by C. C. Ekeke
Brie stood on the Neptune Pool's far side, chatting with her leggy friend Kendall, aka “Ken-DULL” Caruso, and two other cute girls. All the while, Brie watched Hugo behind red-tinted Gucci shades with cold contempt. She reserved that glare just for him since their blowout weeks ago. The queen of the sophomore social hierarchy dressed the part. Her white turtleneck sweater dress and gold Chanel belt hung loosely over that slim figure, giving a leggy display. Brie’s long auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders in sleek, straight curtains.
And a face like Brie’s invited inspection, wonder, and arousal. A beauty beyond measure. Hugo used to be enthralled by that beauty.
Not anymore. He quickly looked away and ignored her. Ignoring Briseis had become second nature, despite them sharing second period History.
Hugo focused on his friends with a smiling façade. “Lunchtime!” He guided them to Hearst Castle’s commissary.
The four boys grabbed food and parked around an outside table. Lunch topics jumped from schoolwork to which teachers were cool and which ones sucked. Hugo enjoyed Brent and Raphael’s normalcy. They didn’t know about his powers. Around them, Hugo felt like a regular teen.
Then Taylor von Stratton glided up, wearing an eye-catching short skirt with her pretty friends Sarah and Larsen. “Hey, boys.”
Hugo craned his head back, beholding Taylor’s attractive, rosy-cheeked face. “Hey, Taylor.” Brent and the others greeted them.
“Mind if we join?” Larsen asked.
Raphael gestured to their table’s empty seats. “Never.”
The trio took seats; Taylor scooting next to Hugo, Sarah sitting beside Brent, and Larsen near Raphael. Hugo raised his brow at Simon, whose approving nod said Told ya girls are interested.
He welcomed the attention, though the girl on his mind didn’t attend Paso Robles.
Soon after, Brie and Kendall found a table nearby—directly in Hugo’s eyeline. Brie’s food tray was full. Meaning she'll punish herself at tennis practice later...
Hugo flinched and turned away, focusing on his actual friends.
Raphael raised a hand to flag Brie over. Thankfully, Brent caught Raph’s arm and shook his head. Hugo was beyond grateful.
Taylor and her friends started talking superhero gossip, the Extreme Teens specifically. “After the episode about Blur and L.U.N.A’s relationship drama,” Taylor explained, grinning impishly. “A Missy Magnificent fan site posted a rumor that she and Blur were reuniting.”
“Missy’s super-crazy fans then started posting theories on social media,” Brent chimed in.
Hugo wished he knew nothing about the Extreme Teens’ speedster. But thanks to watching Blur’s speed-training videos, the Samoan knew too much.
Simon frowned. “What theories?”
“Like Blur and L.U.N.A’s relationship being a showmance,” Hugo said, exasperated. “And he’s secretly married to Missy Magnificent with a baby named Yoshi.”
The entire table stared.
Hugo scowled. “My brother loves that Extreme Dreams show.”
“And you’ve never watched an episode or three?” Taylor teasingly poked his arm and immediately grimaced. “Jesus, your bicep’s like a steel plate!”
Hugo caught Taylor turn to her friends with sex-glazed eyes. Unfortunately, he also spied Brie and Kendall communicating via eyerolls.
Raphael leaned in, lost. “Married with a baby? That…makes no sense.”
Hugo shrugged. “Makes sense to the crazy-pants MissyFits.” Even as a staunch Titaniac, Hugo never dove too deep into fandom rabbit holes—the true Sunken Places.
“Why’s the fake baby named Yoshi?” Simon questioned.
“LUNAtics went insane over that rumor,” Taylor gushed. “Then started a Twitter war with the MissyFits.”
“What are they fighting over? Who’s crazier?” Hugo quipped.
“Team Blissy vs Team BL.U.N.A,” Larsen scanned the table, smirking. “Don’t you just love the Internet?”
“I’m Team Blissy,” Brent deadpanned.
Raphael sighed. “This sounds exhausting…”
“Hardcore MissyFits are unstable.” Sarah whistled with bulging eyes. “LUNAtics are certifiably bonkers.”
