by Sarah Kuhn
Instead, I felt his hand rest on my shoulder.
“Annie . . .”
“God.” I whirled back around and glowered at him. “Why won’t you stop . . . bothering . . . me?” I growled.
He studied me for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded at the bag.
“You want a real sparring partner?”
“You kickbox?” I snorted in disbelief. Scott might work out and he might have bulked up enough to scare off his grade-school bullies, but he was definitely not a kickboxer. That required specific technique, which I’d spent years perfecting.
“I know a few things,” he said. “I can pick the rest up. Come on.”
He got into a stance that was all wrong. He didn’t know a thing. He was trying to distract me from my spiral of bad feelings again. Just like he had the night Evie had been injured and he made me tell him the same story over and over again. For some reason, that only stoked my stubbornness, only made me want to dig in and simmer in my bad feelings. Or at the very least, to call his bluff.
“Fine,” I said. I shucked off my gloves and got into my (correct) stance. “Soft punches and kicks. Taps, no power.”
He threw a clumsy fist at the space next to my left ear. I dodged easily and shuffled to the side. Kickboxing is like ballroom dancing—someone always leads. That person is dominant, the one controlling the fight. You can run the whole thing without throwing a single blow. I forced him to follow my lead for a few more shuffles, hands up, protecting my face. His hands were all over the place, hovering near his neck, his chin, nearly falling to his sides. I could have decked him if I’d wanted to.
Instead, I locked him into my rhythm, my pace, my movements. He was just mirroring whatever I did—and not very well. We did that for a few moments more, neither of us attempting to land a single blow. Sweat beaded the back of my neck as I concentrated on controlling the dance. I found myself lasering in on that idea, that control, and my focus took over. The bad feelings started to melt away, as if I was sweating them out of my body.
Finally, Scott’s left leg swung out for a kick, but at that point, I’d already mastered the dance and had him right where I wanted him. I reacted instantly, a combination of technique and instinct, and swept my arm under to grab his leg, throwing him off balance. Then I pulled hard on his leg and pushed all of my weight against him.
“Wha?” Confusion flashed over his face—confusion so pure, it was almost comical. He stumbled backward and landed hard on his back and I threw myself on top of him, straddling him at the waist, making myself as heavy as possible. I planted my hands on his biceps, pinning him in place, and gave him one of my imperious looks.
“You do not kickbox,” I said. “Admit it, you were trying to distract me.”
“I . . . no, of course not, I . . . ow!” he yelped as I pressed myself more firmly against him, throwing my weight on top of his solar plexus. “Why are you pressing so hard? Are you using telekinesis?”
“I don’t need to,” I said. “I’m just that strong.”
“Okay, okay! Yes!” he gasped out. “I hate seeing you go into that spiral of feeling bad about yourself. You used to do it all the time with your parents and now you do it with Evie—”
“I thought you wanted me to feel bad about Evie!” I eased up on him so he could breathe a little easier. “I thought you wanted me to feel bad about everything! Isn’t that why you were so pissed off at me for so long? Why you avoided me? Why even when we started talking again, it was like you could barely stand me, like you’d rather be anywhere than trapped in a room . . . with me . . .” I trailed off as the words clogged in my throat again, threatening to turn into tears. I swallowed hard and let go of his arms, sitting up straight. Still straddling him, but no longer putting all my weight into it. Tears filled my eyes, and I wobbled. Fuck. Why was I letting myself get so upset?
His hands went to my hips and steadied me, saving me from toppling over. He met my eyes and there was something soft and sad there, something I couldn’t quite define. A hint of that intensity I’d seen at the bakery, rising to the surface.
I realized that we were locked in an extremely intimate position, that my hands had somehow come to rest on his chest, that I could feel muscle and heat and his ragged breathing. And I could feel all of these things everywhere. In my palms pressed against his chest. On my hips, cradled by his hands. And especially at the point where I was straddling him.
