by Sarah Kuhn
“Of course not,” Evie said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure Rose doesn’t think that either. She was just frustrated.”
I plucked another petit four from the box and attempted to eat it in a more ladylike fashion, nibbling the frosting around the edges. “Please,” I said, gesturing to our feast, “share this with me. And tell me the latest in our supernatural findings. I missed out on some things while recovering from my wounds.” (And moping, but I didn’t say that out loud.)
“The karaoke championship’s canceled for the night,” Evie said. “Annie and I went back and spoke with Kevin—he admitted that he concealed his karaoke past.”
“And his age,” Aveda muttered.
“But he swore up and down he wasn’t lying about anything else,” Evie said. “Professed over and over again how he would never do anything to hurt his beloved championship or place of business.”
“That does seem in line with his past behavior,” I said. “Why would he want to sabotage the one thing he seems to hold dear?”
“So maybe that means Celine is the liar,” Aveda said. “Maybe she and her mother never came to the bar before and she invented a needlessly elaborate backstory.”
“She was pretty weird when I tried to question her during the photo shoot,” I mused. “She kept giving me these very non-committal half answers.”
“But does being a liar mean she’s also working with demonic forces?” Evie said, nibbling thoughtfully on a petit four.
“If there’s one true thing about her . . . I mean, she seems to love to shine like the star she is,” I said. “Derailing the championship derails the opportunity to do just that. I don’t see a motive.”
Aveda’s eyes narrowed. “Unless she was trying to get her competition out of the way—that would be you.”
I mulled that over. Would Celine really have attacked herself twice just so she wouldn’t seem suspicious when the demonic mics turned their attention to me?
“We’ve tried to track Celine down, but no one can find her,” Evie said. “No one even knows how to start looking for her. It’s like she appeared out of the ether two days ago.”
“Meanwhile, Nate analyzed our toothy microphone friends,” Aveda said. “There’s the barest hint of energy still present in the pieces of the one that attacked you, Lucy, so he’s keeping it under close observation. And closer analysis of the energy did reveal a couple of clues.”
“The main source of the energy is still the Pussy Queen Portal,” Evie said, picking up the thread. “But this particular energy—Nate found an obscure code buried deep inside of it. A code that’s only showed up one other time.”
I cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her, my mouth full of sheet-cake petit four.
“Evie’s karaoke battle against Maisy—the one where she was disguised as me!” Aveda crowed. “Somehow it’s linked to that.”
“What?!” I said, shaking my head.
“Nate’s theory is that it’s not a portal, exactly, but like . . . a snag,” Evie said. “A little opening at The Gutter that’s letting in tiny bits of energy, which attempt to grab on to inanimate objects, like the mics.”
“Evil static cling,” Aveda snorted. “In any case, the snag seems to close up pretty quickly every time it opens, taking the energy with it. But somehow, it keeps getting pulled open again. And we’re guessing this will be a recurring problem if we can’t figure out how to patch it up for good.”
“But Evie’s battle with Maisy was a year and a half ago,” I said, trying to make sense of it all. “Why are we just having these problems now?”
“Nate thinks the battle caused the snag to form at The Gutter,” Aveda said. “But it was like a crack that needed a certain amount of pressure to finally split open.”
“And the Pussy Queen Portal gave it that pressure in the form of a wee extra dose of supernatural energy?” I said. “But that portal started giving us these kinds of problems six months ago. So again, why now?”
“Who knows?” Aveda said, throwing up her hands. “Who knows why anything happens the way it does in this city?”
“There’s likely a specific trigger, on top of the portal energy. Or something that was enhanced by the portal energy. If Celine is involved, maybe it has something to do with her,” Evie said. “But we’ve concluded, as we so often do, that we need to sleep on it.” She heaved a long sigh. “Nothing more seems to be happening at The Gutter at the moment. The attacks that did happen were, thankfully, fairly short and confined. And a lot of what we have right now is kind of . . . dead-endish.”
We contemplated all of that for a moment, chewing our food in silence. As we ate, I felt bits of warmth weaving their way into my bad mood. We hadn’t really solved anything, but somehow, surrounded by good food and kind friends, my mope felt lighter.
“Thank you, by the way,” I said, smiling at Evie and Aveda. “This . . .” I gestured to the spread. “It’s just lovely.”
“Okay, so now let’s talk about the non-supernatural elephant in the room,” Aveda said, regarding me shrewdly as she popped the last bite of petit four into her mouth.
“Annie,” Evie said. “Don’t push her—”
“I am going to push her,” Aveda retorted. “She needs to be pushed.” She trained her gaze on me, her focus intense. “Lucy. We need to address the primary reason for the bad mood that required this delicious second dinner we’re currently enjoying. Evie told me what Rose said to you at The Gutter. And Rose is right—you don’t let people know you. I mean, Evie’s one of your best friends and she had to get me to call your mom to figure out your favorite foods.”
“Again, didn’t actually ask you to do that,” Evie said.
“Not everyone is as obsessed with food as you two,” I muttered, picking lint off my nightgown’s lacy neckline.
“But still,” Aveda pressed. “It’s odd that she didn’t know that.”