“They’d have to be to like L.U.N.A’s music,” Simon remarked, drawing loud rebukes around the table. He jutted his chin out defiantly. Simon’s dislike of the K-Pop superstar remained unshakeable.
Hugo shook his head. “LUNAtics finally reached that upper atmosphere of crazy occupied by Titaniacs, Beliebers…”
“Liberty Legion,” Simon said, referring to Lady Liberty’s diehards. He then shivered. “The Beyhive…”
“And Cumber-Bitches,” Brent added.
“Excuse you, Brent?”
Everyone turned. Brie and Kendall whirled about. And the mirth curdled.
Mr. Allocco stood near their table with an empty tray. The short teacher, fluffy-haired and slubby, eyed the group sharply. “Why did you say that?”
Brent shrank in his seat, leading to awkward silence.
Simon then explained. “It’s what Fans of that Sherlock actor call themselves on social media.”
Mr. Allocco winced. “No wonder I’m not on 'The Twitter.'”
Everyone laughed at his mispronunciation. Jesus, Mr. Allocco was old.
“Yes, the Electric Twitter Machine is toxic,” Hugo guffawed, drawing more laughs.
Allocco looked amused. “Why not go by the Cumberbatch Collective?”
“Too long,” Taylor vetoed. “Needs to be short and pithy.” She winked at Hugo, making him blush. He ignored Brie’s rude reaction.
“Benaddicts?” Raphael offered.
Simon winced. “Too on-the-nose.”
“Just call ’em Cumhards,” Hugo suggested.
He didn’t know what amused him most, everyone’s howls of horrified laughter or Mr. Allocco’s bone-white face. Honorable mentions included Raphael’s spit take and Taylor’s hyena cackle. Even Brie covered her mouth, muffling those snort giggles she loathed.
Hugo shrugged at everyone with mock innocence. “What did I say?”
That joke explained Mr. Allocco’s crankiness toward the end of the trip.
“Everyone.” The teacher and the chaperones corralled students near the buses. “Check your emails. You’ve been assigned class-agnostic groups for a research project on one American Dynasty. Group numbers are in your emails!” Fourteen groups, five to seven students each.
Hugo checked his phone. He was in Group 6 covering the Hearsts. Awesome. He smiled seeing Brent in his group, and Danika Townsend, one of the smartest girls in tenth grade. Hugo wasn’t sure about Kevin Coleman from his class. The pothead usually slept through lectures. Hugo skimmed to the last groupmate.
His insides clenched again. “Seriously?”
To Hugo’s dismay, his group included Briseis El-Saden.
Chapter 9
Images of Geist brutalizing people stuck with Quinn for days. She’d been right to end their partnership. “How was Titan friends with that nutcase?” she’d wondered before falling asleep.
Two days later, Quinn thankfully returned to her unexciting work routine. Tonight, her focus was on reviewing Carmelo’s Steakhouse. Located in San Miguel’s affluent El Marquez peninsula, formed by the 1987 earthquake, reservations required either lots of money or an act of God.
Or Annie Machado, bless her heart.
Given Carmelo’s dress code, Quinn chose a strappy minidress, pale-yellow and figure-hugging. A brown belt with an oval-shaped buckle, wedge heels, and hoop earrings completed her look. A hairdresser wrestled Quinn's kinky locks into thick cornrows tied in a twisty bun at the nape of her neck. She didn’t glam up often, but a Carmelo’s reservation was reason enough.
Quinn arrived at a chic and shimmering restaurant on El Marquez’s high-end Higuera Blvd. The name Carmelo’s in cursive glowed above the entrance.
After valeting her car, Quinn took in the glamour before entering. Carmelo’s patrons definitely occupied Sa
n Miguel’s upper echelon of wealth and influence. After checking with a host for a reservation under Annie’s name, Quinn was told to wait until her full party arrived.
