“How in the chicken of the freakin’ sea do I get myself into ginormous and potentially life ending messes like this?” I muttered to myself as I paced my suite at our somewhat successful beachfront resort.

The need to crawl out of my skin was intense. If I had the time, I’d dive into the ocean and swim with the sharks for a week straight. It would be far safer than the job I was being commanded to accept.

However, I didn’t have the luxury of time right now. Tallulah’s wedding was fast approaching and I had a shitshow of my own to deal with.

Glancing in the mirror, I grimaced at the red and silver sparkles that still dusted my hair and skin. Thankfully my sisters thought it was awesome and that I was rocking a fabulous new look. If the damned glitter hadn’t forced me into taking a horrific job I didn’t want and wasn’t qualified for, I might have agreed with them.

Archer was going to pay for this—big time. Johnson-man-tools, no matter how nice… or large… were not worth this kind of trouble.

Normally, my cozy, sea foam green suite gave me solace. The overstuffed velvet couches in shades of celery and peach calmed my busy mind. The colorful pillows, chenille throws and the sheer palest green curtains that framed the floor to ceiling windows made me happy—but not today.

Nope. Today I was Mermaid who may as well not have fins or a tail. I’d been handed a job by an inebriated Sea God that I had no intention of taking all just because I’d gotten laid by an asshat ten times in six hours. But that was entirely beside the point. How in the world was I supposed to be Cupid? It was beyond ridiculous. The last thing I wanted or needed was a pissed off, fat little demigod after me. And if that arrow shooting little shit came for me, he would eventually go after Archer for stealing his magic. Archer definitely deserved to have his perfect ass kicked to Mount Olympus and back, but I was going to do that—not some chubby man-child who promoted the ridiculous notion of love.

“Shit, shit, shit. Who can I talk to?” I asked the pink stuffed starfish named Patrick that lay on my bed.

My beloved toy simply stared back at me. He was missing one eye and was threadbare in a few spots, but I adored him. Of course, he couldn’t talk. For a brief moment, I considered using a little magic to bring him to life, but the last time I’d done that, he’d eaten the couch. I liked my couch, so Patrick stayed stuffed and inanimate.

I couldn’t bother Tallulah with my fuck up—embarrassing pun intended. She was busy with her wedding plans to Pirate Doug of the frightening puffy shirt. My oldest sister was so happy about marrying the jackhole, there was no way in Poseidon’s Seven Seas I was going to screw that up.

Ariel was due back tomorrow with her mate Keith. I still was clueless as to what she saw in the Selkie, but she too was wildly happy. So happy that she would be useless.

And Madison… well, Madison was trying to teach the Sea Hags basic hygiene.

Since Bony Velma Dustface was Pirate Doug’s sister, she would be coming to the wedding along with her sidekick, Rickety Shelia Clotlegs. They smelled like Hades on garbage day in July. Tallulah was a wreck worrying that the guests might end up asphyxiated from the stench. A pile of dead wedding guests was not on anyone’s agenda.

Madison had drawn the small shell and had to visit the Hag cave to convince them that using shampoo and deodorant wasn’t going to kill them.

At this point, I would have happily traded places with her, but it was far too late for that.

“Gods, I’m an idiot. Bumping uglies isn’t supposed to end with your life being in danger from a tiny, freaky cherub-looking demigod with a vendetta,” I grumbled as I flopped down on my bed and glared at my dresser.

The glittering emerald sat atop my antique driftwood dresser and mocked me. The perfectly cut stone caught the midday sun streaming through my open window and appeared to be winking sarcastically at me. I hadn’t used it but once in my long life. Now I was screwing up the courage to use it for the second time. Maybe.

Archer the asswipe had given me the exquisite stone after our first rendezvous fifty years ago. It was an enchanted jewel. I normally kept it hidden in my treasure chest with my other precious and sentimental things—not that it was precious or sentimental. It was the magical version of a cell phone with direct access to the Johnson-man-tool who had landed me in a heap of trouble.

