by Angel Lawson
She’s already removed her gloves. She doesn’t need them around Quinn and Owen on a regular basis. Without touching him, she holds her hand up in the space between them.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I do feel beyond touch. It’s not as intense and definitely not as accurate. In a crowd it’s just a buzz, but one-on-one I can get a sense of that person. Take a reading.”
“Are you reading me now?”
Her eyes meet his. “Normally I can’t. I can track your scent or count your heartbeats. I know when something is wrong, but it’s vague and I have to rely on all my senses to figure it out. But now? It’s easier, clearer.”
His heart rate increases with every word; it should, she’s about to violate his privacy. She’s going to pry around in his thoughts. In his past. He probably wonders if it will hurt. It shouldn’t.
“What kind of information do you get off of me?” he asks. She still hasn’t touched him.
“Right now? You’re nervous. I think the Pixie Dust changes our body chemistry to smell like cinnamon, because I’m getting a huge hit of that.”
“What do I normally smell like?”
“Roses, when you use your powers. Detergent and sweat the rest of the time.”
“I’m sweaty?” He wrinkles his nose in disgust.
She smiles. “It’s a good thing. Manly. I like it.”
Astrid doesn’t tell him that the following wave is one of interest and testosterone. He likes being flattered. Who doesn’t?
“Okay,” she says. “I think I’m ready.”
They’re sitting face-to-face on the couch, legs crossed under them. His hands are resting on his knees. Astrid slowly reaches for him, touching her fingertips to his palms.
She gasps as the echo runs through her.
FEAR. PANIC. Blood on linoleum.
Astrid jumps back and removes her shaking hands.
“Did it work? Are you okay?” he asks.
Her heart races. “Yeah, it’s just…it’s hard.”
“See anything scary?” His smile is teasing.
She’s not sure how much to tell him. The blood and the fear. It—no, he—was absolutely terrified.
“Let’s do this,” she says, steadying her voice. “Try to clear your mind. Let’s see what rises to the top.”
He nods and closes his eyes.
Sobs. Heart caught in his throat. Tight-fisted anger. A swirling rage of black.
Her body trembles at the pain Owen carries. So much pain. A sob rips through her and he looks at her with grave concern.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for her but stopping, aware of the boundaries. She wraps her arms around her body, fighting the chill.
“Where did it happen?” she finally asks.
He looks at her blankly for a moment before realization dawns. “In the kitchen.”
Shot, just like Atticus and Holden.
His pain flares hers back up again. It lingers like a sickness; a virus spreading through her veins. The difference, though, is unlike the woman at the fire…that was a moment of fear and panic. Owen carries this with him every day.
She’s struck with the urge to make him feel better. To give him more to cling to than pain and anger. He watches her closely as she lowers her hand to his and tentatively pushes back.
Astrid thinks of good things. Happy thoughts. Harry Styles curled up in her lap. The annoyed look on Quinn’s face when she eats junk food. Boxing with Owen and the grin on his face the first time he landed a punch. The relaxed, sexy way he sleeps.
Warmth spreads from her fingers to his and slowly his echo adjusts, shifting from the negative to the positive. Bright happiness flows from him and Astrid opens her eyes and smiles.
“Did you do that?” he asks, grinning. The dark cloud behind his eyes fades.
Warmth spreads from her hand to his and it turns from simple happiness to something else. A flicker of desire—heat burning between them.
Astrid’s face. Her lips and hair.
The echo brightens and again she snatches her hand away, surprised this time.
His eyes twinkle.
“You changed my feelings,” he says. His voice is full of awe.
“I did, didn’t I?” She looks at her hands. “It’s still really overwhelming though, good or bad.”
“We’ll keep practicing. If you can push back like that, then I think you can do more. Maybe separate out the bad stuff. Control the intensity. Search for what you need and get rid of everything else.”
Although it could be the lingering echo, Astrid feels hopeful that maybe he’s right. There’s more to this than she knew. She reaches for her gloves but takes one last chance and brushes her fingers over his. Pleasure rolls through her body. Warm desire. She pulls away and pretends that it didn’t almost knock her off her feet.
Owen wants her.
Or maybe she wants him, and it transferred back. Whatever it is, her body is tied in knots.
He frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just, you know…practicing.”
He reaches for his bag at the same time the window shatters and a zing tears through the room. Astrid spins, looking out the front window. Owen stares at the shredded pillow behind him.
“Get down!” she shouts, reaching out with her senses. An engine idles out by the street. Two heartbeats pound in the yard. Owen stands and waves his hand, distorting the air between them and the window. It doesn’t stop the gunfire. “There’s two of them.” She cocks her head. “At least. Maybe one more outback.”
Owen grabs his bag and her hand, yanking her out the back door. A man stands in the back and they stop, but whatever shield he’s holding up protects them. Owen jerks his hand and the sound of dogs barking begins. The man jumps and holds out his gun in the direction of the growls. Astrid sees his face and stops cold.
No.
