Can't Fix Cupid

“Shit,” I grumble. I slump back, disappointed. “Sorry, Knight. Looks like you’re on your own.”

He finishes as soon as the words leave my lips, his cum shooting out, splattering onto the floor and washing away immediately. He strokes himself two more times for good luck, and then finally drops his hold, sighing slightly.

“I know, man. Imagine how much better that would’ve been if you hadn’t been such a jerk and had taken that lovely date of yours home. It could’ve been her hands on your dick. Or better yet, her vagina. You missed out on lovely vagina, Knight,” I tell him. “Not that I saw her vagina, but let’s be real here, we both know it would’ve been a great one. She probably waxes. She seems like the type.”

He washes his hands and then rinses, turning the shower off as soon as he’s done. He grabs a white towel and dries off, draping it around his hips as he walks out to his bedroom. He puts on a pair of boxers and gets into bed, but instead of going to sleep, he drags out his laptop from the nightstand and starts typing away.

I get into bed with him, watching as he answers work emails and does a whole bunch of other things that I get too bored to pay much attention to. The dude is a real workaholic, and he has his hands dipped into several things. I hear him talking about it all the time. Real estate, internet start-ups, his men’s fashion line, restaurants, stocks, production companies, you name it.

“You should rest, Knight. You don’t sleep enough,” I tell him.

I hover over the blankets next to him, running my translucent hand over his arm. There are circles under his eyes to prove my point. Most nights, when I’m able to slip away from my partner and come watch him, he stays up way too late and then gets up way too early. All he does is work and sabotage his own love life. Nothing fun. Like I said, he’s the worst bachelor ever.

He doesn’t even have a proper bachelor pad. This place is all luxury, without a single sock left on the floor or dish in the sink. He doesn’t have a maid who picks up after him, either. I know, because one time a work associate of his was razzing him about being too uptight to even let someone else dust his shelves.

I lounge next to him, enjoying his presence, wishing I could have a body just so I could fall asleep with him.

“What am I gonna do with you, Knight?” I ask on a sigh. “Your shoulders look tense. You know, if you had a love of your life, she could be sweetly rubbing them for you right now. Relaxing you. Getting you to actually sleep for a change.”

Click. Click. Click. He continues typing away.

I try to glide a Flirt Touch over his toned bicep, but I get weird gray sparks as a result.

“Dammit,” I say, blowing out a frustrated breath. I look up at the ceiling in a silent plea. “What the hell am I doing wrong? I’m a cupid who can’t do cupid shit!” I yell angrily at the Veil.

I don’t want to be a broken cupid. I want to be able to do all the things that my partner can.

“I just wanna make one damn Love Match all on my own. Is that too much to ask? Can you throw me a fricken bone here?” I demand to the nothingness around me. “Help me out!” I finish, my voice slightly hysterical. “Do something!”

I really should know better than to declare challenges into the Veil like that.

Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel a tug. Like a bait hook digging under my skin, right at my cupid mark on the inside of my wrist.

Dread and panic fill me. “Mother fuc—”

I’m yanked right out of the Veil before the curse can clamber off my incorporeal lips.

Guess I’m getting called back to Cupidville.

Chapter 3

You’d think that the afterlife would be peaceful, right? That after all your hard work and effort during life, you’d get a bit of a break? Well, you’d be wrong.

The afterlife is a well-oiled machine, and everyone has their purpose. Angels, demons, cupids, and lesser Ve

il entities—we all have a job to do, and our headquarters inside the Veil ensure that we’re all doing our part to turn the wheels and shift the gears.

Of course, I get spat out right into the cupid cog.

I pop into existence inside the Cupidville waiting room. Shaking off the terrible yanking sensation of getting sucked through space and time, I look around and see a few dozen other cupids around, their translucent bodies standing in lines, hovering over seats, and looking at the motivational love posters hanging on the wall. One of the posters has a huge red heart on it and says, “Meet your Love quota and earn an extra vacation day!”

I’d fricken love to earn an extra vacation day, but unless my powers suddenly start working, that’s just not in the cards for me. Trust me, I asked one of the karmas before. She cackled at me. Cackled. Then she shifted back into her dog form and barked until I floated away. Such a bitch.

Cupid numbers are flashing high on the wall of the reception area, calling cupids forward to where several of the higher-ups are sitting behind glass windows in their semi-corporeal forms. The higher-ups can do things like pick up papers, but they aren’t totally solid like the supervisors. Solidness is only available to us lower cupids during vacation days and holidays, and even that’s a new work perk.

I decide to hover over one of the hot pink seats in the waiting area rather than stand in line. Lines make me antsy. I can sit for hours, but make me stand in a line for five minutes, and I’m ready to stab someone in the eye with a Love Arrow. I’d make sure to stab the person in front of me, though. I’m not an idiot. One less person to wait behind.

I don’t wait for very long before my cupid number, XXX—the one that matches the Roman numerals on the inside of my left wrist—is flashing up on the wall in bright red numbers. I fly over to the reception area and am greeted by a male cupid behind the glass who’s about two feet tall with a nose as long as his arm. Must’ve been a gnome in his first life.