Suddenly, her cell phone rang with the ringtone she’d set for Inaya: “Oh Mother,” by Christina Aguilera.
Phoebe leapt back as if her mother were in the room, watching. “It’s my mom,” she said, breathing heavily, the oxygen clearing her brain.
She couldn’t believe she had nearly kissed this guy, no matter how hot he was.
She slipped her phone out of her pocket and read the message.
Fired again. I’ll find another job soon.
Looks like we’ll be eating Spaghetti Loops for a while.
Sorry hon. Love you forever—Mom
Phoebe despised Spaghetti Loop months. They had had far too many of them lately. Poor Mom. Phoebe had to pitch in more.
“Okay, Archer, show me how, but I don’t want you to fix it for me.”
Cupid cocked his head and seemed to be observing her as if she were a zoo specimen.
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
His fingers flew over the keyboard. Phoebe watched every stroke. When he finally got to the source, Phoebe grinned. So easy. She should’ve figured it out. It was probably the stress getting to her. Archer got almost to the end and rebooted the computer. “Now you do it,” he said.
And she did.
CUPID SPENT THE NIGHT wandering restless and shirtless on Waikiki Beach. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he enjoy the crashing of the surf over his toes, the sweetness of his (fifth? sixth?) piña colada, the laughter of the teenagers huddled around their bonfires, sparks of red light flying to the heavens? They were all admiring his sculpted torso, after all.
He sucked in his abs, even though he knew he was already perfection. But as the sky brightened with the oncoming dawn, his toes shriveled, his teeth crunched on sand, and goose bumps prickled up his arms. These irksome aches and pains happened when a god took human form on earth. It would be a relief to be back on Mount Olympus, where no human frailties plagued him. He fantasized about his room in Aphrodite’s palace, where nubile nymphs rubbed lavender oil into his skin. He sighed. All he had to do was this one thing, and he’d be home.
Then guilt racked him. His throat closed in as he remembered Phoebe working so hard to solve the accounting problem yesterday. She made sure she understood exactly where she’d gone wrong. Maybe she could have done it herself after all?
After completing the first task, Phoebe spent hours planning the ad she’d shoot today. She reserved a studio from her university, found a photographer, wrote the copy, and cast a model.
How could this creature be a daughter of Hades? What a scoundrel that god was, betraying the sanctity of love itself by cheating on his devoted wife, then abandoning his lover and his own child?
Cupid had ethics. He was pretty sure. They must be in there somewhere. He reached inside his soul, caught a glimpse, and held on to a pink perfection of light. As he was pulling on this foreign beam, he tripped. The empty cocktail glass flew into the surf as he fell face-first into the wet sand. Gods, he loathed the gritty stuff.
Furious, he pushed himself up, sat on his heels, and fished around for what had caused him to trip. A shell. A stupid crab shell.
He picked it up, poised to throw it into the foamy sea, when it opened its little black crabby eyes and said, “What is it you think you’re doing, Love God?”
“Hades.” Cupid dropped the shell. It landed with a loud splat.
“Ouch.” Hades unbent one of his crabby legs. “Who else were you expecting?”
“Sebastian might’ve been nice. He sings.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. What do you want?”
“You did great work yesterday. The girl is on her way toward kissing her human.”
“She has a name; it’s Phoebe.”
Hades glared at Cupid, which was impressive, considering the beady black eyes had essentially one setting—beady. “Never mind that. What are you still doing here? Today she’s making the mattress movie. It will be such a success that there is no way our plan will fail.”
“First of all, it’s not ‘our plan.’ Second of all, it’s an ad, not a movie. And third, well, I’m sure Phoebe can handle this one all on her own.”
“It seems you’re sympathizing with her. I can’t have you betraying me. So as of now, you will not be able to tell anyone of our bargain. A simple spell of silence should do the trick.”
A lump lodged in Cupid’s throat. “Is a spell necessary?” He coughed.
“Afraid so. Now run along and be the star of the movie, ad, whatever it is.”
