Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  More from Asta Idonea

  Readers love Asta Idonea

  About the Author

  By Asta Idonea

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Super for You, Bad for Me

  By Asta Idonea

  Life—and love—doesn’t follow a script.

  Struggling actor Oswell Outterridge thinks he’s hit the jackpot when he’s chosen to play a scene opposite his idol, Kane Teague, in a superhero movie. However, things take an unexpected turn when the slime he accidentally ingests gives him telekinetic powers. Then Kane asks him out, against all expectation, and it seems that life couldn’t get any better—aside from the little matter of keeping his identity secret from his celebrity boyfriend.

  Oswell goes from a nobody with little social life and few prospects for the future to dating the man of his dreams and using his superhuman abilities to defend innocents. Everything is perfect, and it seems he’s finally achieved a happily ever after worthy of the silver screen. But when a supervillain arrives, determined to defeat Oswell and win Kane’s affections, everything falls apart. In the ensuing conflict, Kane gets caught in the crossfire, and Oswell faces his toughest fight yet. Can he remain the hero he’s always imagined himself, or will a dark desire for vengeance change him forever?

  Prologue

  I’M SUPPOSED to begin by introducing myself, but that seems a strange task when everyone already knows me, by one name or another—something for which I’ve longed almost my entire life, though certainly not in the way it came about. Which name? Which reputation? I guess that depends on your point of view. Nevertheless, whatever you may think you know about me from the news and social media, I promise you, it isn’t the whole truth. When anyone with a smartphone and an online profile can pen their own headlines, the facts soon become skewed. That’s why I’m here, writing my tale. It’s my one chance to set the record straight. At least, that’s what they all tell me.

  Good and evil. Black and white. Hell, even yin and yang. It’s never as clear-cut as it might first appear, and so much depends upon your point of view. Inside every hero is a villain, trying to claw his way out. Within every villain, a hero waits to burst free. There’s often a damned fine line between the two, and the catalyst can be anything, from the sublime to the ridiculous. For Dr. Jekyll—he of literary fame—it was a potion. For me, it was a man. Still, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. If I’m going to tell this right, I need to start at the beginning.

  Don’t worry, there’s no need to go back too far. I won’t force you to sit through my birth, my early childhood, or my adolescence. The first is too slimy—or at least I assume so, having no memories of the moment—the next was free from all but the most mundane of playground traumas and all too forgettable, and as for the latter…. Well, who wants to live through puberty a second time? No, for this tale we need only rewind the clock twelve short months. Just goes to show you, a lot can happen in the space of a year. The passage of time may work its changes, but sometimes everything you thought you knew can turn on its head in the blink of an eye.

  Let’s set the scene, shall we?

  Establishing shot: a flat-pack city built in the middle of a large backlot. At an initial glance, it’s realistic, sure, but look closer and you’ll realize that the lived-in grunge is the result of hours of careful painting, rather than natural erosion by the elements. The bricks aren’t real bricks, and the glass isn’t real glass. A strong gust of wind could send the buildings crashing down. Don’t worry, though; they’ll fix any lingering telltale signs of fakery in postproduction.

  The medium shot takes us to the main street. Individual pedestrians are visible now, each costumed and made up like… well, like themselves. It’s a modern-era setting, but wearing one’s own clothes is a big no-no. The colors of this fake casual wear are skillfully coordinated to create the perfect mundane blend of blues and browns. I heard someone say these tones are supposed to reflect the hero’s emotions at this point in the tale. I don’t know if that’s true, but I can say one thing for certain: reality has no place on the screen.

  Time to zoom in for the close-up; don’t you agree?

  Picture me, Oswell Outterridge, twenty-eight years old, an up-and-coming actor on the set of my latest blockbuster. Well, maybe not my blockbuster exactly. If I’m going to do this, I suppose I ought to be truthful in all matters. Thing is, I was only a professional extra in the movie I’m describing, same as the last six flicks in which I’d “starred.” My top performances up until this point in my humble narrative involved sitting in cafes sipping coffee or wandering dazed through the carnage after an explosion, and at the start, this one looked set to be no different. You see, all my expensive dramatic training notwithstanding, my face is a background face—nondescript, average, and utterly forgettable. I flatter myself that I’m a tolerable actor, maybe even a good one, with, as I’ve always liked to believe, the potential for greatness in time. Sadly, that means nothing these days unless paired with majestic mien and fabulous figure. If I don’t point myself out to you during the two seconds when you can glimpse my profile or the top of my head in a crowd shot, you’ll watch the films in which I’ve appeared and never truly see me. I’m an ant among ants, a speck among specks. Story of my life, really, until last year….