She sat on a polished teakwood bench watching the Paragon’s brawl video for the hundredth time. Despite cutting ties with Geist, she hadn’t given up on finding Titan’s killer. The original video had now passed two hundred million views, much to Quinn’s chagrin. At first watch, she only saw brawling bedlam until Seraph spread her radiant wings to scatter everyone. Seven viewings later, Quinn noticed a man sitting amid the chaos, unperturbed as fights raged around him. The video glimpsed on him before focusing on rowdier clashes. He looked Indian in ethnicity, but Quinn wasn’t sure without a video expert. Paragon’s YouTube channel posted videos the day after Tuesday’s, Friday’s, and Saturday’s happenings at the superhuman bar. Some videos ran half an hour, spliced-together key moments from that evening. From a few older videos she’d watched, Lord Borealis had been a regular, always rip-roaring drunk while holding court with several patrons.
Yet Quinn found no video for the night of Titan’s death. She frowned at this omission. Had they forgotten to record that night? Unlikely, given the channel’s clockwork posting before and after. Or was the video purposely removed, given its implications?
“Excuse me.”
Quinn looked up from her phone, annoyed by the interruption—and then stunned.
An older woman approached, late-forties and tall. Her brunette hair, highlighted and up in a sleek ponytail, complemented a sun-kissed complexion and laughing hazel eyes. The woman’s face was attractive yet unnaturally smooth. Botox and injectables, of course. Her fire-red dress with a boob window spotlighted a sinfully sculpted physique. But the woman’s identity astonished Quinn more than her attire.
“I know you,” Rebecca Reyes said.
Gulping hard, Quinn stuffed her phone in her purse. “Doubt that.”
Reyes’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re that cub reporter who interviewed Lady Liberty with Helena Madden.”
Quinn was surprised Rebecca Reyes knew she existed. Or that the veteran reporter was in San Miguel. After trading her relationship with Titan several years ago for a book deal and a National News Network anchor gig, Reyes became reviled in San Miguel. That animus undoubtedly resurfaced after the Central Coast Saint’s death. Quinn remained professional, standing and offering a hand. “Quinn Bauer.”
Reyes accepted the handshake. “Rebecca.”
Quinn smirked. “I know.”
“Unsurprising.” Reyes laughed and rolled her eyes. “Heard you’re doing ride-along interviews with the Vanguard,” she mentioned casually. “When are those airing?”
Quinn winced. Those interviews were still a sore spot. “The Vanguard decided not to move forward, unfortunately.”
Reyes studied Quinn up and down. “That’s too bad.” Her eyes smoldered with scornful delight. “See you around, Bauer.” Reyes sashayed away in her overpriced heels.
Quinn stood there, grossed out by that weird smirk. Almost like Reyes had won some private victory.
“Quinnie!”
Quinn turned in relief to that familiar voice. “Annie!”
Annie Machado approached with a face-splitting smile. She bearhugged Quinn, exchanging kisses on either cheek. Annie looked smoking-hot as usual in a sleeveless, risqué, black lacy top and black pencil skirt over her shapely figure. Her hair was in a high and tight knob, blunt-cut bangs swept to the side.
Quinn noted someone trailing Annie, tall and lanky with an easy smile. “Johnny!” she greeted in pleasant surprise. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
Jonathan Sherwood, Annie’s fiancé, hugged Quinn. “And miss a dinner at Carmelo’s?” Johnny wore a charcoal-grey suit and pink button-down, his brown hair crewcut. The well-groomed beard gave his boyish handsomeness a manly edge.
Quinn glimpsed back at Annie. “Ready for some world-class steak, soon-to-be Mrs. Sherwood?”
“Machado-Sherwood,” Annie corrected, lips pursed impishly. “And yes!”
With their whole party present, they were shown to their seats in ten minutes. Carmelo’s was packed, bathed in golden lighting. The overhead chandeliers, from what Quinn heard, sported real diamonds.
“Thanks for tonight,” Quinn said once they’d been seated at a corner booth. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yes I did!” Annie went straight for the wine menu. “If those pendejos at work are punishing you, we’re gonna shove your talent down their throats.”
Quinn laughed, openly content. “That’s the plan. By the way, you won’t believe who I met!” She divulged her Rebecca Reyes encounter as they ordered.
The trio’s dialogue bounced back and forth, landing on a new account for Johnny’s marketing firm.
“We’re branding a new corporate-sponsored team,” Johnny said, swallowing a forkful of salad.
