Heroine Complex

by Sarah Kuhn

  Nate’s eyes widened in disbelief. He leaned forward and our knees touched. I surreptitiously moved my legs to the left, putting a microcosm of space between us.

  “Was it amazing?” he asked.

  My smile widened. “It was terrible. But it was just so . . . her. It was her way of being there for me yet again. And it was all anyone could talk about for the entire week afterward.”

  Nate laughed. “And your roles were forever set after that?”

  I attempted to pick the glue out from underneath my fingernail. It wedged itself farther in. “What do you mean?”

  “She loves the spotlight. And you insist on staying in her shadow.”

  I gave him a look. “Way to reduce us to easily digestible 90210-ian stereotypes. Which, by the way, is something I wrote a thoroughly eviscerating paper on in grad school. What’s next, bargain basement psychoanalysis about how I need to discover my own uniqueness and break away from my personality-squelching friend?”

  “No. Your personality is abundantly clear.” He gave me an attempt at a half-smile, but I was in no mood to receive it. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “But,” he continued slowly, “you have an almost pathological desire to shrink.”

  “Shrink?”

  “You saved an entire theater full of people today.” His stare bored into me, making me squirm. “And all you can think about is getting rid of the very thing that allowed you to do that.”

  I shook my head, struggling to tamp down on the frustration burning through me. He’d lulled me into semi-pleasant conversation only to start badgering me about his pet topic once my defenses were down. That had probably been his plan all along. How could I make him understand that the fire wasn’t something I could even imagine wanting? That I would never, ever see it as this really cool science thing he’d somehow built up in his mind? That yes, I was proud of what I’d done at the Yamato . . . but thinking about calling up such a destructive force on the regular filled me with deep, soul-shaking terror?

  Once again he was acting like he just automatically knew what was best for everyone. What was best for me.

  “I told you—I don’t want to talk about that,” I hissed.

  “Why not?” He leaned forward. Our knees brushed again. “Why won’t you even think about what you might be capable of?”

  “Because I already know,” I growled. “I told you: I already know.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he snapped. “What about today? You got mad at Aveda and you didn’t set anything on fire. Whereas with Tommy, you called it forth when you wanted to. And last night, the incident with the sink. You were under extreme stress and your hand got hot, but there were no actual flames. Isn’t it possible that your heightened emotional state of the past couple days is forcing your body—your entire system—to learn some measure of control?”

  “What, so you’ve tracked all my moods in one of your neat little spreadsheets? Maybe done a whole analysis on me feeling all my feelings?”

  “So you’re for analysis and discussion when it comes to these new demon oddities, but not when it comes to your own power?” He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “You confuse and confound me.”

  “Tracking the new demon oddities is something that will help people—and so is giving my power to Aveda,” I said. “It’s all part of the same ‘keep everyone and this whole damn city safe’ thing. And anyway, I’ve made the decision! We have a plan and we’re on the path! We don’t need further analysis!”

  “All I’m saying is that when you actually use your power—”

  “I don’t want to use it! I want to be normal!”

  “But you’re not normal—”

  “Stop.”

  I scrambled to my feet. An uncomfortable flush spread through my body, making me feel like I had invisible bugs crawling underneath my skin. “Why do I keep trying to explain this to you? You don’t listen. You just want to make me into one of your science experiments.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “For your information, I’m proud of what I did today,” I barreled on. “But whether I want to do it again is my choice. Just mine. Full stop. You think you somehow know better than me when it comes to my own power, but I’ve thought about this plenty—obsessively, even. About how dangerous I could be and what I might do if I let things get out of control. How many people could end up . . .”

  Dead. I couldn’t even say it out loud. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion and it would be really fucking great if you kept it to yourself. Your data doesn’t trump my real life experience.”

  I turned on my heel and stomped off, my full-body flush so intense, I wished I could shed all of my skin.

  I made a sharp right into the hallway leading to the bathrooms. I leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, my fingertips brushing the faded business cards that papered the corridor walls. I focused on my breathing until it was all I could hear.

  My breath would not slow, no matter how much I willed it to. I instinctively curled my palms at my sides, waiting for that trademark heat to flare.

  It didn’t come.

  I opened my fist and stared at my palm. What the hell? I couldn’t help but think about what Nate had said.

  Some measure of control.

  “Evie.”

  My head snapped up and I was greeted by the sight of Nate standing in the hall’s entrance. He shifted from one foot to the other, as if he couldn’t decide whether he should step through or not.

  I heard the opening chords of “Eternal Flame” plinking through the air again. Stu Singh must have mixed up his sheet music and looped Lucy and Scott back up to the top.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re . . . what, now?”

  He met my gaze and a ghost of uncertainty flitted across his face. He finally took a step toward me.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “Shit. I’m really bad at this.”

  “Terrible,” I said. I meant for it to come out haughty and defiant, but it emerged as a trembly whisper.

  “I only want you to realize . . .” He trailed off and hesitantly reached down to take my hand.

  “It’s not hot,” I blurted out.

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Um, my hand. I just got mad at you. Really, really mad. And it’s not heating up at all.”

