Mirage sank back onto the couch, still too amped to sleep. And still afraid that if she closed her eyes this marvelous sense of self would melt away. She wanted to call Lucien, to tell him that she was back, that it was working, but even if it hadn’t been three-thirty in the morning, she knew he would only be annoyed with her for taking the risk contacting him when the authorities were still looking for her. She was isolated here, just her and Captain Justice, but now that thought didn’t carry even a twinge of regret. Sure, she was on the run and this was a safe house, but in this moment, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.
Except maybe the left bedroom.
* * * * * * * * * *
“You look like death.”
Julian cringed at the all-too-cheerful chirp of Mirage’s voice as he staggered out of his bedroom the following afternoon. Not surprising he looked like hammered shit, since that was exactly how he felt. The inside of his head was raw and throbbing hollowly, like his brain had been scraped out and his cranium coated with acid. Mirage, on the other hand, stood at the kitchen counter, bouncing on the balls of her feet and looking like she was one bounce away from waving pom-poms in his face like an evil cheerleader. “I take it your memories are still intact.”
“Mostly.” She thrust a cup at him and he took it, inhaling deeply, the rich scent of fresh coffee restoring his faith in humanity, the first sip restoring his faith in God.
“Mmm,” he hummed his appreciation, eyes closed.
“I make excellent coffee,” Mirage bragged without even a trace of humility.
Julian gave an agreeable grunt, but didn’t open his eyes as he took another sip, focusing his entire being on his communion with the Caffeinated Holy Grail. He could feel Mirage at his shoulder, bubbling over with energy, trying desperately not to rush him. As soon as he opened his eyes, the dam burst and words flooded out of Mirage on a giddy wave.
“I’ve been thinking. About Kevin. About whether this is a new threat or just an echo of his previous demands, and see, the thing is, Kevin was cocky. Like, superhero cocky.” Julian tried not to be offended by the fact that his kind were the high mark on her barometer of cockiness. “He didn’t have contingency plans because he never believed he could fail. The idea that he wouldn’t be around to implement phase two—whatever that might be—would have been inconceivable to him. And for him to trust me—even my manipulated subconscious—enough to tell me what he was planning in the form of future commands, he just wouldn’t do it, Justice. The more I think about Kevin—now that I can remember him with any degree of clarity—the more certain I am that what I’m experiencing is just echoes. And I think I know how to prove it.”
Mirage was so excited, her eyes so bright and alive, he couldn’t bring himself to mention that even the echoes were dangerous if she kept falling prey to them. Instead, he asked, “What kind of proof?”
“The box. The one you took from me at the bank. If I’m retracing my steps, then it will be from the same safe deposit box I raided last time. So we just find out what’s in it, use that to determine who I took it from, and see if they were robbed six months ago.”
“It’s not a bad idea. There’s only one problem. The box was empty, Mirage.”
“Empty?” Her enthusiasm extinguished, then immediately rekindled. “Of course it is! Because I already stole whatever was inside it six months ago.”
“But there’s no proof of that.” If Mirage could force her memories into an innocent shape, she would. He couldn’t blame her for that, but one of them had to stay focused on what was really happening, not what she wanted so badly to be the truth.
“Show me the box again. I’m clearer now. I’ll remember it from the first time I broke into the vault. I know I will.”
“Mirage…” He had the box in his room. It had been in his pocket when they fled Trident, but the last time she’d held it, it had triggered a gunfight in front of the bank. He wasn’t prepared to deal with that kind of chaos again. At least not until he’d had another cup of coffee.
“Please, Julian. What harm can it do? If I can just open it, I’m sure…”
Her certainty was disconcerting. Yesterday she hadn’t been sure of anything, and now she was addicted to certainty, high on it. How could it hurt her to see the box?
He couldn’t think clearly. Between the power hangover and the way Mirage was looking at him like he hung the stars, it was hard to stay focused on hard truth.
“You can open it later, okay? Let me touch base with Eisenmann first.”