Yes, I definitely felt it there.
My own breathing turned ragged.
That haze of sensations descended on me again, and I couldn’t process a single thought beyond what I was feeling in that moment. Nothing beyond him.
I’ve always had a certain stance on sex. Chiefly, that it seemed messy and awkward and not worth the hassle. My first excruciating, fumbling encounter was back in high school, right after Evie and Scott had done the deed. I was annoyed that 1) Evie had punched the V-Card first and 2) it had been with Scott. I decided I’d better get to it quickly. I went on a date with some loser Sophie set me up with, and we got semi-amorous in his childhood treehouse, which was crawling with all kinds of disgusting vermin. He knew what went where, but that was about it. In preparation for the experience, I’d studied up on female sexual response, so I tried to instruct him on the finer points of what a curious teenage girl might prefer. He did not take that well and kicked me out before I’d even reached the plateau phase of arousal. I had to make a slow, perilous walk of shame down the rickety treehouse steps: devirginized, but completely unsatisfied.
I’d had a few interludes after, but they’d all gone about the same, and when I’d made the commitment to being Aveda Jupiter, I simply didn’t have time to pursue such things further. I got myself a vibrator, learned all the best techniques for making use of it, and relied on that to relieve all urges and unwanted tension. After all, who knew what I liked better than me? Bringing another person into the equation seemed like an unnecessarily complicated proposition. Since getting together with Nate, Evie had tried to tell me what it was like to lose yourself in someone, how much better sex could be if you let go of your inhibitions and got wrapped up in the moment (and also managed to find a partner who actually knew what they were doing), but I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
Until now. With Scott all hot and hard beneath me. Now I could definitely see it.
Even when he’d kissed me all those years ago, it hadn’t felt like this. It had been soft, sweet, romantic. A teenage fantasy made real. This was nothing like that. This was urgent. Wild and necessary.
Our gazes locked. Neither of us could look anywhere else. It was like we were sparring again, caught in the kickboxing dance. But this time, I had no idea who was leading. My ponytail had come undone when I knocked him to the floor and my hair fell around my face, making me feel caged in. The flush warming my cheeks deepened.
His hands moved over my hips and up my back, coaxing yet firm. He pressed his fingertips against my back, urging me to fold toward him, and suddenly I was basically lying on top of him: chest to chest, my hands trapped between us, every part of us touching. I could feel his breath, warm on my face. His eyes searched mine, stripped of anything teasing or gentle or silly. They were raw with want, with need.
That’s how I felt, too. Like every cell in my body needed to be closer to him, even though we were currently positioned as close as two people could be. The sensations washing over me intensified and my nipples tightened against the hard muscles of his chest and I was all nerve endings again and oh my god—
He kissed me.
It was not soft. It was not sweet. It was all fire, all demand. His tongue sliding against mine, his hands tangling in my hair. He flipped me onto my back and now there was no question of who was leading. It was him. And goddammit, I’d follow him anywhere.
His hand gripped my hip and pulled me tighter against him so I could feel . . . oh, god
. Yes. That. That long, hard length pressed right between my legs. I moaned against his mouth, and he let out something that was half gasp and half growl, a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him, and I was so overwhelmed—
“Knock, knock!” Lucy’s voice rang out through the gym. We both froze, all tangled up in each other. Then instinct kicked in; I managed to push off from his chest and we sort of rolled away from each other.
Lucy bounced in, grinning away, then stopped and cocked an eyebrow at us. We may have been untangled and apart, but we were still sprawled in completely awkward positions on the floor, skin slick with sweat, breathing hard.
“Well,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry to interrupt the extreme physical fitness that’s obviously taking place here. But the time has come and we must depart for Maisy’s boutique.”
Right. I took a few deep inhalations, centering myself, trying to breathe out the sensations that had overtaken me.