Cupid wanted to balk, but it might be nice to lie shirtless on a mattress all day with makeup people daubing him with cosmetics. He liked the idea of impressing Phoebe with his stunning physique. Cupid exhaled, trying to sound irritated by Hades’s suggestion. “Are you saying I’m so attractive that humans will want to buy these mattresses? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Hades snapped a claw at Cupid’s knee.
“Ouch.” He pulled the claw off his leg. Blood dribbled down his shin. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve marred this body. How can I shoot the ad now? I might as well give up and return to Olympus.”
“Baby.” Hades waved a claw, and the injury healed. Cupid’s knee returned to its original perfection.
“Look, Hades. I’m not sure about this plan. Your daughter—Phoebe, that is. She’s a cool girl. She’s honest and kind and selfless. You should reconsider.”
Why did he say this? He wanted to be with Phoebe today. But it didn’t feel right somehow to trick her into giving up her powers.
“Let me show you what will happen to you if you do not succeed, Love God.”
A lava lamp rocketed from the sky, landed with a smack on the wet sand, and righted itself. The oil inside shimmered, and a tableau appeared. It showed Cupid in high school, living in a dingy cabin with other teenagers, eating pastelike cafeteria food, and sitting through a mind-numbing lecture on iambic pentameter.
“Monster,” said Cupid.
“THIS PHOTO SHOOT is a disaster,” Phoebe muttered under her breath, digging her fingers into her temples, where a massive headache thrummed beneath the surface. The guy in charge of lighting electrocuted himself; the wrong catering tray arrived so the only things to eat were papaya spears and yogurt pretzels; the buff model, an Econ major from her Free Market Theory class, repeatedly fell off the stack of twenty mattresses. (Phoebe had decided to go with a “Princess and the Pea” vibe for the commercial.) But the worst part was that Weston Fitzgerald kept staring at her and winking—so distracting.
“Help,” cried Landen, tumbling from the mattresses. For the fourth time. Maybe he needs to stick to Econ? Or else someone was sabotaging her.
“Stop,” Phoebe yelled, then sighed. “Let’s take five.” Phoebe looked over her notes. There were still quite a few poses to get.
“Excuse me?” said Landen, limping over, cradling his wrist.
“Yes?”
“It’s my wrist.”
It looked a bit swollen. Phoebe squinted, cocked her head, and it looked slightly more normal.
“I think it’s sprained. I gotta go.”
“What? No. You can’t leave. I have to shoot this today, please. I have Advil. And bandages. And ice.” Even as Phoebe entreated him, she knew she wasn’t being compassionate. Her future wasn’t more important than his well-being. “Uh, feel better,” she said finally.
Landen grabbed a handful of yogurt pretzels with his good hand and departed. “Sorry, Phoebe. See ya round campus.”
Could this day get worse? She had the studio reserved for only another hour. How would she get a replacement?
“I can take his place,” said Weston, sauntering over from the black leather sofa and unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He cupped her chin in his hand. “Don’t worry, Fiona. I’ll save you.”
“Um . . . my name is Phoebe.”
“Phoebe. Fiona. What’s in a name? It’s the depth of your brown eyes. The deep mahogany of your tresses. The ruby shine of your
lips.”
“Do those lines actually work for you?” thundered a voice from behind Phoebe.
She spun, nearly tripping over her own feet.
“Must you creep up on people?” Phoebe said, righting herself. As she looked up at Archer, her jaw unhinged, and her cheeks inflamed.
“It’s a hobby of mine,” he said, prowling closer.
“Where’s your . . . uh . . . shirt . . .”
But Phoebe’s tongue felt loose and fat. Who could blame her? Bare-chested Archer had a twelve-pack, if that was even possible. His Hawaiian-print shorts were slung low across his hips. And his face: smooth and golden with a smile that turned her insides to liquid. A god sculpted in flesh.
“Who the hell are you?” spat Weston, a little vein ticking at his temple. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“This is Archer Calyx,” said Phoebe. “From the office.”
“I’ve never seen this . . . juiced-up gym rat before.”
Archer frowned and moved in so close to Weston that their pecs almost touched. “This kind of perfection does not come from artificial means,” he said through gritted teeth.