She made a face. “Ask his permission, you mean. You know what he’ll tell you. He thinks I’m too crazy to fix.”
“He wouldn’t have helped us escape if he hadn’t believed you would get better. I trust him. Besides, don’t you want to know how things are going? Aren’t you curious to know whether the cops are still searching for us?”
She drew away from him, seeming to pull inside herself. “You’re right. We should check in. You have a life to get back to. I don’t want to keep you here if Lucien managed to work things out with the cops.”
He started to say that he wanted to stay with her, surprised by how true the words were, but Mirage had already left the kitchen, leaving him alone with the Coffee of the Gods and his regret that he’d been awake ten minutes and somehow managed to trample her enthusiasm into defeat. He swore softly and dug out the phone from the duffle—the untraceable phone, which made him more than a little uncomfortable. He’d never had the need for untraceable calls before. Now Open Book Justice was on the run with a known felon and it felt right. More purposeful than the last dozen Justice Department consults he’d done. He wasn’t just a nail in the coffin of a conviction, he was doing something, helping someone. This was what being a hero was supposed to be…though perhaps without the villainess as the beneficiary. Though, really, was that so wrong? Didn’t she deserve help as much as the next citizen? He’d been jaded on the topic of villain reform before, but now he was almost starting to wonder if it was the heroes who needed reform as much as their less law-abiding counterparts.
He tapped Eisenmann’s name on the phone and waited as it clicked for a moment before connecting. After half a dozen rings, the call went to voicemail. He hung up, electing not to leave a message that could incriminate Eisenmann if the cops were listening, and tried the doctor’s home number, though he’d never known the man to be far from his office, even on a Saturday afternoon. When that call switched to voicemail as well, Julian cursed softly and disconnected. The doc had to know they would be in touch soon. Why was he suddenly unavailable?
Julian scrolled through the contacts until he came to Lucien’s number, but before he could connect the call, an odd, scraping sound in the living room made the hairs on his arms stand up. “Mirage?”
He exited the kitchen, eyes scanning, weight forward, hands held loosely at his sides. He was so prepared to find the specialized Anti-Super SWAT team in the living room, restraining Mirage, that for a moment he didn’t know how to react to the sight that met him. Mirage stood in front of the couch, her pupils so tightly contracted, the cobalt blue of her eyes jumped across the room. In one hand, she held the small box from the bank, rolling it between her fingertips.
“Mirage?” he said again, though he knew it was useless. Mirage wasn’t home. She’d gone through his stuff, found the box, and something about holding it in her hand had triggered her. They’d made so much progress, and now here they were, back at square one, subject to the whims of whatever echoed command the box had resurrected.
For a long moment, she didn’t react to his presence, didn’t seem to even notice he was there, then her eyes flicked up, locked on his, and his world slammed sideways. Hard. He’d thought she’d tried to manipulate him before, had trusted his natural immunity would protect him, but he was utterly unprepared for the freight train plowing into him through her gaze, the drowning tide of power that crashed over him, threatening to roll his mind until she was his only fix point, until only Mirage could tell h
im which way was up.
Julian staggered, the phone falling from limp fingers, as Mirage’s image flickered in front of him, strobing in and out of reality too fast for him to keep up. Holy shit.
He’d been cocky, superhero cocky, to think she was no threat to him. If she managed to disappear, he may never find her again. She could go anywhere, trick anyone. The idea of losing her sent a hard spike of panic into his sternum. She was his responsibility…and so much more than that.
He struggled to keep her in his sights, his vaunted mental advantage non-existent. Thank God that wasn’t his only resource. He needed to get her out of his head and Julian knew only one way to do that. He ducked his head and charged.
Chapter Eleven: Kung Fu Kama Sutra
He was the enemy. Mirage didn’t know how she could have missed it before. It was so obvious now, so clear, with the heady power-clarity burning through her veins. He’d stolen the Apocalyptum. That was why the box she’d been sent to collect was empty. Justice couldn’t be trusted. Only Kevin could be trusted.