Time to kick some invisible puppy demon ass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I COULDN’T BREATHE. Fear gripped my heart like an icy hand, each cold finger wrapping around my most vital organ until my entire chest felt frozen. I opened my mouth, dying to scream, but no sound came out beyond a pathetic little “eep.” I willed myself not to faint on the spot.
Aveda Jupiter does not faint. Even in the face of horrors untold. Even when confronted with the most horrifying thing of all time, more terrible than fanged cupcakes, megalomaniacal demon princesses, and stray puppy demons combined.
I forced my breath out so I could keep myself upright. So I could face it. So I could take down this awful monster, this thing they kept saying was—
“Your bridesmaid dress!” shrieked Evie. “Do you love it?”
It was the worst thing I’d ever seen.
It had a high neckline, a scratchy-looking lace bodice, and a drop waist festooned with a big-ass bow. You would think it couldn’t get any worse after the drop waist, but you would be wrong. That atrocity flowed into a tiered—tiered—satin skirt and was topped off with puffy sleeves so enormous they looked like shoulder pads that had gained sentience and were trying to eat the rest of the dress. And the whole thing was done up in that special color that only existed on the bridal spectrum of the eighties: seafoam green.
I opened my mouth again and only managed a croak. We were huddled in one of the Pussy Queen dressing rooms with Shruti, waiting for the photo shoot to begin. Maisy had drafted Dave to film the proceedings—even if we didn’t attract the puppy demon, she’d have another viral video on her hands. As usual, I couldn’t help but admire her ingenuity while also being slightly appalled.
I’d go first in this monstrosity, then Evie would reveal her glorious bridal wear. I stared at the dress, wondering if Scott had a spell that would change it into something else entirely.
Okay, time to remember: this event was primarily for supernatural evil-fighting purposes.
But what would my adoring fans think when they saw me in this? Well . . . maybe they wouldn’t care. They seemed a lot less adoring these days.
“You chose this, Evie?” I said, just to make sure I had the sequence of events right.
“Evie and I wanted to surprise you!” Shruti crowed.
“Did it work?” Evie asked, clapping her hands together.
“Oh, definitely,” I murmured. “I’m definitely surprised.”
As my assistant, Evie had chosen clothes for me before, particularly when superheroing became so overwhelming I needed her to take on more of my day-to-day tasks. She’d most famously chosen a dress for me to wear to a benefit that was sparkly and gorgeous, but also kind of see-through. Evie had ended up wearing it while she was posing as me, and Maisy had taken notice and posted a rather catty write-up.
But Evie had never selected anything this flat-out dreadful before.
“It’s a little old school,” Shruti said, fingering the satin. The material was so shiny, light reflected off of it in a way that felt almost violent. Like it was stabbing me in the eye. “I found this stash of eighties pieces at one of those clothes-by-the-pound places last month and thought I could put them out around Halloween time. But Evie was adamant that you would want something super unique.”
“It’s very unique,” I said, trying to sound as if this was a positive attribute. “But I’m a little concerned it will clash with the red in Evie’s gown.” I gestured to Evie, who was already wearing her show-stopping mermaid number with the little scarlet flowers.
“Not to worry, everything goes with that lovely bit of bridal finery,” Shruti said, beaming at Evie.
Evie’s smile wavered and she tugged at the bodice. “Everything except my desire to eat ice cream,” she said. “It’s kind of tight. And scratchy.”
Really, scratchy? Compared to what she wanted me to wear?
“The shape is so dramatic,” Shruti continued. “Very reminiscent of a Marcus Wong. But it isn’t, right?”
“It doesn’t have a tag, so I’m not sure who designed it,” I said. “But as I was saying, I wouldn’t want to do anything that draws attention away from the bride.”
“Oh, Annie.” Evie took my hand. “You know I don’t care about stuff like that. I want you to have something dramatic, flamboyant—the type of thing you love! And I thought it would be fun to go really vintage with it.”
