by Sarah Kuhn
“You were around her this morning. In fact, you guys teamed up on this whole plan thing.”
“That’s for you,” he interjected, his tone sharp. “I’m trying to save you from your fucked-up relationship with her. Maybe if I take away your fire power, you’ll finally have the guts to leave. Find another job. Find another life.” He took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “But me showing up for that doesn’t mean you can pull me into whatever craziness she’s managed to stir up.”
“It’s Bea, too!” I yelped. “Aveda’s supposed to be babysitting and Bea somehow managed to get both of them drunk and I’m stuck at this stupid party in this stupid dress and I’m worried they’re going to hurt themselves or, like, destroy San Francisco or—”
“All right, all right.” His voice turned weary, but the sharpness was still there. “I’ll go. But don’t call me next time. Not if it’s about Aveda. I mean it.”
“I—” I spluttered. But he’d already hung up. My hand clutched the phone in frustration and I had a sudden vision of squeezing hard enough to make it shatter. Evie smash.
“Goddammit,” I growled, stuffing the phone back into my clutch.
My dress constricted further against my skin, tighter and itchier than ever, and every crazy-making thing of the last fifteen minutes—my demon hallucination, Maisy’s cackling laugh, Aveda’s drunken slurs, Scott’s harsh tones—played back through my brain, each individual track fighting for attention, louder and louder until there was nothing but noise. The flush that had overtaken my face burned its way through my body like wildfire and my breathing started to come in panicked gasps and I couldn’t stop sweating.
I stumbled out of the stall, trying to slow my breathing. The tears came roaring back, flooding my eyes, determined to escape.
No. No crying. Invisible Girl would not approve.
I staggered over to one of the sinks and grabbed the edge, gripping hard, blinking the tears back.
At least Shasta and Maisy cleared out. At least there’s that, I thought. No one here to see my barely controlled freak-out. Which isn’t even a freak-out yet. Definitely not a freak-out. It’s . . . it’s . . .
I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the tiny circular mirrors above the sink. It was so tiny I could only see a small swatch of my face. One panicked eyeball. Half a gasping mouth. A few tendrils of hair escaping from my sophisticated updo, curling around my . . . wait! Curling?!
I’d forgotten to refresh my glamour.
I gripped the sink harder, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to think of nice things, calming things.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
And suddenly I was holding nothing but air.
My eyes flew open to see the sink hanging precariously from the wall by a single bolt. It creaked ominously and the bolt detached, sending the whole contraption crashing to the floor with a resounding crash.
Before I could process this, water exploded from the now-bared pipes, splattering aggressively onto the floor.
I tried to leap out of the way, but the last pipe burst just in time to spew in my direction, drenching me. I heaved myself out of the water’s path, frantically clawing at the heavy ropes of wet hair plastering themselves over my eyes.
“What on Earth is taking so long in here?”
My head jerked up and I saw Nate bursting through the door, glower firmly in place. He stopped abruptly, his expression morphing into total confusion as he took in the water sluicing out of the wall, the sink on the floor, and my bedraggled self. The tulle of my dress now hugged my body in a way that crossed the decency line and landed me in near-pornographic territory.
“I . . . came to get you. So you can, uh . . . announce the winners of the silent auction,” he said. His eyes couldn’t help but wander. Forget the “slips” Maisy and Shasta were so scandalized by. Now there were just straight-up nipples all over the place.
“Don’t look at that,” I gasped, crossing my arms over my chest. “Get out of here. I’ll fix this and get cleaned up and meet you back in the ballroom and . . . and . . .”
My words petered out in a pathetic little whine. He kept standing there, staring at me.
I felt exposed, exhausted. The tears I’d managed to keep at bay for the entire disastrous bathroom stint took advantage of my moment of weakness and spilled over.
And I’m cold, I realized. Really, really cold. My teeth started to chatter.
