Chapter 2 Cupid
Cupid
I’ve been among mortals for thousands of years, off and on, and there’s one thing I’ve never been able to understand about humans.
They spent millennia figuring out how to make their lives as comfortable as possible—indoor plumbing, electricity, memory foam mattresses—yet they still insist on using metal bar stools that make your ass go numb within minutes.
I’m shifting in my seat at the bar, trying to get feeling back in both cheeks, when someone sidles up next to me, leaning in close to look at the cocktail menu.
I glance to my right and catch a glimpse of an absolute stunner of a woman.
Dark hair, pale skin, cherry red lips, the kind of curves that men used to fight wars over.
(And I would know; I’ve seen many of those wars up close and personally. Might have even caused a few of them.)
I weigh my options. On one hand, I could keep my mouth shut, sip my drink in silence, and not try to talk to her. But on the other hand…
I peek at her again. Yep, option one is not happening.
Besides, tonight I’m in town on business—business that’s being mysteriously kept secret from me—and who could blame me for indulging in some pleasure while I’m here, too? I’ve got time and a beautiful woman next to me.
“Sorry to bother you—” I say, turning to her with an easy smile.
“Then don’t,” she replies immediately, staring straight ahead.
That startles a laugh out of me. “Good one.” I raise my drink to her as a sign of acknowledgment and defeat. And at this, she does spare me a glance—and the tiniest lift of her lips—probably just happy to find out I’m not the kind of guy who’s going to cuss a woman out for rejecting me.
No, that’s not my style at all. In fact, I’m a sucker for a woman who wants to put me in my place. Which, of course, means I only want to break the ice more—but I need to play my cards right.
I don’t try to speak to her again as she orders and waits, but I do observe her from the corner of my eye.
She holds herself with her back straight and keeps an impassive expression the entire time.
Her whole vibe screams don’t fuck with me, from her blunt bangs to her dark red lips. Consider me intrigued.
When she grabs her drinks from the bar—two vodka sodas, extra lime—and turns to leave, I lift my chin. “It was nice not bothering you,” I say.
Incredibly, against all odds, she laughs at this—a throaty, sultry laugh that travels through me and settles in my lower spine. “Feel free to do it anytime.”
The full force of her smile hits me like a ton of bricks, and I’m a goner before she’s even walked away.
(I admit to staring just a little as she goes. You wouldn’t criticize a man for admiring a beautiful work of art, would you? That body is a work of art.)
I signal to the bartender that I’ll have another drink and make a plan to camp out here for a while. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a second chance.
When I twist in my stool—ass cheeks numb from lack of circulation—I scan the room to look for where the mystery bombshell ended up. I find her sitting at a table with her friend. She points toward the bar, and I catch both of them looking directly at me, laughing.
You know, I could take that as a bad sign, but I’m an optimist—it comes with the territory of being Cupid. I choose to believe it’s good-natured, that I must have charmed her in some way.
I tip my glass toward her, and she does the same with her drink, smiling big.
All I can think is: I need to talk to that woman again.
I wait patiently—until, finally, I get my chance. After nursing my drink and keeping an eye on the bombshell beauty, I notice her friend getting up from her seat. The friend grabs her purse, kisses the bombshell’s cheeks, and then she’s flitting through the crowd and out the door.
I jump up and cross the room lightning-quick. I’m not letting her out of my sight without aiming for a second impression.
As casually as I can manage, I slip into the now unoccupied chair.
“This time, I’m not sorry for bothering you,” I say.
She looks up from her phone, startled to see me—but tentatively amused. I take that as an invitation to continue.
“But you’ll ruin your streak,” she says after a beat.
“I’ll live.” I lean back in my seat and take a sip from my glass. “Besides, I can’t leave a beautiful woman sitting alone in here. There are sharks in the water,” I joke, motioning to the gaggles of similarly dressed men with bad haircuts surrounding us.
“Hmm.” She tilts her head to the side. “Last I checked, I could handle myself—especially among ‘sharks’.” She punctuates this last word with air quotes.