A light popped overhead and shattered. Tiny shards of glass rained on Weston’s head and embedded in his bare torso. Blood oozed from a hundred tiny cuts.
“Ouch,” cried Weston, hopping as he tried to brush the glass away, his feet crunching into the shards on the cement floor. All this jumping only succeeded in pushing the glass deeper into his skin. “Ouch, I said. Did anyone hear me?”
“Mortals,” muttered Archer.
“Excuse me?” said Phoebe.
“Wha—?” said Archer, spreading his arms in a pronouncement of innocence.
Phoebe shook her head at Mr. Hunky and Insane. “I’m sorry, Weston. Let me see,” said Phoebe, examining his chest.
“It burns! It burns!” Weston cried, wincing.
“You poor thing,” said Phoebe. She couldn’t even shoot a print ad without maiming half of Waikiki. “I have a first-aid kit. Let’s get you fixed up.”
Archer frowned. “Don’t you have a commercial to finish?”
Phoebe sighed. “Yes, but I can’t let him bleed.”
A gorgeous blonde floated through the door with tweezers and a low-cut nurse’s uniform. Could the school have sent her? The blonde winked at Archer, then turned her attention to Weston, who was raking his eyes over her. He smiled with approval and allowed himself to be escorted back to the couch.
“Friend of yours?” said Phoebe.
“I wouldn’t say friend,” said Archer, dusting his hands. “Guess I’m your man.” Miraculously, none of the glass had touched Archer.
Phoebe glanced at Weston and the nurse, then sighed. “All right; let’s shoot.”
“I love shooting things!” Archer chirped.
The crew took their places while Archer bounded up the ladder on the backside of the mattresses and reclined across the top. Phoebe sucked in a breath.
“Show-off,” snarked Weston.
“Jealous?” Archer smirked.
From that moment on, the shoot went perfectly. Even with no editing, the images were exquisite. Fifteen minutes after Archer climbed aboard the mattresses, they were done.
Archer sat atop the mattresses, dangling his feet and grinning. The nurse had removed the glass from Weston’s body. Someone had eaten all the papaya spears.
And that’s when it all fell apart.
CUPID REALIZED THAT AS A god, he should be above petty reprisals, but who was he fooling? Gods excelled at that. And what choice did he have? That Weston idiot wasn’t worthy of Phoebe. How quickly he turned his interest from Phoebe to Ani, the Anigrides river nymph Cupid had summoned to be the “nurse.”
Everything had been going swimmingly. Phoebe and the rest of the humans were duly impressed by his physique. That idiot Weston was cleverly sidelined with a broken light and a river nymph. The papaya spears were delicious and settled his human stomach after his night of piña colada debauchery.
Now that the shoot was complete, from his perch atop the mattresses, Cupid watched as Phoebe warmly thanked the crew for their help, giving each person a smile and a hug, then trotted over to where Weston was snuggling with Ani. The scrawny jerk had little Band-Aids decorated with tiny hearts stuck all over his chest. He looked like a plague victim, which cheered Cupid slightly. When Phoebe placed her hand on Weston’s shoulder, the look he gave her was infuriating. Cupid’s insides churned, and the papaya didn’t seem so benign.
“Your friend will live,” pronounced Ani.
Unfortunately.
“Thank you for taking such good care of Weston. My name’s Phoebe.” She held out her hand.
“Ani.”
They shook. Phoebe turned her attention to Weston, concern in those doll-like eyes. “Can I get you anything?”
Weston scooted away from Ani, took Phoebe’s hand in his, and kissed it. The rogue. Cupid’s blood roiled in his veins. His fingers flexed over his invisible bow and quiver of arrows. Too bad they only caused unyielding love and not death. Yet everyone knew the pain of love could be worse than death. This gave Cupid solace.
“There is something you can do for me,” said Weston. Cupid glared at him. “Um, could you maybe go get a yogurt pretzel with me?”
“Sure.” Phoebe allowed him to lead her to the food table.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? Celebrate your success with the second test.”
