Signs of Cupidity (Heart Hassle Book 1)
Signs of Cupidity: Chapter 1

“Hey there, gorgeous. Did you sit on a pile of sugar? Because you have a sweet ass,” the guy says, leaning an elbow on the bar beside the girl wearing a skin-tight dress. His eyes glide up and down her body like he’s ready to enter an eye-fucking contest. The woman turns around from her bar stool and flashes him a grin.

I roll my eyes and sigh at her. “Really? That’s going to work on you? That’s just sad,” I mumble. “Don’t fall for it, girl. He’s an asshole, trust me. ”

I’m sitting right next to her, but she doesn’t hear me. Well, I’m not really sitting next to her. It’s more like I’m hovering over the empty barstool. Because I’m not really physically here.

Although, I’m still here enough to be utterly annoyed when the woman gets to her feet and leads Mr. Terrible-Pick-Up-Line to the dance floor. They don’t really dance, if I’m being honest. They just sort of rub against each other and hop around. There’s a lot of ass holding, too. This one’s an ass man for sure. And yeah, okay, he looks like he’s an excellent ass handler, but that’s not the point. The point is, I was just here last night, and this same Mr. Terrible-Pick-Up-Line was grinding on somebody else’s ass, using equally awful pick up lines. It’s just not right.

“Why does this always happen?” I ask aloud to the crowd. No one answers me. No one has answered me in decades. I guess it’s not their fault, since they can’t actually hear or see me, but that doesn’t stop me from glaring at everyone.

“You guys should really be better than this,” I say, focusing my lecture on the barman. “I mean as a species. Can’t you evolve to be better at love? Because this is exhausting. And disheartening. And other words I can’t even think of right now,” I say.

The barman continues pouring drinks and ignores me. I wish I could have a drink. I put my hand in front of the glass as he slides it down the bar to someone else. It goes right through me like always.

I lift a hand to scratch the itch I feel on the back of my arm. It’s just instinct to try and scratch. But of course, my hand goes right through my arm without touching it.

“Dammit!” I say through gritted teeth. “Five decades of this phantom itch!”

I try to slam my hand down on the bar in frustration, but it also passes right through. I can’t even throw a satisfactory hissy fit. I’d love to really punch or kick something. Then eat and drink something. And then scratch this itch that has been plaguing me for so long. I must’ve died right when this damn itch cropped up on my arm, and then never got the chance to satisfy it.

“You have no idea how annoying this is,” I whine to the person beside me as I continue trying to touch my arm. The man takes a drink and ignores me. “Lucky bastard,” I say, eyeing him as he drains his glass.

I glance over my shoulder to look at my red wings. I wish I could touch these bad boys, too. My feathers look so soft and the color is so vibrant, even in this dark bar. My wings are one of the perks of being what I am. Also the pink hair. I like my pink hair. I have no idea what my face looks like or what color my eyes are, since I don’t have a reflection. I’m kind of like a ghost like that. But I’m not a ghost, because they’re a drag, and I’m actually pretty fun.

I guess it’s not important what I look like, since no one can see me, anyway. But at least I like my silver dress. It kind of shimmers over my pale form, and if I could look in a mirror, I think it would probably look pretty damn good on me, too, hugging my curves as it does. It makes me feel better to be dressed nicely, even if no one can see me. At least I’m not wearing something embarrassing like dirty sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Or a Halloween costume. Or workout gear from the 80s. Or a stripper getup. On second thought…those might be pretty fun.

I wonder if ghosts think of things like this? I can’t ask one, because they’re terrible company. Not that I haven’t tried. The thing about ghosts is that they’re really confused. They don’t really know where or who they are, so they just kind of sulk and float around in a daze. It’s like they get afterlife dementia or something. They mope around, completely bewildered as they mumble to themselves. If you try to strike up conversation with them, they trail off after only a few seconds and forget what you were talking about. Not great conversationalists.

Ghosts are clumsy, too. They’re always running into things, sometimes with enough juice to actually move something in the physical plane. The wilder ones often fly around in a frenzy until they get sucked into the plumbing pipes or electrical sockets. Knocking pipes and flickering lights? Yep, just another confused ghost. So yeah, ghosts do me no good.

Besides the loneliness, it’s also boring being invisible. I’m stuck in the Veil, where I can see the physical world, but I’m not really a part of it. I’m an invisible observer, because I am here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to spread love and desire.

Someone walks forward and sits down on my barstool, their body going right through my lap. “Rude,” I say with a huff.

I jump off the barstool and fly across the bar, floating right through people as I go. They don’t know the difference, so I don’t feel bad about invading their personal space at all.

I pick a spot against the wall and hover-lean against it as I watch the dance floor, utterly annoyed. These humans are so disappointing sometimes. Many times. Nearly all the times. Where’s the loyalty? Where’s the love? Where’s the romance? Or, to be more honest about where my bitterness really lies, where’s mine?

See, this is what I get. When I died, I was this innocent, naïve, hopelessly romantic girl. So when the angels asked me what job I wanted to take up in the afterlife, I chose to become a cupid.