“Okay,” I said, getting up from my bed and doing a few jumping jacks to get my blood flowing. “I can do this. I’ll call the jerkoff and tell him that I’m going to remove his Johnson-man-tool because he was stupid enough to steal from a demigod and now I’m stuck replacing fucking Cupid. Or maybe not…”

Threatening his jewels probably wasn’t the best plan. What I wanted was for him to return what he’d stolen and maybe the entire problem would go away. Maybe Cupid was slacking off on the job because he couldn’t find his stupid magic that was still stuck to me.

But wait… it was remotely possible that Archer didn’t even know he’d stolen from a demigod. Maybe he pilfered the enchantment from someone who he thought was an innocent, obese baby. Gods, what an ass. Why in the heck would Archer steal from a freakin’ baby?

Why? Well, maybe because he was a gaping crack.

“Don’t hint at castration,” I advised myself wisely. “Just tell him you want to meet up for some hide the salami and then when he gets here zap his ass until he promises to return the freakin’ magic. And maybe go a round or three before he leaves.”

The jumping jacks didn’t do it, so I did a few cartwheels around the room hoping that would get me focused. It failed.

“I need some help,” I said to no one.

Or so I thought…

“If ye want to get something from a scallywag, yer right not to lop off his pecker,” a familiar voice counseled from right outside my open window. “A mate’s disco stick is his pride and joy. I know me pocket rocket is mine.”

“Damn it, Thornycraft,” I shouted as I involuntarily shot a blast of sparkling green magic at the window setting my curtains ablaze. “Eavesdropping is really bad form and it’s dangerous. I could accidentally incinerate you, you dumbass.”

Waving my hand, I doused my now ruined drapery with water, walked over to the window and peeked out at the idiot Pirate who apparently wanted to offer me words of wisdom. He was crouched down in the bushes, clearly hiding.

Or he was playing some bizarre game with his buddies, Upton and Bonar.

They were at least a thousand years old, but still strangely childlike. Not to mention, none of us on Mystical Isle knew what kind of immortals they were. Initially, I’d assumed they were Vampires like Pirate Doug. However, Pirate Doug had to wear copious amounts of SPF 100 sunscreen to go outside. His crew? Not so much. Any kind of shifter species was out too since, none of them had shifted into anything during our battle with the Kraken. It was a mystery.

Probably a mystery best left unsolved.

Taking advice from Thornycraft, Upton or Bonar would be ludicrous, but…

“Where are the others?” I asked, noticing he was wearing a puffy shirt quite similar to the one Pirate Doug had modeled earlier.

“The arses are being fitted for the human marriage ritual. I barely escaped with me life when me captain tried to make me put on lacy breeches,” he explained looking terrified.

I couldn’t blame him for that. The shirt was bad enough.

“How much did you overhear?” I asked narrowing my eyes at the dummy.

Thornycraft, Upton and Bonar—or the Trio of Arses as we liked to call them—had arrived with Pirate Doug when Tallulah hired extra help to deal with the Kraken problem we’d had several months ago. Of course, my sister had been unaware that she’d hired the freakjob that she’d fallen in love with right before he absconded with our treasure a hundred years ago, but she did. And now she was going to marry the puffy shirted fool. Love was seriously blind.

Thornycraft, Bonar and Upton were Pirate Doug’s crew of arses and they’d grown on me over the past months—kind of like a rash, but a mild one that didn’t itch much.

“Is that thar a trick question, Swimmin’ Hooker?” he asked, looking uncomfortable.

With a roll of my eyes, I grabbed him by the travesty of a shirt he was wearing and yanked his scrawny ass through the window. He squeaked like a girl and that’s when I realized the arse wasn’t wearing any pants.

“First off, I’m not a hooker, you little shit. I’m a Mermaid. And secondly, where are your pants?”

“Aye, me apologies about the hooker part. Shall I call ye a harlot instead? Or would ye prefer swimmin’ streetwalker or waterlogged working girl?” he asked in all seriousness.

