Valentine's Day Sucks by Michele Bardsley

 
    Valentine’s Day Sucks
     
    Broken Heart 9.5 / Broken Arrow 0.5
     
    By Michele Bardsley
     
     
    “ I SHOT CUPID.”
    “ Mom?” I croaked into the cell phone. I cracked open an eye and rolled it toward the digital clock on my nightstand. “It’s barely 7 p.m.”
    “I’m sorry to wake you early from your undead sleep, Jessica, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
    “The police?” I suggested. What? I don’t like being jolted out of my vampiric sleep by crazy Mom phone calls.
    “Don’t be ridiculous!”
    Ugh. Grugh. Blurgh. “I’m not the one shooting love gods.”
    “Jessica!”
    “Sorry, Mom. Just gimme a sec to process.”
    “ Jess? Everything okay, love?” My husband’s voice wound through the dark room like awesome music. You know, like Wham’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.”
    I reached out across the bed and stroked his shoulder. I had excellent night vision, so I saw the glint of his sex-me-up grin. My hunny bunny was 4,000 years old and counting, and he still looked as yummy as he did when he got vampified at the ripe ol’ age of twenty-five. He stretched so that covers slid down to his waist. My gaze followed the blanket’s progress, hoping for a big reveal. Patrick’s grin widened. My insides turned gooey, and my girl parts shouted, “Woo-hoo!”
    “ Everything’s great, honey,” I said cheerfully. “By the way, my mother killed Cupid.”
    His expression turned to “let’s have evening sex, babe” to “what the bloody hell?” He sat up. Sadly, the covers bunched at his waist preventing me from ogling his package. “She killed who?”
      I punched the “speaker” button on my phone just in time for Patrick to hear my mother screech, “That bow-wielding bastard tried to kill me first!”
    Wait. What? I swallowed the laugh that caught in my throat. She really did mean Cupid. Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, but it wasn’t exactly known as a prankster or party holiday. Besides, my mother wasn’t that kind of jokester. “Cupid? The flying angel boy with the bow and arrow and chubby thighs … that Cupid?”
    “He’s not a cherub,” my Mom said through gritted teeth (I know this because that’s her primary mode of communicating with me). “He’s a grown man dressed in pink Armani. And he kept aiming gold arrows at me.”
    “ That sounds like him,” mused my husband.
    “ Seriously? You know Cupid?” I asked.
    Patrick gave me a look. Okay, so vampires and fairies and werewolves were real … but c’mon ... Cupid? I was vampire for Pete’s sake, but even I had a hard time believing the mythological arrow-through-the-heart guy existed.
    “ His name is Eros,” said Patrick. “And yes, I know him. I haven’t seen him a hundred years or so.” He paused. “And he can’t be killed, o’ course.”
    “ I know! I shot him twice and he kept getting up,” said Mom. Panic edged her voice. “I put another five bullets into his chest, and he finally stayed down. And then I ... well, I rolled him up in garden netting and staked him to the ground with yard ornaments.”
    “ Oh,” I said, not sure when my mother turned into Rambo. She lived in a secluded cabin at Lake Tenkiller. When I was kid, we spent every summer there. After my father died, Mom divested herself of nearly everything they’d built together and moved into the family cabin. I worried about Mom living in such an isolated location—especially after she refused my suggestion she get a Life Alert button. “I’m not old,” she’d responded.
    Except, hello, she was.
    And she wasn’t immortal. She didn’t want to be a vampire, either. Or live in Broken Heart where she’d be safe. Ugh. Mothers, you know?
    “When do you think you can get here?” asked Mom. Her voice was still a little shaky, but she seemed back in control.
    “ On our way.” I hit the “end” button on my cell. I looked at my nearly naked husband, and sighed. “We have to go be responsible adults now.”
    “ Ah. Okay.”
    We