  He stared at my palm. Then his fingers curled around mine and his eyes drifted back to my face, his gaze piercing right through me.

  And suddenly I didn’t care about my palm or my power or “Eternal Flame” or anything but the intense study of his perfectly formed mouth.

  His grip tightened on my hand. I squeezed back, our intertwined fingers crushed together, producing an unmistakable heat of their own. His other arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against his hard, unyielding wall of a body, and I breathed deep, taking in that scent of soap and spearmint and rain. He smelled so fucking good.

  My free hand splayed against his chest and I found myself gathering the front of his shirt in my fist, yanking him closer, and finally closing the last few millimeters of space between us, crushing my lips against his. His mouth moved over mine, hot and demanding and tart with the taste of beer. I ripped my hand from his and tangled my fingers in his hair, devouring him with an urgency I didn’t know I was capable of. Only one thought pounded through my hazy brain: if I stop kissing him for even a second, I will probably die.

  His hands slid to my hips and he scooped me up, my eager form colliding with the beautifully muscled planes of his body. My legs wrapped around his waist. All I wanted was more: more of his scent, more of his tongue stroking against mine, more of his hands running all over me in a way that made me wish my clothes would sponta
neously disintegrate.

  I wanted him in a desperate, single-minded way I’d never wanted anything else.

  He stumbled forward, propelling us down the hallway and into The Gutter’s supply closet. As the door swung closed behind us, we slammed against a creaky metal shelving unit, my ass colliding with a stack of binders. I yelped, breaking our kiss. Nate cursed and lifted me higher, settling my backside onto one of the shelves. Keeping one arm wrapped around my waist, he used his other arm to sweep the binders to the floor.

  He turned back to me, raw hunger emblazoned on his face. Both of us were breathing hard, a duet of gasps that threatened to drown out the other duet that was still wafting through the bar. Our eyes met and we paused as a tiny bit of reality pierced the weirdness of the moment: here was this man I saw every day, this man I fought with every day, this man I had oft proclaimed to be the most irritating person alive, and all I wanted to do was rip his clothes off in the supply closet of a filthy piano bar. If we were going to stop and laugh and acknowledge how ridiculous the situation was, this would’ve been the time to do it.

  Instead we started kissing again.

  His lips traveled to my neck, finding that sensitive hollow where throat met collarbone and marking the spot with enticing little nibbles. I inhaled sharply, a shiver coursing through my entire nervous system. My arms jutted out on either side of me, my hands gripping the cold metal of the shelf. My legs tightened around his waist and I found myself grinding into him, gasping when I felt how hard he was. He groaned into my neck, a primal sound that shaped itself into my name.

  Keeping one arm locked around my waist, he skimmed his free hand over the curve of my breast, then grasped the neckline of my T-shirt and yanked it down. The fabric ripped and I barely had time to register the rush of cold air sweeping over my half-exposed chest before his big hand cupped me, his thumb moving the bright orange lace of my bra aside to stroke my nipple. A moan escaped my throat as he kissed his way down my neck, across my collarbone, blazing a trail to that hardening peak of a nipple and finally claiming it in his perfect mouth.

  Chills rocketed through my body and I arched against him, the pleasure intensifying with every swirl of his tongue, every graze of his teeth. I didn’t recognize the sounds coming out of me. I’d never sounded like this, never felt like this. I’d never allowed myself to.

  I threw my head back, my eyes closed, wanting to feel his lips against every inch of my skin. So hot and good and hot and . . . hot . . . shit.

  “Nate . . .”

  My eyes flew open just as the fire exploded from my flailing hand. It careened past the shelf, over a box of creepy plastic hands and feet Kevin used as Halloween decorations, and smacked into a tattered poster sporting Stu Singh’s smiling face. The edge of the poster caught fire, Stu’s grin highlighted by ribbons of red and gold.

  “What . . .” Nate pulled me closer, his lust-dazed eyes widening in confusion.

  “Fuck!” I unwrapped myself from him and hopped to the ground, ripping what was left of my abused shirt from my body and using it to smother the flames. Stu grinned at us, a little singed but mostly unharmed.

  I turned back to Nate. His eyes drifted to my mostly naked torso.

  I had no idea what to say.

  Luckily anything I might’ve said was drowned out by the blare of the fire alarm.

  Nate’s face snapped back to a more alert expression, as if someone had doused him with cold water. He snatched an XXL hoodie emblazoned with THE GUTTER! :) (part of Kevin’s attempt at swag) off one of the lower shelves and wrapped it around me, then shoved me toward the door.

  We rolled through the bar area with the geriatric crowd, pouring out the exit and into the crisp night air. I turned to face Nate, pulling the sweatshirt around me. It was so big, it gaped open, exposing my near nudity to the displaced senior citizens. One of them, a lady with a severe helmet of steel gray pin curls, gave me a disapproving look.

  I opened my mouth. I still had no idea what to say.

  This time Lucy saved the day.

