ.
Pan rubbed one hand down his thick beard, and Cupid braced for bad news. “Nope. You gave that up when you shot your last arrow. You’re here to learn a lesson, and I’m afraid you’re going to feel it right where you live, old buddy.” Truth be told, Cupid already suspected as much, but the confirmation of his worst fears didn’t stop him from flinching.
“Hey,” Pan said, “messing with the gods is risky business, and you went straight to the top. Your little prank pissed off no fewer than six Majors, and let’s face it, Ares has been waiting eons for an excuse to tan your hide. That said, we both know you hold a special place in Aphrodite’s heart. The sooner you accept your punishment and accomplish the mission, the sooner your ache will recede.”
Pan’s gentle cajoling was reassuring. Cupid wasn’t the first god to fall; in fact, almost all had already fallen at some point. Generally speaking, punished deities were returned to Olympus, and life on the Mount went on.
“Okay. Now what?”
“Now, my friend,” Pan answered, “we follow that signal.”
Drawing and releasing a deep breath, Cupid gave Pan the weary nod he seemed to have been waiting for, and his friend gave him one last encouraging squeeze.
“You’re gonna be okay, Q. I’ve got your back.” With that, Pan stood and offered Cupid a hand up.
Cupid moaned softly as his internal engine stirred with new life. Pan stepped aside to let him lead, following protectively at Cupid’s elbow, and he couldn’t remember ever being more grateful for their friendship. Heads lifted as Cupid passed, but he wasn’t interested in pursuing anything but his heart’s destination.
The pulsations increased and picked up intensity as the two chased the signal down the long corridor, past spinning cyclists following orders loudly barked over pounding music that reminded Cupid of the sex beat. Cupid mused briefly over the mortals’ love for abusive noises, while his own ears were calibrated to the gentle caresses of lutes and harps. Was it his imagination, or did he actually hear the tinkling of harp strings right now? The insistent beating of the rumbling buffalo stampede in his chest gave way to the airy tapping of a swarm of butterflies. Cupid bounced more than walked to the last door on the left, his palm rubbing furious circles over his chest. His head felt light, and a fine sheen of perspiration dampened his forehead.
Cupid thought he might vomit, but he’d never felt a more powerful urge in his life than the one now compelling him to open the door and discover whatever was waiting for him on the other side. He reached for the handle. Pan halted him with a tight grip on Cupid’s elbow.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I have no idea, but I have to go in there.”
After a vigilant once-over, Pan drew back his hands and gave Cupid a tight nod. “Good luck, man.”
13
Hot Yoga
A wall of heat slammed into Pan as Cupid opened the door to the dim studio. Hypnotic music provided a stark contrast to the hard-driving rock beat of the rest of the gym—not that Cupid was anywhere near relaxed. In fact, Pan couldn’t remember ever seeing him this keyed up. As Cupid followed the signal like a bloodhound on a fresh trail, Pan could only hope this story would somehow end up more Penelope-and-Odysseus than Orpheus-and-Eurydice.
“Oh my Zeus,” Cupid mumbled under his breath, then crossed quickly to the far corner of the room where the instructor crouched in front of the sound system.
Pan berated himself for failing to discuss with Cupid how he might approach the girl, but the time for intervention had passed; there was no stopping the God of Love now. Senses on full alert, Pan followed as closely as possible while attempting to blend his six-and-a-half-foot, red-bearded frame into the white, plaster wall. While not exactly built for stealth, Pan had noticed he’d become somewhat invisible since Cupid’s arrival on earth. He looked on helplessly as Cupid wrung his hands, bounced unproductively on his toes, and tugged his fingers through his hair. Fortunately, the cause of his distress—engrossed in her volume knobs and track selections—was entirely oblivious to the display.
Cupid’s impatience finally reached a peak, causing him to blurt out, “You’re the one.”
Pan angled his face toward the Mo
unt in private exasperation. Satisfied now?
The girl glanced up. Her forehead creased with confusion at first, but her expression cycled rapidly to delight. The gods meting out Cupid’s punishment had damn good taste in women, at least. Soft, brown hair framed a symmetrical, heart-shaped face that equaled the perfection of her body, which Pan could truly appreciate as she unfolded to her full height.
“I’m the one for what?” she asked, smiling at Cupid as if desperate to know every detail of him, inside and out. And how could Pan feel superior when Cupid had exactly the same effect on him?
“For me.”
Oh, to have the confidence of Cupid, Pan mused, though Cupid had simply answered her with complete honesty. She was the one for him, even if none of them understood what that meant quite yet.
A mere mortal might’ve earned a “fuck off” with such a cheesy pickup line, but not Cupid. The girl drank him in, Train Like a Boss tee and all. Her nipples pulled into sharp peaks, visible through her sweat-soaked top if one happened to be looking, and Pan sure as shit was. The scent of her arousal twined with Cupid’s in the oppressive, humid air and powered up Pan’s nostrils like an electric drill.
“You’re new here,” she said to Cupid.
“Yes. Just arrived yesterday.”
The mating dance played out before Pan’s eyes, as ancient as the constellations and as fresh as this pair meeting for the very first time. The sole of her bare foot slid up her calf to the edge of her black yoga pants, and her head tipped at a flirty angle. Cupid leaned in closer with every cell in his body. Pan couldn’t have said which of the two of them was more lost to desire.
“Ever done hot yoga before?” she asked.
“What?”
Pan laughed out loud and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. He would have wagered his worldly goods that Cupid had absolutely no idea he was standing in a yoga studio with at least a dozen other people who’d filed in for class, let alone that they were all melting like popsicles left out in the sun.
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