In his head, Cupid recited the lines from his favorite Cupid-centric Hallmark Valentine cards to calm himself. Usually this did the trick, but not today. He wanted to visit his wrath upon Weston.
Somehow Ani noticed his displeasure. Maybe she noticed the steam literally wafting out of his ears. She activated her considerable nymphly charms, unfastened one more button on her nurse’s uniform, and joined Weston and Phoebe for pretzels.
Ani managed to draw Weston from Phoebe. Cupid had a clear shot. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Hades would be furious if he shot Weston and made him fall in love with a nymph. But at the moment, Cupid didn’t care. He wrested an invisible arrow from the quiver, nocked it into his bow, and shot Weston—a bull’s-eye straight through his heart.
“Ouch,” said Weston for the thirty millionth time today, the whiner. He clutched his heart and fell to the floor, where he landed on the glass shards that hadn’t already ended up in his torso. Before Cupid could stop her, Phoebe leapt toward Weston, who looked up at her. His eyes rolled back, and as he collapsed, he breathed the words, “Phoebe, my love.”
THE NEXT DAY, Phoebe chewed her pinkie, her mind racing, as Inaya pulled the Spider into the Bull’s-Eye Mattress showroom parking lot at five to eleven. The final test was to take place when no one would be in the building, even the cleaning crew. But what was the test? Phoebe knew it had something to do with quality control, and this worried her. She was a business major, not a mattress major. What did she know about mattress quality? Every mattress in the store looked a thousand times more comfortable than her lumpy foldout sofa bed.
“You’ll do great,” said Inaya, kissing Phoebe’s head. “I’ll be back at midnight. I have a place picked out to celebrate. My baby is going to be old enough to drink.”
“Mom, we should save that money for rent or food. I might not get the job.”
“You will get the job. And my daughter only turns twenty-one once.”
“Bye, Mom. I love you.” Phoebe pushed open the heavy glass door at the entrance to the showroom.
All the chandeliers were lit, casting a dappled glow over the sea of mattresses. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, both in red jackets—his Members Only, hers probably Chanel—beamed at her as they exited the elevator.
“You’re right on time,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Welcome, Phoebe.” Mr. Fitzgerald nodded his bald head.
“Good to be here, and thanks for the opportunity.”
“We’re impressed with everything you’ve done so far,” sai
d Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Thanks.”
“As you know”—Mrs. Fitzgerald smoothed her hair—“Bull’s-Eye Mattresses are known for their impeccable quality. We have a twenty-year guarantee. We use only the finest materials. Each mattress is handmade by experts. Every mattress that leaves our store must be perfect.” She cleared her throat and glanced at her husband.
“I understand.” Phoebe knew all this, having done her research. It was as if Mrs. Fitzgerald was delaying. Perhaps there was something about the test or the job she didn’t want Phoebe to know.
“Excellent. So, the test is simple. Starting at eleven p.m., you’ll have one hour to find the one mattress in the showroom that has a flaw.” She pointed to a large digital clock mounted next to a window, which Phoebe knew was the Fitzgeralds’ office. The numbers clicked from 10:57 to 10:58.
She heard a bumping sound coming from the office. “Um, how is Weston?” She looked up at the window.
Mrs. Fitzgerald flashed a glance at the office and fiddled with her pearl necklace. “He’s fine. No cause for alarm. We’ll be watching from upstairs. Good luck.” They called the elevator.
“How will I know when I’ve found the faulty mattress?”
“You’ll know,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. The doors closed as the digital clock clicked over to 11:00.
AFTER FORTY MINUTES of lying on each mattress, starting with the twins in the children’s department, making her way through the fulls, and now the queens, Phoebe had found only bed after bed of feathery perfection.
She wished Archer would show up, point to the errant mattress, remove his shirt, lie down, and invite her over for a smooch. Wait. What was she thinking? She absolutely didn’t want Archer to save her, take off his shirt, or kiss her. Good thing he wasn’t here rescuing her like she was some weak maiden in need of a knight.
“Did someone mention a knight?” Archer plopped across a king mattress, shirtless.
“I know I didn’t say that out loud.” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at the office window.
Once Upon Now Page 8