“Luce.” Evie’s voice was soft and projecting so much pure empathy, I flinched. “It is odd. And all that stuff with your dad, you only just told me about today. We’ve known each other for years.”
“I don’t talk about that,” I said, my voice harsher than I intended.
“Okay, fair, but the point stands,” Evie continued. “There’s a lot of stuff I don’t know about you. You always manage to deflect whenever anything’s getting too real. You turn the conversation to something else or make a joke to keep it fun or . . . or . . .”
“Start enthusing about the finer points of knives and British murder shows,” Aveda said.
“All very important parts of my personality,” I countered.
“I know, I just . . .” Evie shook her head. “You keep saying you’re incapable of opening up, but you won’t even try.”
“Because I know how it will end,” I retorted. “I tried with my father—”
“Your father’s an asshole,” Evie snapped.
“And . . . and I did try again,” I continued, ignoring her. “I had a girlfriend during my bouncer days. Antoinette—a statuesque redhead with a penchant for weight training and bad horror movies. Everything was lovely when we were doing all the fun date-y things. Then the minute I wasn’t feeling so fun—which, by the way, was on Christmas, because I always feel a little sad on Christmas, what with all its happy traditional family imagery . . . I tried to tell her that. I tried to tell her how my mama’s always sad on Christmas, too, because she misses her parents. How she always tries to call them on Christmas, and they still won’t answer. And how that means that I can’t be sad because I have to put on a brave face and entertain her and ensure that she feels not one iota of guilt for my less than ideal childhood.”
“You said all that?” Evie said, goggling at me. “Like, out loud?”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Yes. There may have even been some tears—in that moment, I was definitely not the fun, badass, weapons-obs
essed girl Antoinette had been so taken with. I was sad and messy and . . . not fun. She cut off all contact and got a new bouncing gig somewhere else. She ghosted me.”
“I hate Antoinette so much already,” Aveda muttered.
“So you see,” I said, “it has not gone well when I’ve tried to open up to people even a little. Therefore, I no longer know how to do that. Therefore, Rose and I can never be. I simply can’t hurt her like that.”
“Wait a minute—I know what’s going on here.” Aveda held up a hand, imperious look taking over. The fact that she had sheet-cake frosting smudged on the corner of her mouth did nothing to diminish her authority. “Lucy. You say you don’t want to inflict yourself on Rose because you don’t want to hurt her. But you’re the one who’s scared of getting hurt—because that’s what’s happened whenever you’ve really opened up to someone.”
“But—” I sputtered.
“But nothing,” Aveda said, holding up a hand again and leveling me with her piercing gaze. “Trust me, I am the master here. The feelings master.”
“Not exactly how I would refer to you,” Evie murmured.
“I’ve always been afraid of showing people who I really am—because I’m afraid they won’t like what they see,” Aveda said. “You’re afraid of that, too. Because you have had the misfortune of only opening yourself up to complete dicks.”
“So you keep making all these excuses as to why you’re denying yourself what you really want,” Evie chimed in.
“I—I’m not afraid!” I protested. “I mean, yes, I don’t always talk about all my feelings. I don’t think it’s attractive to blabber on and on about how I’m pining for Rose. How I absolutely seethed with jealousy when she smiled over Celine’s dazzling performance. And speaking of seething jealousy, it’s also quite unattractive to reveal how much it bothers me that Celine might take my karaoke crown. Because then I might have to admit that it’s important to me, the thing I base so much of my identity around, the one thing I have that’s just mine, away from all the superheroine pageantry.”
I stopped and took a breath. I hadn’t really planned on verbally vomiting that mess up, but it felt surprisingly good to say it all out loud. Not that I’d ever admit it.
“Uh, anyway.” I nibbled on a petit four, trying to look prim and totally collected. “We don’t need to talk about any of this.”
I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps the same kind of rousing applause I was used to receiving after a karaoke performance.
Instead, I got the biggest eye-rolls I’d ever seen. From both of them.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lucy,” Aveda said, shaking her head. “You think you’re closing yourself off from potential bad feelings, but doing that is obviously making you fucking miserable.”
“She’s right,” Evie agreed, nodding emphatically. “I mean, you said it yourself: that devastation you felt with your dad was something you never wanted to feel again. But what you’re feeling now isn’t much better. You’re still upset about everything you just said, and you’re tying yourself into knots trying to act like you’re not.”
“And you overcompensate for not exposing yourself to big-time feelings by taking on everyone else’s,” Aveda said.
“Yes,” Evie said, pointing to Aveda. “Whether it’s trying to take care of all your mom’s emotional needs, but never showing her that you get sad sometimes too, or revealing how much her lie about your dad upended your world—”
“Or being our incredibly important superheroine support, but acting like you’re okay with only getting half the recognition,” Aveda chimed in.
“Or trying to match up Rose and Celine and make them both happy, but not admitting how much it hurts you,” Evie continued.
“My god.” I covered my face with my hands. “Since when do you two, of all people, feel qualified to dole out expertise about emotional health?”