  “You guys!” Her lilting voice cut through the mob, and I whirled around to see her trotting toward us, Scott loping behind her. “Can you believe they cut off my song?” she said. “I was just getting really into . . .”

  She trailed off. “Evie, love. What happened to your shirt?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “RISE AND SHINE, Supergirl!”

  I cracked one eye open. And saw a pair of purple ankle boots bouncing up and down in front of my face.

  “Bea,” I croaked. “Get your shoes off the bed.”

  “Blah.” She bounced one last time, then plopped down next to me. “You are no longer the boss of me, Big Sis Stick-In-The-Mud.”

  I kicked her foot, which was rubbing dirt and germs all over my clean sheets. It was Saturday, so at least I didn’t have to needle her about going to school. Which she probably wouldn’t have done anyway.

  “I am still a boss of you.”

  “Blaaaaaaah,” she repeated, adding a little flourish at the end. She stuck her tongue out at me, but moved slightly, dangling her feet off the edge of the mattress. “Maybe you could cheer up for two seconds? I mean. It’s so exciting!” She grinned, her eyes—rimmed today with a truckload of electric blue liner—going all sparkly. It was the most sunshine I’d seen from her in months.

  “What’s exciting?” I asked. “Your new room?”

  I had to admit the rooms we’d been given at Jupiter HQ were much nicer than any rooms we’d ever occupied before. I’d initially been set on moving me and Bea back out immediately, but everything had happened so fast the day before, and after seeing how nice the rooms were, I couldn’t help but admit that living here for a little while wasn’t a terrible idea.

  The walls of my new digs were painted a pristine eggshell and light streamed in from the window facing the street, giving the whole affair a womb-like glow. And the bed was a queen-size oasis of sturdy box springs and downy pillowtop. But even the comfort of this sweet little room couldn’t help me last night.

  After Nate, Lucy, and I stumbled home from The Gutter, I found my new room and attempted to go to sleep. Funny thing about sleep: it doesn’t come easily when a fucking highlights reel of your latest closet tryst won’t stop playing on a loop through your head. Even after an ice-cold shower, I could still feel the imprint of Nate’s hands all over my body.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I didn’t have that much to drink. And really, I was way too old to be affected that way by “Eternal Flame.”

  I could only chalk up our encounter to yet another unfortunate side effect of superheroing: the adrenaline rush resulted in impulse control that was best described as “poor” and decision-making that was best described as “really, really shitty.”

  “My room is fine but hardly exciting, Ignoramus Rex.” Bea snapped me out of my thoughts. “I’m talking about this.”

  She brandished her phone, its turquoise sequined shell glittering insolently as she waved it back and forth.

  “Hold it still,” I said, squinting at the glowing screen.

  The screen displayed a YouTube video in all its shaky shot-on-a-camera-phone glory: a video of me at the Yamato, fire arcing from my hand to the Tommy Thing. As the movie screen exploded in front of me, a cheer went up from the crowd.

  I watched my glamoured self as she stared at her hand, then turned and gave a tentative version of Aveda’s million-watt grin. Standing tall in her ruined boots with a smoking hole that used to be a movie screen gaping behind her, she looked pretty freaking cool.

  Okay, fine—I looked pretty freaking cool.

  Yesterday I was too discombobulated to process that all those people—the stoners and the school-skippers and the girl with the messy hair—were cheering for more than the fact that they were no longer trapped in their seats watching a shitty movie. They were cheer
ing for me.

  The thought filled me with a surprising surge of warmth. I’d saved a crowd of people, and they’d looked at me the way I looked at Michelle Yeoh in The Heroic Trio. It was ridiculous. It was crazy.

  It was also kind of awesome.

  “That’s right, Sis.” Bea waved the phone again. “You are totes a viral sensation.”

  She tapped on the screen. “The comments are insane. Marriage proposals. Demands for new Tommy Demonbuster T-shirts. Lots of love for the whole fire power deal.” She rubbed absently at her eyes, smudging blue liner onto her fingertips. “I was thinking we could run a Facebook promotion: sign up for our newsletter to see an exclusive vlog of Aveda discussing her latest takedown. First fifty sign-ups also get some kind of exclusive merch—a Tommy Demonbuster sticker, maybe. You’d have to film the vlog as Aveda, but I can set the whole thing up really easily. I mean, if you want.”

  I gaped at her, dumbstruck. Trying to reconcile the girl who was usually in some state of Tanaka Glare with the one who was staring back at me hopefully, her smudged eyeliner giving her the irresistible appearance of a plaintive raccoon. It was like she had found something to latch on to overnight, something to focus all her energy on. Considering that her energy was usually focused on acting out and trying to make me mad, maybe this Social Media Guru thing was doing her some good after all.

  “We have a newsletter?” I finally managed, attempting to make sense of everything she’d just said.

  “We do now.” Her brow crinkled and she chewed on her lower lip. “I’m trying to get more sign-ups. I was thinking the vlog thing could be part of a series. Give the fans that personal connection to Aveda. Take her off the pedestal and make her one of the people.”

  “Wow.” I smiled at her. “That’s really creative. It reminds me of something Mom would think of.”