She’s yanked out of the yard—out of her paralysis. Owen pulls her into a small garage attached to the back of the building. The space reeks of oil and gasoline and she watches as he throws a tarp off a motorcycle and slings his leg over the seat. “Get on,” he says, tugging her and jump-starting the engine. The sound rips through the garage and Owen drives the bike right out the side door. Astrid wraps her arms around his waist, holding on as they fly through the back yard and down the back, muddy alley, away from the men and their guns.
“What the hell was that?” he yells into the wind.
“No fucking clue,” she replies, clinging to his waist as he breezes through a stop sign. Her heartbeat races in her chest, matching the thud coming from Owen’s. He’s scared and now she’s worried. She recognized that man in the yard. She knows how dangerous he is. She trained him.
Rowe.
Chapter Eleven
Owen
Back at the Lair, he watches as Astrid paces around the small room, circling the workbench and telling Quinn what happened at the house.
“Who were they?” Quinn asks, glancing at Owen as if he knows.
“I didn’t get a look at them,” he says. “Due to the whole running for our lives thing.”
“I recognized one,” she says. Both men look up in surprise. “Rowe, from the recruiting program.”
“You’re joking,” Quinn says. She shakes her head.
“Who’s Rowe?” Owen asks.
“One of the guys in my program. Quinn fought him. He’s tough—and a bastard.”
“Psychopath,” Quinn mutters.
“Jensen said he had a team for him to work on. I guess we know now that it’s local.”
“And hunting Supers,” he says. “What were you two doing there anyway?”
Astrid has a face of stone. She’s a good liar, probably because she lives under a protective shell. Easily she says, “We went to get a few of Owen’s things and his motorcycle.”
“And the Jeep is still there?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I sent Mick to go get it.”
Mick is one of the trainers. It’s obvious from the tens
e expression on Quinn’s face he feels involving an outsider is an unnecessary risk. He’s probably right.
“So who do you think they were after?” Quinn asks, looking between them. “Is this something lingering from the Pixie Dust days, or is this about all of us?”
“I don’t know, Quinn,” Astrid snaps. She’s about to crack under the knowledge Jensen sent a team after Owen. Maybe after her. She’s got to sort this out. “I don’t know anything other than some assholes shot up Owen’s house and tried to take us both down. I’m sorry they didn’t announce their motivation.”
Owen spins in his chair. “We knew Jensen wanted me, but this could be more. It’s likely we made other enemies.”
Quinn grunts and runs his hands through his hair. “It’s more than likely. We’ve been too visible lately. The Gala, the fires.”
Astrid leans against the worktable. “It’s almost like someone wants us out in public and not hiding away in here.”
“If that’s their goal, it’s working,” Quinn agrees, sitting in the other desk chair. “I’m exhausted.”
“You probably need a cheeseburger,” Astrid says. “And fries. And to sleep past six every once in a while.”
“Not funny.”
Owen isn’t particularly attracted to men, but it’s clear whatever Quinn’s heath routine consists of, it’s working. So much that really, he probably should start asking him for training advice. Astrid’s workouts come with too many doughnuts as rewards.
She resumes her pacing, wound up like a caged animal. Owen gets it. He feels the same. The adrenaline from the events earlier make it hard to sit and do nothing.
“This is bullshit,” he says, getting both of their attentions. “We’re freaking superheroes, well, at least you two are. I mean, I have a suit and have some marginally-awesome skills. But hiding like this won’t solve anything.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “It may keep you alive.”
“Yeah but what’s the point if we’re trapped in here?”
“Do you have a suggestion?” Quinn asks.
“I think we need to get out of here. Go have some fun.”
Astrid stops her pacing. “Go out go out? Like go out?”
“Sure,” Owen replies. “To a bar or a club or just, you know, anywhere that’s not here.”
She looks uneasily at Quinn. “Have you ever been to a club?”
He shakes his head. “Holden kept a pretty tight leash on me.” He holds up his hands. “You know, with the whole, could possibly electrocute people thing.”
“Me either,” she says. “Did you aunt let you go out?”
“I snuck out and I’ve been on my own for a while.” He spins the chair around in a full circle. “And I was a drug dealer, so yeah, I’ve been out. What do you think?”
“You know I don’t like to be around a lot of people…”
Quinn nods. “I really can’t afford to miss my run tomorrow.”
Owen stares at them slack-jawed. “Seriously guys, you’re not fifty. You’re in your twenties and you’re both attractive, fun people.”
Astrid looks up in surprise. “You think I’m fun?”
He groans and drops his head into his hands. “What if I promise we can go to the Waffle Waffle afterwards?”
Her eyes perk up at the idea of carbs doused in butter and sugar. “Promise?”
Quinn rolls his eyes.
“Yes, I promise,” he tells her.
“Okay,” she looks between them, a little unsure. “Don’t laugh, but there is something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“Sure, name it,” Owen says, willing to do anything to get out for the night. He has a flicker of a fantasy that she’ll suggest a club and wear a short skirt and dance with him. Or maybe they’ll go to a bar and she’ll let him drink tequila out of her belly button. Thoughts like these have been running through his head since their experiment at the house.
But that’s not what Astrid suggests. With a smile she tells them her biggest wish and damn, it’s…well, it’s totally Astrid.