“I fucked it all up,” I blurted out. My voice caught on something that sounded dangerously like a sob. “I can’t even do a simple Aveda night out. I thought I’d girl-bonded with Maisy, but she thinks I’m a carb-crazy loser in a slutty dress. And I actually like this dress, so what does that say about my, what do you call it, taste level? And Bea managed to terrorize what I thought was a non-terrorizable space and Aveda let it happen. And Scott . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know why he had to get so mad at me. And then . . . then . . .”
I hiccupped and gestured helplessly at the ruined sink.
“You melted the sink off the wall?” His voice was a low rumble, a gentle version of his usual harsh tones.
I looked at the sink. The water had stopped pouring out of the pipes and the sink’s shape was different than before: blobby and deformed, like an abstract painting come to life. I brought one of my palms close to my face, examining it. Even though the rest of my body was freezing, my hand felt as if I’d just touched a stove.
“Yeah.” I stared at my palm and hiccupped again. “I guess that’s what happened.”
Nate took two wide steps, closing the gap between us. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shivering body.
“Aveda would have killed it tonight.” I resumed my babbling as he adjusted the jacket over my waterlogged form. “She would have schmoozed it up like a champ. She would have somehow, through sheer force of will, gotten those bitches to be her best friends. She would’ve made herself the hero of this sink disaster. And she would have pulled off this dress like nothing else.”
And she never would’ve hallucinated a fucking imaginary demon and thrown her shoes away trying to chase after it. I was too embarrassed to even vocalize that part.
I bit my lip, snuffling and shaking. Nate unhooked one of his cufflinks and used it to pin the jacket closed around me.
“We need to get you warm,” he said.
He frowned, intent on getting the jacket to close fully, unpinning and repinning the cufflink. I absorbed the cocoon-like warmth, the silk lining whispering over my skin. It smelled clean, fresh—like soap and spearmint and the air after a rainstorm.
“If we can trap some heat around you and get you out of here, you should be okay,” he said, readjusting the cufflink. He bent his head and leaned in closer, trying to get the pesky cufflink to cooperate, his breath warming the patch of exposed skin near my collarbone. A jolt of electricity ran through me, shock at the unexpected heat.
I wanted to start babbling again, but the words died in my throat. And as his fingertips closed over that cufflink, they brushed against that same patch of skin—that exposed, sensitive bit the jacket just wouldn’t seem to cover—and the electricity coursing through me intensified into a lightning bolt of pure feeling that shot through my body, arcing from head to toe and making a few very important pit stops in between.
“Sorry,” he murmured, still concentrating on the cufflink.
I barely heard him. I was too focused on this new feeling, a feeling so foreign—more than enjoyment, more than tears—that I had to stop and parse it for a full minute before I could identify it.
Lust.
Wait, what? Seriously? Lust?!?
But there was no denying it. My eyeballs were fastened to his long, graceful fingers closing over that cufflink, and I was making a special note of how long and graceful they were, how they seemed at odds with his big hands, his big body. I had the dim
realization that I’d never been this close to him, never had cause to study him in such detail. Whenever we were standing next to each other, we were usually fighting.
But now I was silent: unable to stop breathing deeply, unable to stop trying like mad to get more of the scent of his jacket into my lungs. My heartbeat sped up and I wondered if he could hear it. To me it seemed like the loudest thing in the room.
Heat flooded my cheeks. I should have been grateful for the extra warmth, but all I could think was, What the hell is wrong with me?
If I was going to feel lust for someone after all this time, why did it have to be him? Why not someone who didn’t aggravate me? Why not someone I wasn’t constantly at odds with? Why not someone I actually liked?
I gulped in a few mouthfuls of air, which only served to make me dizzy.
It’s because you’re vulnerable and cold, I thought wildly. You’re not used to being vulnerable or cold. You’ve just experienced emotional overload and he’s close and warm . . . and . . . and . . . Dead-Inside-O-Tron is malfunctioning. Or something. Oh my God, stop looking at his hands. Stop it.
