Page 1 of August’s Thief
CHAPTER 1
“Good afternoon. Make yourself at home. I’m CUPID.”
I’d been warned about this: the stern disembodied voice and the sterile room, empty save for a pink couch, a low table adjacent and a box of tissues. A peculiar set-up—all of it. But I’d failed to find love or even regular sex using conventional dating apps, so what did I have to lose? CUPID’s marketing boasted a one hundred per cent success rate in discovering a perfect match.
Every rule had an exception.
“We’ve been reviewing your dating history, August Angel,” purred CUPID from somewhere behind my head. “Quite the read.”
“Yes.”
My face heated. CUPID’s background checks had been rather thorough .
“Your Bumble profile was particularly amusing,” they added. “Shall I remind you of it?”
I hadn’t joined the app to provide entertainment. “Um… no, I’d rather you didn’t.”
No reminder necessary. That miserable attempt at finding love proved the final nail in the coffin. In desperation, I’d uploaded my photo and bio upside down, hoping some horny sod would turn their screen around and swipe right by mistake. And a few cack-handed souls did; three even made it as far as meeting up. After asking why I had minestrone soup dripping down one side of my face, the first didn’t even hang around long enough to order a beer. The second knocked back the lion’s share of a bottle of wine, then suggested I join a monastery. The third, a pleasant chap named Alfie, turned out to be married and straight. Afterwards, in the pub car park, he offered me fifty quid in exchange for a blow job. We still texted occasionally.
“I suggest you break ties with Alfie. Not good for your mental health.”
Christ, had this bot wormed their way into my brain?
“And anyhow, you won’t need him. Not by the time we’ve finished with you.”
No win, no fee. I admired CUPID’s confidence. And their bluntness. Not that I found their company especially comfortable.
“Can we… um… move on, please? I’m paying you a considerable amount of money to find love, not rake over my previous disasters.”
“So impatient!” CUPID hummed. “Very well. Close your eyes, August Angel. Relax. Breathe. Empty your mind. Then, in your own time, tell me what your heart desires.”
Hah! That was just cruel.
“Allow your heart to run free.”
I let out a groan. Run free? My heart had barely learned how to crawl.
“I… I want a… a man. A man I can tuck under my arm,” I began. And my face heated again, because in the grand scheme of priorities ‘ a man I can tuck under my arm’ might not be at the top. More to the point, beggars like me couldn’t be choosers. I should have just stopped at man.
“That’s good, August,” purred CUPID. “Keep going.”
Fuck it. In for a penny and all that. “I want a… a femme. Someone that likes to fool around with mascara and shit. With fabulous eyes gazing up at me like I’m everything he ever wanted too. Like he really needs me. Someone who sees beyond this shitty mess on my face. Sees beyond my pots of money but lets me spend it on him anyhow. Lets me dress him like a fucking doll. Lets me wait on him hand and foot. Pretty hands, pretty feet—I’m a sucker for pretty toes. A toe sucker. I want someone who lets me worship him like a disciple. Someone who curls up under my… my wing, for want of a better word, and lets me love him like he’s never known love before.”
Thank fuck the room didn’t have a mirror; my face must have been scarlet. The normal half, at least. Christ, what on earth had possessed me to spew all that? And where had it all come from? As the silence stretched, a dreadful thought struck me that this might be an elaborate set-up.
At last, CUPID gave a computerised version of a dry cough. “Is that… all?”
Was that sarcasm? “Yes, pretty much. I mean, it would help if he was quite local too. Not too far from London. But I’d fly to the ends of the earth for the right guy. And I’d... I’d care for him, with everything I have.”
A sigh echoed around the room, like a draft of cool air. “You have a very big heart, August Angel.”
I swallowed. “Yes, I do.”
The biggest. A huge fucking cavern overflowing with love and affection and no one to offer it to. And right now, it was on the cusp of sobbing. “You’re not… not like other dating agencies, are you?”
“Glad you noticed,” answered CUPID drily.
“You think outside the box.”
In reply, CUPID made a tinkly little laugh, like silver bells. “Outside the box? Sweet, sweet August Angel. Look around you. Don’t you see? There is no box.”
“Not for you maybe.” By now my self-pitying tears were flowing freely. I made a hopeless gesture towards my hideous, disfigured face. “I’ve been trapped inside this one all my life.”
The purpose of the tissues became evident. As I made use of them, CUPID stayed quiet.
“So, what’s the grand plan?” I asked once I could trust my voice again. “Plastic surgery? A face transplant? A paper bag over my head?”
That tinkly laugh again. “Goodness me, no, August. None of that will be necessary at all! We’re not in the business of changing the cards you’ve been dealt; we’re here to play a poor hand well. And I have splendid news. Open your phone and click on the CUPID app. Your perfect match is ready and waiting!”
On cue, my phone pinged, and a throbbing pink heart appeared on the screen. Misery morphed into trepidation as my finger hovered over it. If this whole thing was a set-up designed to part lovelorn wealthy men from their cash, then it was an extremely elaborate one.
“Don’t be shy, August. Reach out, touch your heart. Reveal your perfect match.”
I pressed once, and the cartoon heart shimmered under my finger, then dissolved. The blurred outline of a man took its place. Fuck, how I needed this to work, almost as if my life depended on it. The image sharpened, and my own heart began pumping wildly. Then nearly stopped altogether.
I stared and stared at the photograph filling the screen. Through bottomless pupils, big and round, a vision of pretty, pretty perfection stared back.
“His name is Dawson,” offered CUPID, though I was hardly listening, already sucked into the screen. Those eyes, my goodness, those eyes. Violet pools, like old lavender crushed between the pages of a dusty, long-forgotten diary. The colour of rich wives’ jewels sparkling from heavy ropes of gold. Of fragile veins, of thunderclouds. And their watchful expression: a little sweet, a little sad, a little wary, a whole lot naughty.
“He’s a delight, is he not? You can’t see his hands and feet, but I am confident they will be to your liking.”
I tore my gaze from the eyes, though they followed me regardless. White-blond hair framing porcelain skin. CUPID had sent me a malevolent pixie—a turned-up nose in a heart-shaped face, plush lips made for kissing, now twisted in a knowing smirk. Wiry, thin arms folded across a cropped T-shirt the colour of fresh peaches.
Tell me what your heart desires.
“What’s the catch?” I demanded. “There must be a catch.”
“Why, sweet August Angel? Why must there be a catch?”
I gave a shaky laugh, still unable to drag my eyes away from the young man taking ownership of my screen. Perfect match? In my wildest fantasies, maybe. “Trust me, there’s always a catch. No way would a guy like this even look twice at a man like me.”
“And you should trust me,” CUPID answered in a steely tone. “Dawson is your perfect match. I can feel it in my bones.”
I scoffed. “Do bots even have bones?”
“Yes, plastic ones. Now listen, your date is lined up for this evening. I’m sending you a time and an address.”
CUPID sounded awfully confident. Ah well, at the very least it would be dinner out at a smart restaurant. And hopefully across the table from a stunning companion. Unless this Dawson took one look at me and fled. “Okay,” I sighed. “You’re the boss. What’s the dress code?”
A hint of hesitancy. For the first time, CUPID appeared a little less certain. “Ah… shall we say… smart casual should suffice? And you may need a small amount of um… cash.”
“So there is a catch.” I knew it. This Dawson was too good to be true. “Come on, out with it.”
“Goodness me, is that the time? Show yourself out, August. I’ll send you the details via the app.” The bot made a little coughing noise just as my phone pinged again, and a message flashed across the screen: Time: 6.30 p.m . Place: Bethnal Green Police Station . Fine: not met, set at ￡70 .