“Umm, no. Hooker will be fine,” I replied as I considered throwing the pants-less idiot back out of my window. Mermaids would never live down the fact that we came from the Siren line. Whatever. I knew the brain matter-challenged dolt wasn’t being insulting. He proudly referred to himself as an arse. I suppose being called a swimming hooker wasn’t all that bad. “Answer the second part of my question.”

“Me breeches are on the floor in the nuptial dressing room,” Thornycraft explained, covering his jewels with his hands.

As he was missing three of his fingers and a thumb on one hand I could see a small section of his wrinkly old ball sac. Not my idea of a good time. Closing my eyes, I tried not to laugh or vomit. After all, he had been forced to wear a puffy shirt.

“Favorite color?” I asked.

“Me favorite color is green,” he told me.

Opening one eye, I peeked at the bizarre Pirate to make sure he wasn’t making fun of my hair color. He wasn’t. It had become pretty clear to me over the time I’d known the arse that he wasn’t good at lying. The words honest and Pirate were kind of an oxymoron when combined, but they described Thornycraft to a T—an honest, semi-fingerless, odd little Pirate of unknown immortal origins.

“Green is my favorite color too.”

“Aye, and it looks mighty fine on ye,” he said, shyly with an adorable smile.

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my eyes on his face, far above his issue down below.

With a snap of my fingers, I dressed Thornycraft in a pair of Kelly green breeches and a shirt with about ten pounds less of material than he had arrived in. Feeling generous, I conjured up a fabulous pair of shit kicking black knee-high boots and a sharp jaunty green tricorne hat that matched the breeches to perfection.

“Thank ye!” Thornycraft sang as he danced around my suite with joy, admiring himself in the mirror. “Yar not a galley hoppin’ greasy haired rope burn. I don’t give a shite what anyone says.”

Wait. What?

“And who exactly calls me a greasy haired rope burn?” I demanded, completely insulted. I did not have greasy hair. Ever. My hair was freakin’ awesome.

“Umm… no one?” he lied, turning a shade of deep red. He looked more like a Christmas ornament than I did at the moment due to the breeches and hat.

“Try again if you want to keep your new fancy duds. Otherwise, you’ll be punted out of the window wearing so much lace everyone will think you’re a life-sized doily,” I snapped.

“Yar a little rough around the edges—kind of like a very attractive pontoon splinter,” Thornycraft offered, clutching his new green tricorne as if it was the Holy Grail.

Well, that was a new one.

“Fine,” I muttered. I sat down on my bed and let my head fall to my hands. Maybe I was a greasy, rope burned, pontoon splinter. Awesome. And now I could add fucking Cupid to the unflattering description. At least I was an attractive one. “Could my life get much worse?”

“Do ye want to talk about it?” Thornycraft asked, seating himself next to me and gently taking my hand in his.

Well, kind of. With so few fingers it was hard to tell.

“Ye might think of me as a thundering bilge rat, fake bearded crab, cod faced tar stain, but I have a degree in psychology from Yale. Mebbe I can help ye with yer problems.”

“You went to Yale?” I asked, shocked.

“Aye,” he said with a nod and a little grin. “Was bored with the pilfering life about seventy odd years ago and wanted to see if an old seadog like me could learn new tricks.”

“And?” I pressed.

“And shiver me timbers, I passed with straight A’s,” he informed me proudly.

“Did you cheat?”

“Aye. I’m a Pirate. Hornswoggling is in me blood.”

Thornycraft was sweet and kind in his own weird way. I was impressed he’d gone to Yale—even if he’d cheated. Maybe he could help me… And maybe I’d lost my mind.

“Little Hooker, do ye have a black spot on yer head?”

“Umm… I don’t think so,” I told him. “I mean, I know I have all this magic shit all over me, but I was pretty sure it’s all silver and red.”

“Nay, a black spot is a death threat. Do ye have someone after ye? Cause if ye do, I can take care of it.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Aye. Ye is like a little green haired hooker sister to me,” Thornycraft replied with a sad smile. “All me sisters are gone now. Bonar, Upton and meself are the only ones of our kind left in the world. Yer violent tendencies remind me of me weevil eating, rum swigging, eyeliner wearin’ dinghy dangling sisters.”

