“You practically shoved his face in your tits,” I say. Jealousy is not an emotion I’m used to, and I can’t say I enjoy it. It’s not bringing out the best in me.
Felicity looks at me with fire in her eyes. “Who cares if I did?” she asks, a challenge in her voice. “I could have gotten down on my knees and sucked him off right beside this stupid car, and it wouldn’t have been any of your business,” she continues, “because it’s my decision.”
And now, stupidly, I’m picturing exactly what she just described, and I can’t dwell on it because if I do, I’ll get turned on all over again. I shift in the seat, shoving my hands under my elbows as I stare ahead.
“Whatever,” I reply. “And it’s not a stupid car,” I mumble under my breath.
Ignoring me, Felicity turns the key in the ignition, puts the car in gear, and steers us back onto the road.
“I’m driving the rest of the way,” she says with finality.
I don’t argue.
10
Felicity
This may be speaking too soon, but I think I’m safe from losing this bet with Cupid.
I smile to myself when I remember how confident Cupid was that his arrow would change my mind. It’s been hours under his love spell, and my life hasn’t been improved by it. In fact, it’s only caused more chaos—and I hate chaos. So, to say the arrow is changing my mind would be a massive lie.
Cupid is huffy in the passenger seat, I’m keyed up and my body is still buzzing from my totally inappropriate dream, and you could cut the tension between us with a knife.
If this is love, it’s miserable. Which seems about right to me.
I amsogoing to beat Cupid at his own game.
After another two hours of driving—in complete silence, save the sounds of traffic—I need to pee, chug caffeine, and eat. In that order. When I see a sign for a fast food place, I make the executive decision that we need burgers and fries, stat. In my experience, any off day can be made at least slightly better with the help of greasy food. This day has been very, very off.
I pull off the highway and into a dingy parking lot. Cupidreneges on his silent treatment long enough for me to take his order—even a god can’t refuse fries and a milkshake. As I go inside and take care of business, I dimly wonder if gods even have to eat and use the bathroom like us mere mortals. The question is too slippery and strange to linger on. Maybe I’ll ask Cupid later…or maybe I won’t.
I put in our orders—burger and fries for me, and some triple cheesy meaty monstrosity for him—and wait at a table looking out into the parking lot. With my hand on my chin, I let my gaze settle on the back of Cupid’s head, inky black hair shining in the afternoon sun.
What a strange day this has been. Strange and maybe even a little…fun?
Well, not fun, exactly—but different. Perhaps even enjoyable in its own unique way. Like I’ve been pulled, kicking and screaming, out of a rut that consisted of work, more work, and even more work. In the back of my mind, I know I’ve been stuck in a work quagmire of my own making, fueled by a mix of bitterness and the need to prove something to someone from my past.Someone we’re not going to think about right now.
Besides, despite the way Cupid and I have been thrown together, despite the squabbling…there is a part of me that feels totally at ease with everything that’s happened. At ease with him. It’s been some time since I’ve spent time with a guy I could be wholly myself with—spiky bits included.
Hearing my name called from the counter brings me back to the present. Blinking, I tear my eyes from Cupid’s form and grab my order.
When I get back to the car, more refreshed and replete with bags of salty, wholly unhealthy food and sugary drinks, Cupid is fiddling with the radio knobs. I hold out the paper bag justas he lands on a station—crackly but audible—playing some twangy song I don’t recognize.
We rip into our bags and eat in near silence, the fuzzy radio acting as background music. I’m mid-burger when I realize the radio is playing without the car even being on. I look at Cupid askance, once again processing that this man who looks so normal—despite the James Dean cosplay—is not human.
“I love this song,” he says, reaching for the dial and cranking it up.
A man croons over the airwaves, something slow and forlorn about falling in love and fools rushing in. Cupid hums along tunelessly, hand on heart, eyes closed.
I shove a fry into my mouth. “Whatisthis?” I ask.
Cupid rears back. “What do you mean,what is this? This is one of the greatest love songs of all time.”
I take a sip from my straw, blankly.
“Sung by The King himself.”
My hands lift, palms up, punctuating my question.