Stupid fucking cupid.

I thought it was going to be awesome. What better job for a romantic than to help bloom other budding romances around the world and coaxing them into love? Who wouldn’t like to give a good Lust-Breath to some crazy kids looking for a nice tumble? Sign me up, right?

Well it was nice for the first decade or two. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that this job has a lose-lose scenario for me. Lose Scenario #1: I go to all this trouble of singling someone out, following him or her around and replaceing a compatible match. Then I help coax their relationship along. You know, some Flirt-Touches here, some Lust-Breaths there, and then bang: the Love Arrow. I think, job well done, right? Wrong. One of them ends up doing something stupid and ruins everything. Maybe not right away, but eventually. They get selfish. They get lazy. They get bored. They cheat. They lie. They fall out of love. So, lose.

Then there’s Lose Scenario #2: I do all of that and it succeeds. They fall in love and then stay in love. My small pushes along the way helps solidify their connection. Sounds like a win, doesn’t it? I thought so, too, for a long time. But guess what happens to a hopeless romantic cupid watching as these couples love and lust and live? That’s right. Just call me Pining Cupid. Or Super Jealous Cupid. Or Bitter Cupid.

I failed to realize when I signed up for this job just how painful it would be to my own non-corporeal heart. My couples either fail miserably and break the love I worked so hard on, or they succeed, and I’m left alone with no hope for myself of ever getting love or getting laid.

Like I said. Stupid fucking cupid.

Mr. Terrible-Pick-Up-Line and his new girl are leaving out the back already. They barely made it through two songs. They certainly didn’t need any of my Lust-Breaths to help them along. Not that I would give it to them anyway. I’m still pissed as hell that he was here again picking someone up new. It’s just greedy.

I push off the wall and fly out the door to go outside. The sidewalk is busy with people waiting to go inside, but I ignore them and fly down the street. Bars, clubs, restaurants, parks, gyms, offices—I go everywhere.

I’ve been flying around this human realm for so long now, setting people up for love, getting them some great sex, encouraging romantic acts, fueling affection. It’s the loneliest job imaginable.

I’m hurt about Mr. Terrible-Pick-Up-Line. Probably more than I should be, if I’m being honest. When I saw him last night with that other girl, I thought I was witnessing one of those rare love-at-first-sight kinds of scenarios. He slid in and made his moves and I barely had to use my magic for any encouragement at all. I could feel the chemistry spark between them. I’d followed them back to his place just because their desire was that palpable. It drew me in.

It was sexy and exciting and yes, even romantic. Everything I crave. But it was all for show, apparently. All those lines he used, all those whispered promises groaned above her, and he hadn’t even meant any of it. It pisses me off. If he wanted a one-night stand, he should’ve just been honest about it. I don’t need to track the girl down to know he’s blown her off. I should probably track her down anyway and try to help her move on, but I just can’t do it. I don’t have it in me.

See? I shouldn’t be a cupid. This job has really run me down. There’s not even a retirement plan. This job? It’s for life. Or second life, anyway.

If I did the whole stress-aging thing, I’d have too many wrinkles to count. I’d look like one of those sheets that get tangled up in the dryer and when you finally unravel it, it has about a million creases in it. I’d have a head full of gray hair, too. But, now that I think about it, I could probably rock gray hair. Gray hair could be pretty awesome looking with my red wings. Maybe second place to my pink hair, anyway.

As I fly down the street, I point an accusatory finger in people’s unaware faces. “No Lust for you,” I tell one drunk guy before moving on to another. “No Love Arrows for you,” I say to a girl. “And nothing for you, either,” I add to someone else. “Nothing for any of you!” I yell at the sidewalk full of people. “You guys seriously disrespect the name of love.” I cross my arms to stop myself from pointing at more faces and then nod to myself as they all walk humbly by. “That’s right. Keep walking. This cupid is done pandering to your needs.”

Because what about my needs, right? Right.

When I fly by a theater and hear music, I decide to go inside. The audience sits in high-backed chairs as they watch a couple singing on the stage. The lighting is low, the music soft. It’s the perfect recipe for romance stew, and I’m the only one left without a spoon. Or a bowl. Or tangible hands.

I stop flying down the aisle when I spot a guy on an end seat. He’s dressed nicely and is splitting his attention between the singers on stage and the woman beside him. He’s handsome, and when he reaches over and places his hand gently on the woman’s leg, I sigh. I don’t remember what it feels like to be touched. I don’t even remember what my old life was before I became this. Hell, I don’t even remember my name.

Since becoming a cupid, all I have is my assigned number. It’s marked on the inside of my right arm, right below the wrist. It looks like a silvery-white tattoo, and shows the Roman Numerals for one thousand and fifty: ML. I do, however, have a pretty sweet set of bow and arrows that reside in the quiver slung over my back. They hold my most powerful tool: Love Arrows. I can’t deny the rush I get when I shoot someone with one of those bad boys. I have perfect aim, too. When I first started out, my aim was terrible. But I’ve had plenty of target practice since then, and probably thousands of misplaced romances because of it, but oh well.