No. No, that wasn’t right. Kevin was…what was he? She knew this. She knew—
The big man moved, fast and purposeful. His shoulder plowed into her abdomen, knocking the breath out of her and shattering her concentration as he took her to the carpet. She swiped at his face, aiming for his eyes and missing, but her nails dug groves down his cheek. The bastard grunted, as if her efforts weren’t even worth a hiss of pain, and snagged both of her wrists, jerking them up and pinning them to the floor so her arms were stretched straight above her head. Mirage struggled, arching and twisting beneath him even though there was no way in hell she was budging him. He had ten inches and eighty pounds on her, easy, and she knew bugger-all about hand-to-hand combat because she’d never needed it. You couldn’t fight what you didn’t know was there.
Mirage went limp as her brain suddenly kicked back into gear. She’d almost had him when he was across the room. He was touching her now, the skin of his palm tight against the bare skin of her wrists. That connection would amplify her power. She would own him.
She focused on the eyes, so close above her, the sinfully long blond lashes veiling bright blue concern. Fake concern. He was the enemy. He wanted to hurt her. Hurt Kevin. Mirage shaped her gift into a needle and flung it straight into those eyes, piercing him, quick and ruthless, until she tapped into his deepest thoughts and made him hurt.
The body pressing her down into the floor jerked and she got her hiss of pain, the sound stretching out into a moan that scratched at her ears, making her itch with the wrongness of it. So wrong. She didn’t want his pain. Why didn’t she want his pain? He was the enemy. Wasn’t he? Hurting her, hurting Kevin—No.
The flicker of doubt was all it took. “Dammit, Mirage!” He shook off her illusion but his tense muscles didn’t ease. The blue was blazing now, his gaze searing her, but it wasn’t just anger. Not just rage or wounded pride that a weakling girl had made him feel pain. There was determination. Such fierce, unswerving intensity to show her, though she was afraid to think what he would make her see. “Is this what you want?” His hands tightened just to the edge of pain on her wrists. “What do you truly want?”
She felt his power push into her, that static jolt surging through her skin and racing through her veins to her heart. That truth. That realignment. Shifting the jagged pieces painfully back into place, forcing her to see, to know. Her thoughts were suddenly her own again, Kevin’s compulsion wiped clean.
“Mirage?” Julian blinked, studying her eyes, his body unclenching, battle-readiness easing when he saw her looking back at him.
“Julian." The truth was still singing in her blood. What do you truly want? Him. She wanted him. Heat pooled, swift and tight, between her legs. She’d never known you could melt and ache at the same time, but she did. God, she did. She wanted him, the need fierce, consuming, eating away at her will until she was only one single driving desire. Kissing him wasn’t even a choice. She lifted her head, surging up to claim his lips from below, because to wait another second would have been a sin.
Julian made a hoarse, startled sound in his throat, but his hesitation didn’t last longer than a heartbeat before he was devouring her just as eagerly as she was him. And was she ever eager. She’d never before realized how intensely erotic it was to be pinned like this, pressed between his unyielding strength and the firm floor, his thigh hard between hers. He must have appreciated it too, because as his tongue thrust into her mouth, stroking against hers, she felt his erection grow hard against her hip. She wanted that hardness, that heat.
He transferred both her wrists to one hand, keeping her arched like a drawn bow beneath him, and fisted his free hand into her hair, drawing her into an even tighter arc, angling her for a deeper, stronger kiss.
Lust. That’s all it was. Pure, animal, physical need. But knowing that didn’t stop her from pulsing her hips up, rubbing against his firm thigh as something tight and hot ignited at the luscious friction. Julian broke the kiss, unerringly zeroing in on the sweet spot on her neck beneath her ear. He bit and she shuddered. He licked and she moaned. He sucked and an internal cord snapped taut between that point and her clit, until each draw of his mouth made her pant his name. Then his hand was beneath her shirt, his touch against her bare stomach so light it forced her to arch into him, demanding more. She shifted her legs, spreading them wider until his weight settled hard, right where she needed it. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, hold him so tight he would never get away, but he still held her hands pinned above her head so she hooked her legs around his instead, locking her ankles together behind his thighs, rocking up into him, the pressure, the friction, all of it building, so hot and unbearably sweet—
Julian jerked back, his head snapping around to stare toward the kitchen. Only then did Mirage hear the ringtone.