“Aveda might’ve faked her way through small talk with those two awful women, but that’s all it would’ve been,” Nate said. “And she wouldn’t have been able to make herself the hero of the sink disaster because there wouldn’t have been a sink disaster. Because she can’t do what you do.”
Finally satisfied with the jacket/cufflink configuration, he nodded briskly. “Let’s sneak out. There appears to be an alternate exit behind that.” He gestured toward a partition I hadn’t noticed before at the far end of the bathroom. The partition was so whiter-than-white it practically blended in with the wall, but if I craned my neck, I could see the top of a doorway peeking out from behind it. “Based on the layout of the building, it probably leads into a back hallway,” Nate added.
“Okay.” I scraped a hand over my eyes, trying to shake off the strangeness that had overtaken me. I had to get my control back. It was the only thing that was going to get me through this whole Being Aveda Jupiter deal. Hell, it was the only thing that had gotten me through life so far.
Nate patted the pinned cufflink one last time, then stood up straight, putting some distance between us. Okay. That helped. I took in a few deep breaths. “We’ll make up a story about Aveda getting called away on a demon emergency,” I said. “I can spin a press release that makes her look extra-heroic.”
“Yes.” One side of his mouth tipped up in a ghost of a smile. “And Evie. What you were saying about Aveda . . . pulling things off. You look nice.”
I shook my head, still trying to get my bearings back. “What?”
He placed a hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. “The dress. You look nice in the dress.”
“Oh . . . Well.” I smiled ruefully. “You mean Aveda does.”
He reached over and gently tugged a sproingy lock of my still-damp hair. I realized my glamour had worn off completely.
“No,” he said. “I mean you.”
DRESSBACLE!
Aveda Shows Us Some Skin!
by Maisy Kane, Bay Bridge Kiss Editrix
Morning, ’Friscans! As it turns out, Aveda Jupiter’s ready to reveal a whole lot more than a new power! Girl was rockin’ quite the daring number at last night’s League soiree and when I say “daring,” I mean, “Holy cow, A-babes! Those perky nips are a superpower all their own! And hey, maybe ease up on the fancy date snacks—those suckers are like 90 percent lard and that dress is already tight enough to pop!” (Kidding! But seriously, A, I’m happy to provide fashion consultation free of charge. Your new power seems to be a megahit with my readers—not to mention a whole slew of brand-new fans from all over the world! Greetings to those of you reading BBK for the first time!—so you want to be extra careful about the image you’re putting out there, eh? You don’t want your fans getting the idea that you’re all boobs, no brains. Kidding! But definitely call me. We have an exclusive interview to do, remember?)
A. Jupes also had to leave us a bit early due to a “demon emergency.” I can’t help but wonder if said “emergency” involved the hunky mystery man who was escorting her last night. No word on the identity of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Frowny, but can I just say, RAWR. Your pal Maisy may not approve of A’s fashion mishaps, but she definitely approves of those biceps!
Now, before I sign off, a final word of warning for my dear readers: I’ve received tips that stray demons from Whistles—the ones who took the form of Aveda’s glorious swag statue—have been sighted around the city! Seems a few of them escaped A’s notice. No casualties yet, but keep an eye out and be extra-super-careful! Being chomped to death by the mirror image of San Francisco’s Beloved Daughter would be a fate worse than death! Well, actually, it would just be death, but you get what I’m saying.
Shasta’s Corner! Shasta (Maisy’s bestie) here. I’ve got nothing to add, but Maisy’s line about “nips” was pretty funny, right? (Editrix’s Note: Ugh, Shast! It’s like you’re not even trying.)
CHAPTER NINE
“EVIE! GET IN HERE!” Aveda’s voice blasted from the bedroom.
“Goodness.” Lucy winced. “Why can’t her lungs be broken, too?”
I dragged myself down the hall, leaving Lucy to fend for herself. We’d just returned to HQ after “a little morning run,” which was part of Lucy’s Total Superheroine Workout Plan. I definitely didn’t like it. After stumbling around a park trail for an hour, I was drenched in sweat and all of my limbs felt like they were about to fall off. I’d have to figure out a way to tell her I wasn’t interested in exercising ever again.