“Was that a compliment?” I asked, trying to decipher what he’d just said. I was dying to ask him what his kind was, but terrified of the answer. I’d save that question and see if I lived until the wedding.

“Aye.” He nodded. “A fine compliment at that, Hooker.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly, wondering if I was hatching a sane plan of action. I wasn’t, but since my life was the definition of insanity I figured I had little to lose. “If I tell you what’s going on, can you keep your cakehole shut?”

“Aye. I will dance the hempen jig and beat meself with cackle fruit while puttin’ me own head in the head if I utter a word of yer secret,” he promised, crossing his heart. “Pirate’s Honor.”

“I didn’t think Pirates had honor.”

“Ye have a point thar, hooker. I swear on me mum’s life then.”

“Okaaay,” I said, wondering if he’d just said he would flush his own head down the toilet. “But just so we’re clear here, I will zap your arse into the next century if you betray me and dress you in a permanent lacy romper with sequins on it. You’ll be begging for Davy Jones’ Locker if you talk. You feel me?”

Thornycraft’s eyes grew wide and his grin matched. “Ye have some salty nards, little hooker. Ye have me word. No hornswoggling.”

“I did something stupid and now I’m totally screwed.”

“Could ye be a bit more specific?” Thornycraft inquired, wrinkling his brow in confusion. “Not a lot to go on thar.”

“Right,” I said, hopping up and pacing the room. “Do you mind if I do pushups while we talk?”

“Nay, go right ahead, hooker.”

“Great,” I said, dropping to the ground and exercising like my life depended on it. “I boinked an idiot. Well, actually I’ve been boinking him on and off for a half century or so. You know, just casual—no names,” I huffed out as I increased my pace. It was harder than I’d thought to actually tell my horror story.

“Ye don’t know the name of the scallywag yar boinking?” Thornycraft asked, clearly shocked.

“Don’t judge,” I snapped as I rolled to my back and began doing crunches. “I don’t do relationships. Love is for jackholes.”

“Aye,” he said, clapping his hands and producing a notebook and pen. “Do ye mind if I take notes? Me professors at Yale said it helped to decipher the problem if ye put the words on paper.”

“Umm… okay,” I said. “Anyhoo, the idiot told me his name the other day after the best boink of my life. I promptly decided to never see him again because he cheated.”

“He cheated on ye?” Thornycraft demanded indignantly.

“No,” I corrected him as he scribbled away a mile a minute. “He cheated by telling me his name. That wasn’t in the rules, but that’s not the worst part. It’s bad, but now it gets terrifying,” I explained, getting up and changing it up with lunges. “So the asswipe I was boinking apparently stole magic from a god. When he left, he sprayed the pilfered enchantment all over me, hence the freakin’ red and silver sparkles I’m wearing.”

“Sounds like the stripey-sweatered son of a sea bass has a death wish,” Thornycraft commented.

“Right?” I said, sucking in a huge gulp of air as I upped the ante and began doing high kicks combined with squats. “He’s an idiot, but it get worse!”

“No,” Thornycraft said, eyes wide.

“Yesssssss,” I told him. “Poseidon saw the sparkles and informed me that I was hired to take over for one of the demigods that had been slacking on the job.”

“Shite,” Thornycraft gasped out.

“Shite is right,” I shouted. “Apparently the Johnson-man-tool stole magic from Cupid because he’s a gaping crack. Poseidon sees me with Cupid’s magic all over me and decides I’m getting freakin’ Cupid’s job even though I don’t even believe in love. It’s all kinds of fucked and now I’m going to have a fat-assed, pissed-off baby-man after me for taking his job. This is all happening just because I boinked a formerly nameless guy that I didn’t know stole from freakin’ Cupid.”

“Who is this Johnson-man-tool?” Thornycraft asked, looking a bit dazed.

“Oh, that’s the guy I boinked. The one who stole from Cupid.”

“Ahhhh, got it. Stealing from Cupid is a bad move. That peg legged bow bungler is one of the most violent demigods in the Universe,” he said, looking a bit pale.

