Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 16- Callie

Cupid's hand works its way around the back of his neck, massaging the skin and ruffling his thick mane of auburn waves. His earthen eyes crinkle as he looks between me and the ceiling as if the blank surface holds all the answers. I feel kind of guilty for putting him on the spot, but he was my only option. 

God intimidates me. His eyes stare at me as if he can see all my secrets, even with me telling them only in the vaguest of terms. Rave has made it abundantly clear he'd rather me anywhere but here and Pretty Boy, Pretty Boy makes himself impossible to read. What I at first thought was casual confidence, seems more like a mask. Relaxed in the bunker it's easy to see. He's never relaxed. He just stops pretending. It's easy to see why Cupid and him get along. Cupid's mask is his confidence, but this slightly nervous version makes it easier to not feel like a failure for not being able to hold on to the strong Callie I've been desperately trying to become. Fake it till you make it and all that.

I'm not even tired, not really. It's probably only mid-afternoon or early evening at most. But Cupid's bed is soft enough that a nap does sound nice, especially after gorging myself on God's cooking. Stretching out on my back, arms wide I take a moment to really take stock of my life. In the big scheme of things, there's nothing waiting for me outside of this bunker.

Aunt Rachel would be absolutely wrecked, but I feel as if I'm living for her. She's the strongest, wildest woman I know. Her muscular dystrophy is the only thing holding her back and just barely. Before her legs could no longer reliably hold her up for long stretches of time, she was always off on one adventure after the other. Her love of hikes and camping under the stars never rubbed off on me, but the time spent together was always worth the mosquito bites and blistered feet. As long as she knew I was safe, I think she would be my most ardent supporter to seize my own adventure. Finding myself in an old bunker almost certainly qualifies. Add in the current occupants and she would send me off with a pocket knife and a box of condoms with a wink.

Nicole is my best friend, but only so far. It's impossible to truly be close to someone who only knows half of your life. As far as she knows, I've never had a serious boyfriend and spend all of my free time with Rachel and trashy reality tv. I wish. My life would've been completely different had Colt never pulled up in his mud coated, red F-150.

"I'll see what I can do, but don't get your hopes up Callie girl."

I don't want to examine why him calling me Callie girl eases the sting of a likely no. Nope. That's for my therapist to handle as soon as this is all over. I'll handle it like I handle everything else, with a blanket wrapped around me while I sit on my couch with a bottle of cheap wine and yell at people on dating shows to get their lives together unlike me.

A groan escapes my throat. I've got to do better. I'll probably have to start going to the gym. Everyone with their lives right goes to the gym. That might be a step too far. On second thought, who really has their lives together? We're all struggling, some more than others. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, so I'm already well on my way to progress.

Cupid flops beside me and the sharp dip of the bed and the warm press of his skin is enough to jolt me out of my self-pity. Crinkling follows as he bends over as rummages around the side of the bed. "Fruit snacks?"

I numbly take them out of his hands and open them on auto pilot. Only psychopaths turn down free fruit snacks. "Thanks."

"Figured you needed them. You get these really big eyes right before you freak out. At least you have the past two times. Plus, everyone likes fruit snacks."

He turns to me with a smile pulling at the left side of his mouth and his eyes crinkling the corners. My own smile is pulled to answer his; it's contagious. The silence between us, punctuated only by the sound of the crinkling bags is peaceful. I feel I could ask anything and he would at least be honest with me, even if he couldn't give me an answer.

"So how did you get the name Cupid? Are you an infamous playboy in your spare time? You know, when you're not robbing banks."

Underneath his naturally tan skin, a hint of a blush brushes his cheeks and his hand ruffles his hair again in that nervous way I'm starting to notice he does a lot. "I wish," he mutters under his breath.

I find that hard to believe. Forget that he's gorgeous, although you'd have to be blind to miss it, he is such a sweetheart.

"Nothing like that," he says, reaching for another snack. Our fingers brush and I meet his eyes. His eyelashes are so long and full that I can't help but stare. The corners of his lips raise slightly and his eyes dart away. "Used to have a terrible problem around pretty girls."

"Oh, and what's that? Couldn't fight them all off?" I say airily.

"There was no shortage of women interested, but they tended to flee the moment I stared talking. Turns out most women aren't interested in the difference between Tokyo Revengers version of time travel and Future Diary." Passion lights up his eyes as he talks and I have to marvel at how anyone would run from that, though I am familiar with the reaction. In the past, my excitement over whatever book I was wrapped in received the same reception from everyone except Rachel. She would always smile indulgently and ask me about the adventure the words had taken me on.

My eyebrows quirk up and I turn fully to look at him. Cupid found it hard to talk to women? He was the only one I found easy to talk to. Likely I just wasn't his type. That would make this whole ordeal much simpler. No Stockholm Syndrome for me thanks.

"So the guys started calling me Cupid." He chuckles nervously. "It was either that or Casanova. Thankfully I've grown out of the word vomit. The rest of it, not so much." His hand starts to make his way back up to his hair and I don't know what compels me to, but I grab his hand to stop it. I can't stand the thought of him being anxious around me, not when he's the only one keeping me from falling face first into a panic attack.

Time freezes around us, or maybe it just feels like it as we both hold our breath, waiting for the other to be brave enough to break the silence. His hand is warm in mine and not nearly as rough as I would expect. His fingers move across my palm like a painter planning out his brushstrokes. I doubt he even knows he's doing it. Cupid seems like the type of guy who's always moving something. He vibrates with this manic joyful energy that is infectious.

Laying here forever with Cupid and copious amounts of fruit snacks sounds like a fantastic plan. If I could just ignore the problems and people that lie beyond these four walls, I'd be set. But as my current predicament shows, running away and hiding from my problems just allows the universe to remind me of them in increasingly creative and highly improbable ways. I mean a bank robbery, really? Glad someone is getting a laugh out of this.

Cupid's eyes wander over my face and I wonder what it is that he's looking for. I'm sure I look like an insomniac owl, all wide eyes and barely a thought between my ears. My brain simply has run out of the emotional and mental bandwidth to deal with anything else today.

He must reach the same conclusion as he stands, adjusting his rumpled clothing. "I'll leave you to rest. I can try to talk to the guys about getting a message out, but it will probably be a bit. Find me on the couch if you need anything."

Cupid lingers near the bed as reluctant to leave as I am to be alone. My thoughts that remain aren't exactly the best company, but there isn't a way to ask him to stay that couldn't make me look desperate and weak. It's the last way I want to appear in his eyes. I want him to see the Callie that bites back. His Callie Cat.

"So what should I call you? Cupid still?"

"See you in the morning then," he waves with that half smile that tips up the left half of his face and crinkles his eyes that reflexively has me answering with my own. "And you can just call me D."

Cradled within the soft embrace of cotton, sleep was inevitable and I was tired of fighting it. Tomorrow is a new day and I aim to tackle it bright eyed and bushy tailed.