I found Aveda in what was becoming her regular perch: in bed, surrounded by pillows, focused on the iPad in front of her. Nate was staring out the window, scowl in place. The half-smile from last night must’ve been a fluke.
He turned from the window and goggled at me. “What happened to you?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I swiped a hand over my face, wiping away excess sweat. “A far cry from last night’s boobtacular number, I know.”
He opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to think of what came after that, so he went back to looking out the window.
“Explain this,” Aveda said, thrusting the iPad in my direction. I dutifully accepted and scanned Maisy’s latest blog post. And then my heart dropped.
“Other people saw the statue demons!” I blurted out.
Nate turned away from the window again. “What?”
“The Aveda statue demons from Whistles!” I said, pointing to the screen. “I saw one last night at the benefit and now other people are reporting sightings around the city!”
“Back up,” he said, frowning. “You saw one? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I thought I imagined it—”
“Which you did,” Aveda said, waving a dismissive hand. “Honestly, Evie. You know how this works: our citizens are often so traumatized by seeing all those demons spilling out of a portal, they start dreaming up sightings in the days after. And clearly you were very traumatized from that night at Whistles, so you’re also affected. Didn’t you destroy them all?”
I called up my shaky memory of the Whistles incident. My fire had blazed through all of those statue demons, leaving nothing behind.
“Yes, but . . .”
But what?
I frowned, trying to make sense of it all. Last night I’d been convinced I was hallucinating. But now . . . I wasn’t so sure. And after seeing one of the statue demons again, I couldn’t help but go back to the idea that there was something super-weird about the way they moved—
“I’m sorry these last couple days have been so trying for you,” Aveda said, interrupting my thoughts. “But we need to have a discussion.” She tapped her index finger against the iPad. Her silver nail polish was starting to chip and a piece flaked onto the screen.
N
ate glanced at the iPad screen and did a double take. “Wow,” he said. “There’s a picture of . . . us.”
“Of you and Aveda, you mean,” I said. “Don’t worry, you’re not identified. No one knows the illustrious, mysterious, never photographed Nathaniel Jones went to something as frivolous as a party.”
I noticed Maisy hadn’t posted a photo with actual nip slips. Maybe she didn’t want to fully piss off her “good pal” Aveda.
“We need to talk,” Aveda pressed, “about all the publicity I—er, you as me—seem to be getting.”
The wheels in my brain creaked, trying to figure out what she was getting at. I was still stuck on the statues. What, exactly, had I seen last night? “Publicity’s good, right?” I said. “Isn’t that why you made me go to the benefit?”
“There’s publicity, and then there’s the right kind of publicity.” She frowned at me. “Now. My Social Media Guru recommends a press conference to refute some of this chatter popping up online. First of all, you need to say you were wearing that dress as a tribute to your . . . er, my dead mother. That it was originally hers and that’s the only reason you would dream of wearing something so revealing.”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. Now clearly wasn’t the moment to tell her that Maisy could easily refute that explanation, thanks to the local designer story I’d oh-so-cleverly improvised. Otherwise it might’ve worked. According to our official press documents, Aveda’s parents—hardscrabble Chinese immigrants who had once run a humble dim sum eatery—were killed in a freak cable car accident before baby Aveda had a chance to know them. In reality Philip and Linda Chang were comfortably ensconced in Pleasanton, played golf three times a week, and had both recently retired from their professions of choice (accountant and pharmacist, respectively). Aveda claimed that story simply wasn’t dramatic enough for a superhero’s origin, but I knew the truth: despite her finding a purpose in The Heroic Trio and striving to attain it, her parents still withheld their approval at every turn. She worked her ass off to be the perfect superheroine, but she wasn’t perfect in a way they deemed worthy. She still wasn’t a doctor, she wasn’t married or even close to it, and her chosen livelihood was tastelessly flashy and glory-chasing.