Chapter Twelve
Astrid
The smell is awful, sweaty and a little bit like feet. Antiseptic spray mingles with the fried food coming from the snack bar.
It’s everything she ever dreamed it would be.
“Bowling?” Quinn asks for the twentieth time. He’s compliant though, lacing up the green- and red-striped shoes. “Only you would think this is a good idea.”
A few lanes down, a ball crashes into the pins and she jumps from the explosive sound. “I admit it’s a little loud and very, very smelly, but I’m trying to push my boundaries a little.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Owen walks up carrying a pitcher of beer and three glasses. He agreed to bowl but said he was only doing it if he could get drunk.
“Is what so?” he asks, filling the cups. The fringe of his blonde hair falls in his eyes.
“That I’m working on pushing outside my comfort zone. Going new places. Stimulating my senses.”
“Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie and a hat?” Quinn asks, walking by and tugging on the cat ears on her hat.
“I’m not wearing the hood.”
He shakes his head and picks through the balls, looking for the right size. “You’re ridiculous, do you know that?”
She looks at Owen, he nods in agreement. “Definitely ridiculous.”
“Whatever,” she says, refusing to let them bring her down. She’s not lying about wanting to bowl. She remembers watching it on TV. It seemed like the fun thing to do with friends. Astrid never had friends.
Until now.
It takes two games for her to figure out how the game works, although that doesn’t keep her ball out of the gutter. Quinn takes to it naturally, landing two strikes in a row and winning the first two games. Owen, it seems, doesn’t really care. He’s true to his word. He just needed to get out of the building—have a little fun. After their intense experiment earlier in the day, she’s happy to see a genuine smile on his face.
She rolls the shiny red and pink-flecked ball down the lane and once again, it bounces into the gutter.
“What am I doing wrong?” she asks, standing over the ball return. The shoot rattles and spits her ball into the rack.
“Come here,” Owen says, picking up a different ball. This one is green, and he slips his narrow fingers into the holes. “I think you’re underestimating your strength. Try a heavier ball, and channel your power.”
She lines up on the small arrows engraved in the floor. His hands touch her waist and he pulls her over an inch. “There, focus on the center pin. And release with your wrist, not just your fingers.”
It all sounds like gibberish to Astrid, but she’s trained enough people to know the little things matter when mastering a skill.
Astrid pulls her arm back and then releases; the ball careens down the middle of the lane. The ball crashes into the pins, knocking over seven, and she jumps up and down and throws her arms around Owen.
The weight of his arms feels good and the pounding of his heart reassuring. She’s getting used to these men, their bodies and the way they feel. It’s good. A change from how things were before they entered her life. Owen lifts her off the ground and she spins, catching Quinn’s eye as he watches the two of them from the scoring table.
“Thanks,” she says to Owen, giving him a final squeeze. “You’re up.”
Owen walks to the ball rack and plucks out a black and silver ball. Astrid moves to sit next to Quinn in the curved, plastic bucket seat at the table.
“Nice frame,” he says, tallying up the score. He’s winning, of course. “Owen’s a good teacher.”
“He is,” she says, watching him set up his first attempt. “We’ve been spending some time together.”
“I noticed.”
She rests her hand on his thigh. “How do you feel about that? Really?”
“I think that we all have a bond—something deeper than a regular relations
hip. We’re special. Unique, and the first time I kissed you I knew it was something special.”
His response flusters her. “I don’t think you answered my question—about Owen.”
He places his hand on top of hers, linking their fingers together. “I think he’s trying to fit in and yeah, I think he likes you.”
“I like him,” she confesses. “And you.”
The sound of pins falling bounces down the lane and Quinn locks eyes with her. “Good. We’re a team, with people trying to kill us, an arsonist burning down the Swamp, and a supervillain I’m not sure is entirely stable. The last thing we need is some kind of weird love triangle distracting us.”
She laughs, because when he puts it like that he’s right. They’re three freaks trying to figure out how to survive and help their city. Beyond that, they need to just take care of themselves.
Owen walks up, smiling because of his strike—which now puts him in a slight lead over Quinn. Quinn hops out of the seat, vowing to take back the lead, and Astrid can’t help but laugh.
“What’s going on?” he asks, sliding into the seat.
“We were just talking about how happy we are to have you with us,” she says, leaning over and kissing his cheek. His eyes light up and he slings his arm around her shoulder. “And thanks for making us come out tonight. You were right, we needed it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Owen
The beer buzz wears off but the movie on the TV continues, and even if he wants to go to bed, Astrid is taking up half the couch.
Oh, so is that filthy cat.
He keeps an eye on Harry Styles, (seriously, who names their cat after a kid in a boy band?) who sits at the opposite end of the couch. Owen is pretty sure the cat doesn’t like him sitting this close to Astrid. And they are sitting close, so close that he finally has to say, “Is this okay?” gesturing to the fact she’s snuggled against his side.
“What?”
“The fact that we’re cuddling.”
Astrid draws her attention away from the TV and the takeout container of waffles in her lap. Harry continues licking his paw, in an attempt to pretend Owen doesn’t even exist. “Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