“Let’s try something,” Aveda said, totally ignoring me. “Take whatever you think might happen out of the equation. And stop making excuses for why you can’t be with Rose. What do you want? If you’re thinking about it all stream-of-consciousness-like, with no limitations.”
“Front-burner that shit,” Evie said.
I paused, licking frosting off my lips. I wanted to refuse, but I knew they weren’t going to let this go. And Evie Tanaka’s stubbornness matched with Aveda Jupiter’s battering-ram tactics was perhaps an even more formidable combination than their actual superpowers. So I took a breath. I closed my eyes. And I just let my mind be for a moment.
What do I want?
Images flashed through my brain: Locked in battle alongside Rose, in perfect sync. Kissing Rose in the back room, allowing myself to luxuriate in the moment. Lying around with Rose on a lazy Sunday morning, taking forever to get out of bed, then venturing out into the crisp Bay Area air, the sun peeking through the cloud cover as we wandered on down to—
“Oh, fuck,” I said out loud. “The brunch. I want the brunch.”
I groaned, buried my face in my hands, and ignored Evie’s triumphant whisper of “I knew it!”
“So then you have to tell her,” Aveda urged. “Stop holding yourself back because you’re scared.”
“But . . .” I whispered.
Evie covered my hand with hers. “You’re not your dad. You’re not Antoinette—”
“Hate. Her,” muttered Aveda.
“You won’t hurt Rose,” Evie continued. “And I don’t think Rose will hurt you. But she’s worth the risk, don’t you think?”
I gnawed at my lower lip. My chest felt tight, my eyes felt teary, and answering that question felt like the most terrifying thing I’d ever had to do. I’d sooner take on an army of demonic cupcakes.
Aveda reached over and took my other hand. “I hired you because you’re the best,” she said, raising an imperious eyebrow at me. “And the best do not cower while their true love awaits them.”
I groaned again, the truth of it finally sinking into my bones.
“Darling,” I said slowly. “I hate to say this because I know you’re going to lord it over me forever, but: I think you may be right.”
Chapter Nine
I didn’t want to waste another moment. So even though the rain was still drizzling down, even though it was beyond brisk out, even though it was past midnight, I threw a puffy coat over my nightgown and stuffed my feet into galoshes and ran the half mile to Rose’s apartment.
I probably should have taken a cab or something, but all logic had fled my brain. When you’ve denied yourself something for so long, denied that you even wanted it in the first place . . . well, finally allowing yourself to soak in that want so fully feels like a whole sheet-cake of petit fours has just been set in front of you. I was ready to fucking gorge myself.
I skidded to a stop in front of Rose’s apartment building and rang the bell—perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for the late hour. A few moments later, Rose flung the door open, her face a mix of confused and aggravated. Giddiness surged through me. The fact that I could make Rose Rorick, master of stoicism, look aggravated must mean she felt as strongly as I did, and the fact that I could finally admit I felt so strongly made it all the better—
“Lucy.” Rose’s authoritative cop lady voice snapped me out of my reverie. “What are you doing here? And why are you . . .” Her brow creased, concern overtaking her face. “You’re soaking wet.”
I looked down and realized she was right—I hadn’t bothered to zip my puffy coat, and my lacy Victorian nightgown was now clinging to me in wet patches, water dripping into my galoshes. As if on cue, I started to shiver.
“Never mind that, darling,” I said firmly. “I’ve come here because I have to tell you something, I—”
“Lucy. Oh, for . . . come inside.” Rose took me by the elbow and guided me into the narrow hallway of her apartment building. I cast a sidelong glance
at her as she led me to her door. She was clad in what must have been her sleepwear—a tank top and boxer shorts. But the tank top was immaculate—spotless, wrinkle-free, pristine white. The shorts were similarly unrumpled.
I desperately wanted to rumple her.
We finally reached her apartment door, and she led me inside. I’d been there before, was familiar with the sharp angles and clean design of her small open space loft, her perfectly made bed sitting innocuously in the corner. But being here now—with Rose in her sleepwear, so late at night, the place illuminated only by a single bedside lamp . . . It felt more intimate. Calliope, her ancient, cantankerous cat, glared at me from her windowsill perch.
I swear to god, Calliope, if you ruin this big, dramatic moment I’ve planned . . .
“Okay,” Rose said, her demeanor brisk and business-like. “Take off your coat and those boots and I’ll get you a blanket. And some warm socks. The central heating in here is garbage, but I’ve got a space heater I can fire up that works pretty well—”
“Rose.” I tugged the hem of her tank top. “Please. I came here to tell you something, and I’ve prepared the most beautiful speech. It’s sort of like the confession speech the murderer always gives at the end of one of my British murder shows, only obviously I didn’t murder anyone, but it’s still just as elaborate, I thought about it all the way over here—”
“Lucy.” Rose shook her head, pushing my wet coat off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. She rubbed her hands up and down my arms, trying to warm them. “Honestly. Can you hold off on the speechifying until we get you warm? Or are you really that determined to catch pneumonia?”
I bristled with indignation—why did she keep cutting me off when I was trying to tell her something so vital?! I opened my mouth to respond, but was suddenly struck by the fact that Rose had slowed her rhythmic stroking of my arms, her eyes wandering downward . . .