Then she says, “Speaking of sharks, why are you dressed like a gang member from West Side Story?”
We both look down at my outfit: leather jacket, white shirt, cuffed jeans, and leather boots. I run a hand over my hair and give it a pat. “You like it?”
“It’s certainly a choice,” she says.
I shrug. “Better than looking like every other guy in here, don’t you think? Maybe I like to stand out a little bit.”
Now it’s her turn to shrug.
“Bet you never have to worry about that, though. You’re probably the most gorgeous girl in every room you enter.”
Her mouth drops into a small O, and I beam, pleased with catching her off guard.
“What a fucking line.”
“Got more where that came from. I’ll share with the class if you let me buy you a drink.”
She narrows her eyes at me behind her cat-eye glasses, considering. “Fine.”
And that’s how I captured an audience with the most beautiful girl in the room.
I hustle to the bar and get two more drinks, peeking back every few seconds to make sure she isn’t going to ditch me. Her eyes stay on me, mouth twisted into a funny little pout every time I look back, but she doesn’t leave. Maybe—just maybe—she’s as curious about me as I am about her.
Could I be so lucky?
I slide a sweaty glass across the table, and she takes it. Then, quick as anything, she lifts her phone and snaps a picture of me. The bright flash of it nearly blinds me. “Aaugh, what are you doing!?”
“Taking your picture in case you try anything shady so the cops can find you and bring you to justice.”
“Smart chick,” I say with a grin.
“Don’t call me a chick.” She takes a swig of the drink I got her and immediately gags.
“What the hell is this?”
“You don’t like Long Island Iced Teas?”
“Ew, no—I’m not an Arizona housewife at an Applebee’s happy hour in the nineties,” she coughs before taking another sip.
“That’s so…specific.”
Her mouth twists into a scowl. “It does kind of grow on you, though.”
“Like me,” I say. Once again, she graces me with the full force of her gorgeous grin. Like the ice in our cocktails, she begins to melt.
We talk for what must be an hour, at least—jokes and conversation volleying back and forth between us as we try to make each other laugh.
Well, I know that I’m trying to make her laugh, but maybe she’s not as bent out of shape trying to impress me. Trying to impress me would be a waste of everyone’s time anyway, because I’m already enamored with her.
The place slowly begins to empty while the people who remain get louder and rowdier.
We point out people and try to guess what they’re talking about, or what they do for work, or what their names are.
If she’s right, about ninety percent of the men in the bar are named Brayden.
For a brief second, I remember that I don’t even know my mystery bombshell’s name yet—we skipped right past that banal exchange of information—but the thought leaves my brain as soon as it enters. I’m too absorbed in her.
I can tell that she’s still being aloof, keeping me at arm’s length. But she lets me stay, and I’ll take what I can get. That is, until she picks up her phone to check the time.
“Shit! I didn’t realize it’s so late. I gotta go,” she says.
I stand to join here before she can dash. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, we linger on the sidewalk for a moment. In my mind, I think we both want to stay in our bubble a bit longer—or maybe I’m reading into things. I tend to do that.
After a moment, she looks at me and huffs. “You shouldn’t smoke, you know,” she says, pointing at the object behind my ear. “It’s bad for you.”
I pull out the cigarette and hold it up between us. “Sometimes bad things are good for you,” I say with a wink. “Besides, this isn’t a real cigarette. It’s candy.”
She laughs. “Seriously? I haven’t seen candy cigarettes since I was a kid. Why do you even have those?”
“I like sweet things,” I say, putting the end in my mouth. “Don’t you?”
She closes the gap between us until she’s so close I could lean in—just slightly—and kiss her. But she makes the first move, slowly taking the other end of the candy cigarette in her mouth. My eyes go wide as she gently sucks the sugary stick, then lets go.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” she says in a whisper. Her face takes on a bluish glow when she glances at her phone and announces, “My ride is here.”
Before I can process those last four words, she’s already walking towards a small black sedan, leaving me dumbfounded with a candy cigarette sagging on my bottom lip.
“Wait,” I shout after her. “You never told me your name!”
“I know,” she calls over her shoulder.