  Chapter One

  THE MORNING in question started much like any other, with an early call to get us nameless extras costumed, made-up, and in place before the A-listers descended the steps of their private trailers and joined us. Today we were shooting some action scenes: the bad guy terrorizing the city and its inhabitants, only for the hero to foil his plans. I was psyched for the day ahead since it would mark my first time working alongside Kane Teague, however distantly. Enter our hero—both figuratively and literally as it happens, for Kane played the title character in this superhero picture but was also my personal idol, having held the coveted position of “Oswell’s Favorite Actor” for nearly three years, uncontested. I’d adored him ever since his breakout role as the love interest in a soppy romantic comedy, and I’d followed his subsequent meteoric rise like a hawk. I watched his every appearance and scrapbooked each press clipping. I collected a million stray facts about him from social media—even those obviously untrue—and I voted for him multiple times in all the online polls, especially those that crowned him sexiest or best-dressed man of the year. However, I’d never shared a set with him until now.

  Kane Teague was everything I wished I could be. He stood at an impressive six foot two, dwarfing my less noble stature. Muscles that in me seemed nonexistent, in him were toned and expertly formed. Whereas my hair flopped into my eyes and hung lank unless carefully tended, his locks shone, always healthy and bouncy, never a strand out of place. Perhaps an impressive team of makeup artists and hairstylists contributed to that, but I’d always believed that, for the most part, it was pr
edominantly a genetic gift, the likes of which neither nature nor my parents had seen fit to bestow upon me. A chiseled chin, razor-sharp cheekbones, milk-chocolate-brown eyes with thick, dark lashes, and the most perfectly proportioned nose ever seen outside of Greco-Roman sculpture completed the picture. Not to mention that he was an amazing actor, on par with the greats such as Olivier, Brando, Irons, Fiennes, and Fassbender. Ours was a strange imaginary romance, for while I worshipped him as both the embodiment of my sexual fantasies and as a talented actor, I also envied him—just a little.

  I suppose it’s always the same. We look up to the heroes we wish to emulate; nevertheless, a part of us desires them gone since they keep the spotlight from us. In the case of those actors who garner way more praise than they deserve, as least in my humble opinion, it’s easy to harbor a pocket of resentment in the corner of one’s mind. With Kane Teague, such a state of minor, occasional animosity took a lot of work to cultivate.

  The guy was so damned likable, never displaying the slightest hint of ego or arrogance in any of his interviews. He gave his free time to support several notable (and noble) charities. Despite his success, rumor had it he lived in a modest London dwelling, refusing to trade his homeland for Hollywood glamour and LA nights. There weren’t any digs or attempts at backstabbing from former costars, nor from his small number of reported former love interests. Even the rampant Internet trolls left him alone. Nourishing that nugget of discord against him was, therefore, quite the task. Yet it was important. It kept me just the right side of out-and-out infatuation, from which I knew there would be no return. Hero worship was one thing; obsession was not so great.

  But I digress.

  This particular morning was, as I said, like any other. That is, until the director, Barry Hidgkin, approached. Barry’s star was in the decline. His last decent film of any note had premiered eight years ago, and he clearly hoped that a big summer-release superhero flick, coupled with Kane Teague’s star power, would provide the perfect vehicle for his comeback. In spite of that, and his brusque manner, I’d grown fond of Barry’s old-school style of direction during the course of the shoot so far, and I listened carefully when he cleared his throat and addressed us in his usual nasal whine.

  “We want to get a shot of one of Paul’s goons attacking a civilian with his slime gun. One of you needs to take the hit. Then Kane will sweep in and rescue you. Volunteers?”

  It sounded heavenly, and constituted a featured spot, so it came as no surprise when everyone shot a hand into the air. Barry, apparently unfazed by the resoundingly enthusiastic response, surveyed the offerings with a critical pout. I tried to look enthusiastic but not desperate, holding my hand as high as I could without obviously straining. When Barry’s gaze passed over me and moved on, my disappointment was acute, but a moment later, he looked my way again, his eyes meeting mine. He pointed a podgy finger.

  “You’ll do. Come over here and I’ll show you your mark.”

  My smile was so wide, it threatened to split my face. Envious glowers surrounded me on all sides as I shoved my way through the crowd and skipped after Barry, who grabbed my shoulders and maneuvered me into the position he wanted. While he poked and prodded and mumbled instructions, I played the role of pliable puppet and I held my pose. Barry reviewed his work for a moment, then nodded. He took a step back, only to pause midturn when a member of the special effects team skidded to a halt beside us.

  The newcomer took a second to catch his breath and slid his precariously balanced glasses back into place. “Mr. Hidgkin, I’m afraid there’s a problem with the slime.”

  “What?” Barry’s brow furrowed so deeply, I thought his entire head might cave in. “Don’t tell me we’ll have to abandon the shot! Everything else is ready. We’ll have wasted two hours!”

  Reality descended upon me, as subtle as a ton of bricks emptied over my head. I should have known it was too good to be true. For a moment there, I’d persuaded myself that this scene was my ticket to stardom, my stepping stone to greater things. After three long years at drama school and six films sans recognition, I would, at last, see my name on the cast list. Slimed Civilian: Oswell Outterridge. Not top billing by any means, but still, I’d be there, my name appearing toward the end of the scrolling credits, while a B-list pop star, desperate for extra cash and exposure, warbled a closing song utterly unrelated to the movie.