“How . . . nice,” I said, giving her a weak smile. The Aveda of old would have definitely thrown the hissyfit of all hissyfits over this.
“What about the dress I asked you to order, Shruti?” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral as I pictured my gorgeous scarlet sheath floating into the ether.
“Not to worry, I never placed the order,” Shruti said with a grin. “That confirmation number I gave you was totally fake. All part of maintaining the ruse!” She nudged Evie and they giggled conspiratorially.
“Mmm,” I said, not trusting myself to say more. You are no longer the hissyfit-throwing type, I reminded myself sternly.
Especially given that I really didn’t want to do anything that would make Evie distrust me further. She already felt she couldn’t confide in me about where she wanted the engagement party, and anyway, we had more important things to worry about right now. Like drawing out the puppy demon and kicking its incorporeal ass before it could wreak any more havoc on innocent brides-to-be.
“I love it—of course I love it,” I said, making my smile more convincing.
Dave popped his head in and surveyed the scene, his face bearing its usual dazed look.
“Fortune favors the bold,” he said, handing Shruti a pair of champagne cocktails. They were golden with a small burst of orange in the middle.
“Ah,” Shruti said, taking the glasses from him. “I think that means it’s just about showtime, girls.”
“A small frog knows when to leap,” Dave said, nodding, then ducked back out.
“This is Dave’s special cocktail for today,” Shruti said, passing us the drinks. “It actually looks pretty good—especially served in the correct glass instead of one of his old mugs. I believe we’re calling it the Firestarter, in honor of Evie, the bride. Oh, but Aveda, I know you don’t like to drink during the day.”
“I’ll make an exception for such a special occasion,” I said, downing a big gulp of the thing. I eyed the bridesmaid dress again. And took another gulp. Shruti gave us an encouraging nod and exited.
“All right,” I said, throwing one last side-eye at the green monstrosity in front of me. “Let’s do this thing.”
I straightened my power ponytail and wriggled out of my clothes and into the dress, trying not to grimace as the cheap lace bodice rubbed against my skin.
“Attention! Attention, please, y’all!” We heard Maisy trill.
Wait. “Y’all?” Who was she talking to? Our little crew? I knew they were positioned around the store: Lucy with the scann
er, Nate and Bea with the trap, Scott prepping his spell. I peered through the cracked dressing room door. The store was closed for the event, but a small crowd had formed outside and was trying to get a glimpse through the front door. Which Maisy had cordoned off with a bit of fancy gold rope, but otherwise left open.
“Maisy!” I hissed.
“Excuse me!” she said to the crowd, then hustled over to the dressing room door.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “No one else was supposed to be here! We purposely didn’t release the time or date of the shoot! We’re supposed to be keeping civilians out of the line of fire, remember?”
“Oh. Well. Yes.” Her glowing eyes darted back and forth. “I might have tweeted that we’d be closed during the hours of twelve and four today and I guess people picked up on the hint!”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s all you said?”
Her eyes were shifting around so fast now, they were basically a blur. “I . . . might have . . . used a hashtag.”
“Which was?”
She muttered something.
“Speak up!” I growled.
“#specialsecretsuperherobrideevent,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes. Great. Now we had the extra complication of trying to protect innocent San Franciscans from whatever chaos the puppy demon might cause. “Tell Lucy to guard the door. No one gets in.”
Maisy nodded and skittered off. The buzz of the crowd picked up as she whispered to Lucy, who took up her post by the door. I leaned forward, trying to catch snippets of what people were saying. Maybe that would at least tell me if our nefarious stray puppy demon was making itself known.
“. . . I heard she had something custom-made . . .”
“. . . not a traditional bride—and that’s why we love her . . .”
“. . . do you think she’ll wear a veil . . .”
Hmm. Nothing about that sounded particularly evil.
“Oh! Should I wear a veil?” Evie squeaked into my ear. She’d sidled up next to me and was also trying to listen to the crowd.