The second my arrow hits someone, it bursts in a cloud of color before disappearing. It’s all different colors—depending on the person. The arrow pushes the person’s like right into love. Of course, just like my Lust-Breaths, there has to already be some sort of connection there. It’s not like I can force love or desire. I just help it along. Think of me as the gardener. I don’t make the seed, I just tend it to help it take root and sprout.

Inside the theater, I settle myself down on the floor beside his chair and listen to the singers as they croon to each other. It’s a sappy love song, and my cupid-senses are tingling with the need to throw out some Flirt-Touches and Lust-Breaths until the room explodes into one giant orgy. Yes, I’ve done that before. Don’t judge. They’re fun to watch. There’s nothing quite like passing the time in the middle of an orgy. So many hands and tongues and other bits just sliding around like a carousel. Besides, since my powers only work if there’s already some desire and want there already, it’s not really wrong. The ones that don’t wish to partake usually get out of there real quick like. I don’t interfere with free will. I just give them a push. But no, no pushing tonight. I’m mad at all of humankind with their stupid physical bodies and their stupid voices that can be heard.

Using my wings, I pick myself up and float out of the theater again into the night. My wings are really the only things I like about my job anymore. Well, besides the Love Arrows. Those things are downright fun to shoot. But I haven’t used one in years. Why should I hand out love left and right when I can’t get any for myself? I know, I know. I’m petty like that. But seriously, the angels should’ve given me a heads up or thrown a Cupid Orientation or something before letting me take the job. I blame them for their oversight.

I meander around the streets, blowing a few Lust-Breaths in people’s faces as I go along, just because. I don’t even wait to replace people with a connection like I’m supposed to. Nope, I just fly by and blast people. I like watching them get all hot and bothered. Usually they replace someplace to be very quickly, to either take care of business themselves or to replace someone to do it with them. But sometimes, if I gave them an extra-strong dose, I get to see them make a complete ass of themselves as they sidle up and make a move on someone nearby. My favorite is when it’s a stranger. Then I get to enjoy them getting told off or beat up. Once, I Lusted this huge MMA fighter looking dude and practically jumped this poor accountant as he came strolling out of his office. I thought he was going to suffocate the poor guy. It was hilarious.

As I continue to fly, I spot a group of teenagers and zero in on the third wheel. He’s a pimply-faced guy made of all limbs, his elbows and knees jutting out like doorknobs. It’s so clear that he’s the pity friend, that my heart kind of hurts for him. There’s a suave-looking bad boy with his arm slung over the girl that walks between them. He has a cigarette illegally perched in his too-young mouth to really round out his whole leather jacket, too-cool-for-school look. The girl looks up at him adoringly even as he blatantly checks out other girl’s asses and blows cigarette smoke in her face. The third wheel looks on, hands in his pockets, unrequited love in his eyes as he watches her.

Why should the good guy lose out? So he’s a little awkward looking. So what? I’m sure he’d treat the girl way better than this other joker. Plus, I’m sick of the cocky jackasses tonight. I’m already feeling frisky because of earlier, so just as the cocky jackass in question turns yet again to stare at another girl that walks by (and actually gives her a wink) I lose it. I hit him with a Love Arrow so quick that he stumbles right there on the sidewalk like he ran into a pole. The James Dean poseur immediately ditches the girl he’s with and runs after the other one. His girl, or rather, ex-girl now, screams his name (which is Brad, because of course he has a name like that) and then she bursts into tears when leather-jacket-Brad sticks his tongue down the other girl’s throat. Whew. I always forget how fast teen love settles in. It’s like normal love, except it’s on hyper-drive. They can’t help it. Their hormones overpower their brain cells.

Brad continues to feel up his newfound love while his poor forgotten ex watches from the sidelines, now clutching onto Mr. Lanky Third Wheel. He can barely contain his grin as he comforts her and leads her away. I swipe a nice Flirt-Touch across each of them as they walk by me. That should set things in motion nicely.

“Ha. Plot Twist,” I say, pleased with myself. “For all the friend-zoned nice guys out there!” I call out to their retreating backs. “You’re welcome!”

I nod and decide that I’ll just go around screwing up more predictable toxic pairings and give a leg-up to third wheels everywhere. It’ll be great fun to shake things up a bit. Almost like the year of ’91 when I made an entire town fall in love with themselves. It didn’t last long, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy to do, but man, just watching the dates they took themselves on made it worth it. Entire restaurants full of singles, staring daggers at anyone that walked by, treating themselves to whatever they wanted. Vibrator sales went through the roof.

I chuckle darkly to myself, and just when I’m about to break up another trio of unbalanced proportions consisting of a nerdy girl looking longingly at the oblivious guy, the unbelievable happens: I feel the tug.

Uh oh.

Before I can blink, I’m yanked out of the human realm and thrown into Cupidville. And there’s only one reason I’d be yanked back there.

Yep. I’m in trouble.