“Are you fucking serious?” I shrieked.

“Nay, I’m Thornycraft.”

“I meant… never mind. Are you telling me a porcine toddler is one of the most violent demigods around?” I asked with a sinking feeling in my gut. As worried as I was for myself, I was more concerned for Archer the asshole.

Why? No fucking clue.

“Aye. Zeus made Cupid one of the strongest warriors in existence,” Thornycraft confirmed. “Never seen him meself, but I’ve heard the stories.”

And the day just kept getting worse…

“What in Poseidon’s diaper-wearing ass am I supposed to do? I don’t even want the job. I’ll suck at it.”

“Nay, ye will actually be fine,” he assured me. “Are ye a good shot?”

“Excellent.”

“Then ye have no worries there. Where is Johnson-man-tool?”

“Umm…” I debated whether to tell him that he was calling Archer by the name of his weenie, but decided against it. It made me giggle and I needed a laugh right now. “I don’t know. I’m actually worried about him,” I admitted begrudgingly. “As much as he deserves to have his ass skinned, I would be devastated if Cupid killed him.”

“Hmm… very interesting,” Thornycraft said with the hint of a smirk on his face.

“What?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes. “You think this is funny?”

“Nay, hooker. Methinks ye might like Johnson-man-tool more than ye admit.”

“I most certainly do not like Johnson-man-tool,” I informed the still smirking Pirate. “He’s the reason Cupid probably wants to kill me.”

“Yet yer worried for his scallywag hide,” Thornycraft pointed out.

Shit. He had a point. I didn’t like his point, but he had one.

“I don’t have any time to deal with that right now,” I snapped. “I need a plan of action. I’m not in the mood to be hunted by a violent fat baby.”

“Aye, I feel ye. Yar gonna need to contact Johnson-man-tool. Are ye sure he stole the magic?”

“Yes. No. I mean, he had to have stolen it. Right? I did not play hide the salami with a chubby miniature demigod,” I told him with an eye roll.

“It’s good to know ye have standards even if they be low.”

“Duuuude,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “Let’s keep my morals or lack thereof out of this. And just so you know… it’s not like I’ve been boinking a bunch of ass monkeys whose names I didn’t know. I’ve only been boinking one guy. In fact, he’s the only douche canoe I’ve boinked in fifty years. So you can shove my not so low standards up your breeches wearing arse.”

“Ye’ve been with no one but Johnson-man-tool since ye met him?” Thornycraft inquired, biting down on his lip so hard to keep from grinning that I was certain he was going to chew it off.

“I don’t like what you’re implying, turd knocker.”

“Not implying anything, hooker,” he said with a shrug while staring at the floor. “Methinks ye should summon yer Johnson-man-tool and get to the bottom of… several things.”

“Poseidon is bringing me Cupid’s arrows and the crossbow. What should I tell him?”

“Nothing. Tell him nothing. I think ye should take the instruments of human love and train. If ye don’t, ye will have less of a chance of defeating the chubby bastard baby.”

“Good thinking.”

Maybe talking to Thornycraft had been my best idea ever. Although, he was smoking rotten seaweed if he believed that I liked Johnson-man-tool… I mean, Archer. However, the part about training was still an issue.

“How do I train for a bullshit job?” I asked.

I was pretty sure the Pirate rolled his eyes at me, but it was quick. I was tempted to zap his ass, but I needed him.

“Ye sure yar a good shot?”

“Yes.”

“Ye run a tourist trap full of human guests?”

“Yep,” I said as my smile widened.

“Sounds like ye won’t have a problem then, hooker. Practice on the humans.”

“Awesome and brilliant idea,” I agreed with a laugh. “Thank you, Thornycraft. You’re a good friend.” The Pirate blushed so deeply I thought he might keel over.

“Right back at ye, hooker. Now call Johnson-man-tool and let’s get yer shitshow on the road.”

“Will do.”

Who knew a strange little Pirate with missing digits would be so brilliant?

Thank the gods for small and fingerless blessings.