  The announcement of the slime setback ripped my dreams to shreds. If the shot didn’t take place today, this minute, Barry might forget about me. By the time we rescheduled, he might pick someone else for the scene. And even if he did recall his previous choice, I knew from old interviews of his that I’d read, he was deeply superstitious. What if he decided using me in the shot was a bad omen, given the problems with this first attempt?

  I sucked in a breath and waited to hear my fate. At the same time, I studied this harbinger of doom. I vaguely remembered meeting him in the queue at the food truck the first day on set. He had an old-fashioned sounding name. Larry? Lawrence? Leopold?

  The guy—whatever his name was—shook his head, his bony shoulders hunched and his demeanor that of a startled rabbit in the headlights. “No, sir, we can still shoot.”

  The words rekindled my hope, and I mentally crossed fingers, toes, legs, arms, and eyes. Hell, I’d have crossed kidneys and spleen, too, if I’d thought it would help.

  “The issue is, someone forgot to mix the slime last night.” His careful emphasis made it clear that he was not the guilty party and had no intention of being taken as such. “I’ve made up a quick batch this morning, with some of the leftovers from the other day, but at present we only have enough for one take. The others are preparing more now, but it won’t be usable for a couple of hours at least.”

  “Get what we have ready, then.” Barry waved away the fellow and turned to me. “Hear that? You need to nail this first time. Reckon you can do that for me, kid?”

  Had anyone else called me “kid” at twenty-eight, I’d have been offended. This was Barry Hidgkin, however, so instead, I had to fight the sudden, inexplicable urge to snap to attention and salute him.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hidgkin. I’ll do my absolute best. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

  I feared I’d come across a little too eager. Nonetheless, something in either my words or my poise must have satisfied Barry of my honest intent, for he gave another of his habitual, sharp nods and strode across the lot, yelling instructions in all directions.

  Left alone, I ran over my own orders again and again. React to the bad guy’s arrival. Cower as he aims the weapon at me. Take the blow, falling back onto the mat. Then let Kane aid me to stand, thanking him profusely before he dashes off to continue the battle. It seemed straightforward and difficult to mess up.

  Dear acting gods, I prayed, don’t let me make a hash of it. Don’t let me foul up what could be the single most important screen test of my career, the make-or-break moment for my acting aspirations.

  I waited in position while crew members dashed to and fro, setting props in place, bringing in the boom, and checking light readings for the cameras. Predictably, my bladder chose that moment to decide it was full, but I pushed the desire to pee as far to the back of my mind as I could. It was probably a phantom sensation linked to the butterflies dancing in the pit of my stomach, and even if it were real, I had to hold it until after the take. I couldn’t risk stepping out of frame now.

  At last, I spotted Kane, in full superhero garb, entering the set. God, he looked divine. I decided he wore Lycra even better than period attire, and that was saying something because he’d made a delectable Daniel Deronda and could certainly fill out a pair of breeches. In a few moments I would act a scene with him. I couldn’t believe my luck. Although, the force of that realization only served to increase my jitters and the urgent need to take a leak.

  Kane conferred with Barry, glanced in my direction (offering a wide smile of greeting that made my pulse soar), then moved to his mark. The actor playing
my adversary took up his spot, slime-filled prop held at the ready, and Barry settled behind the cameras. At the call of “Action!”, I threw myself into the scene, giving it everything I had. I trembled. I cringed. I raised my hands to try to block the blow. During the wait, I’d planned how I would fall and land. However, acting in that moment proved unnecessary.

  The slime struck me, harder, faster, and thicker than I’d expected. Between my surprise and the force of the blow, it was impossible to stay on my feet, even had I so wished. The impact flung me back, arms and legs flailing, and I couldn’t repress what I feared was a girly shriek. Opening my mouth turned out to be an error of judgment, regardless of any potential emasculation, however, because the slime slid down my face and between my parted lips, the viscous substance threatening to choke me as it stuck to teeth, tongue, and throat. Distracted by the unpleasant sensation, I forgot to prepare for impact and the landing jarred my back, sending pain shooting down my spine. In that instant, I wasn’t thinking about the scene as I winced and wailed, coughed and contorted.

  A hand appeared in my field of vision and my gaze roamed up the attached arm, in imitation of a low-angle shot, until I found Kane Teague’s face. He peered down at me, and I read concern in his bright hazel eyes. But it was impossible to tell if the worry was real and for me personally or if he was merely acting, responding to my character’s predicament. As dreadful as I felt, I still retained the belief that my career rested on making a good impression in this scene, so I tried to project relief and gratitude in my smile when I took the proffered hand and let Kane tug me to my feet. Upright once more, I expounded my effusive thanks as Kane struck a heroic pose and then dashed to the left, calling to Paul’s villain, challenging him to face him, man to man, and spare innocent bystanders.

  “Cut.”

  I jumped. Lost in daydreams, watching Kane—Okay, I confess, my gaze had fixed firmly on his tights-clad arse—I’d completely forgotten where I was and what I was doing. I hunched my shoulders and turned to ascertain Barry’s response to this dereliction of duty, but he wasn’t scowling; he was smiling. Since the smile didn’t appear too sinister, I took the action to be a good sign, and I relaxed.