“No,” she moaned, not even sure what she was protesting—the interruption? Reality?
But the mingled denial and plea had no effect. Julian was already moving, disentangling himself, releasing her wrists, easily pulling free of her leg-lock. All that delicious pressure was gone, but her body still yearned for it, throbbing with unsatisfied desire. Damn it. At least his erection looked damned painful. He deserved the world’s bluest balls for leaving her to get a fucking phone call. This was a textbook example of why voicemail had been invented, thank you very much.
Julian snatched the phone from the floor. He blushed like a schoolboy, his face turning an impressive shade of crimson as he punched the screen to connect the call. “Lucien. What’s our status?”
* * * * * * * * * *
He was going to Hell. The phone call was like a message straight from God. He’d been well on his way to stripping Mirage naked and plunging into her until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, and her brother—her violently overprotective brother—just happened to call.
“Shitty,” Lucien replied, his voice so dark Julian flinched, certain Lucien somehow knew what he’d just been doing to his precious baby sister. “The cops are waving the new regulations around and refusing to lift the charges against Mirabelle and now Darla and I have to leave the country.”
“What? You have to flee the country?”
“Leave, not flee. It’s this earthquake in Guinea. Haven’t you seen the news?”
“No, we’ve been...busy.” Guilt made the words stick in his throat. He couldn’t face Mirage, but he could feel her arch look.
“Huge quake. Thousands trapped. We’re flying down immediately to help. Unless you need me to stay behind. Is Mirabelle…?”
“She’s fine.” He tried to keep the strain out of his voice, but Lucien must have heard it.
“I should stay. Darla can handle Guinea. If Mirabelle needs me—”
“No. We’re good. We’ve actually gotten lucky—” Jesus, could he have phrased that worse? “Ah, had some breakthroughs with her memory. Mirage thinks the compulsions are just echoes. Do you want to talk to her?”
At Lucien’s hasty yes, Julian extended the phone to Mirage, avoiding her gaze as he felt color stinging his cheeks. Blushing, like some horny thirteen year old caught ogling the neighbor girls. He ducked into the kitchen, telling himself it was to give Mirage and her brother some privacy and not because he couldn’t look at her without thinking of her sweet, lithe body arching beneath him, so damn eager it made his balls draw up tight just thinking of it.
He braced his hands on either side of the coffee pot, trying to get a grip. What had happened with Mirage was a mistake. One second she was out of it and they were fighting, then he’d pushed his forced-truth into her. Suddenly she was herself again, her eyes sharp and clear, and bam, she was kissing him and he couldn’t keep his hands off her. It shouldn’t have happened. So why was he standing here thinking of nothing but how he could make it happen again?
He poured himself another cup of coffee, even though by now it was burned past the point of palatability. He needed something to chase the taste of her out of his mouth. He took a quick swallow and it scalded his tongue, bitter and dark, which suited his mood just fucking perfectly. He was supposed to be building trust, not taking advantage of it by trying to get into her pants. Lucien would kick his ass if he ever found out—and he’d be right to do it.
“No, they’re definitely echoes.” He heard Mirage come into the kitchen, still talking to her brother. “The box was the same one that held the Apocalyptum I took the first time. I think it must have triggered me so strongly because Kevin would have reinforced that command several times… No, Luc, it’s fine. Julian was a real hero. He punched right through it with his truth mojo. Snapped me right out of it.”
He flinched. She made him sound so noble. Not at all like he’d taken advantage of her. Okay, yes, she had been the aggressor, but she was in a vulnerable state. She didn’t know what she was doing. He was the one who should have known better. Just because he ached for her so badly he could hardly think straight—God, when had he started wanting her like this?
Super Bad (a Superlovin' novella) Page 8