Quinn cocked her head in alarm. “Please tell me this team won’t include Tomorrow Man.” She mostly tolerated nine-to-five heroes, but not that bootleg Titan rip-off with his stupid publicity stunts.
Johnny snorted. “Hell no. The team’s called the Elite. Each member is themed from different mythologies.” He grew self-conscious describing this.
Quinn exchanged pained looks with Annie. “Then again, representing Tomorrow Man isn’t so bad.”
“Right?” Annie exclaimed, finishing her salad. She tossed back another glass of red. “So dumb.”
“Easy, ladies.” Johnny laughed, waving off the mockery. “That account will pay for our house.”
As Annie refilled her glass, something caught her eye. “OMGeezies!” She jabbed Quinn’s arm. “BL.U.N.A.!”
Quinn was confused until hearing anticipation ripple throughout the restaurant. She followed her friend’s gaze, and a dull ache filled her chest.
Two attractive teens were being led into the restaurant by a fawning host. The boy, half-Japanese and half-white with spiky hair sticking everywhere, was pretty and knew it. Lucas Shinoda, codenamed Blur, from the Extreme Teens dressed in a casual tee and ripped jeans despite Carmelo’s dress code. The speedster smirked while holding hands with his stunning girlfriend, Korean popstar L.U.N.A.
She had a willowy dancer’s body, her powder-blue designer dress immodest and spaghetti-strapped. L.U.N.A’s black hair fell in bouffant-styled curtains around her doll face, which was unreal. Her Aussie accent was audible when greeting restaurant well-wishers. L.U.N.A, born to Korean nationals who migrated to Australia, returned to Seoul at age fourteen to start her music career. To the world at large, Blur and L.U.N.A were gorgeous, successful teens madly in love.
Quinn frowned at them, knowing Blur and L.U.N.A were a lie to boost the latter’s US music career. No one knew about Blur's affair with virginal Vanguard member Seraph, who was engaged to America’s mascot Sentinel. Quinn could’ve outed the affair. After the Vanguard interviews got shelved, she had nothing to lose. Except self-respect. Aside from having no tangible proof, the exposé’s consequences would be devastating, making Quinn worse than Rebecca Reyes.
“I know my obsession with them borders on creepy given their ages,” Annie remarked, ogling as Blur and L.U.N.A were seated. “But those kids look insanely hot together.”
“Yeah…” Quinn replied flatly. Too bad their relationship is fake.
She tore her gaze away from this painful reminder of recent struggles, ignoring Annie’s questioning eyes. Thankfully, dinner arrived soon.
The steak and side dishes, like the company, were delicious. While Quinn took mental notes on the cuisine and service for her review, she kept observing Johnny and Annie being predictably adorable. Johnny Sherwood was the opposite of the weekend warrior bad boys Annie used to date. But after the couple had met at some NYC marketing conference three years back, Quinn couldn’t picture her BFF with anyone else. Johnny and Annie's displays of affection were effortless. They snuck in kisses often and unexpectedly, teasing one another and finishing the other's sentences. Tonigh
t, weirdly, Quinn was jealous watching them, L.U.N.A and Blur’s fake PDA, and other couples in Carmelo’s. Loneliness struck with dizzying force. Work and friends had masked this void for ages. But with work sucking, being single reared its lonely head. Now Quinn’s eyes burned. And after two glasses of red, her emotions were all over the place. Crap. She couldn’t lose it in front of Annie and Johnny or these other patrons. Quickly excusing herself, Quinn lurched out of her seat, wobbly from the wine. She waved off Annie’s concern and rushed toward the restrooms, almost colliding into a server.
Once safe in the marble-floored bathroom, Quinn hid in a massive stall to let the tears fall. The few other occupants eventually left. The disappointment didn’t abate, nor the trembling sobs.
Soon, the bathroom door locked. Quinn recognized the approaching click-clack of heels.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine,” Quinn replied, trying not to sound like she’d been crying. “Go back to dinner.”
“Quinn Marie Bauer,” Annie demanded, slurring her words. “Your Boston accent comes out when you’re upset. I’m not leaving till ya open up.”
Knowing she meant it, Quinn grudgingly pushed open the stall door.
Annie’s eyes bulged. “Baby!”
“I…I’m having a stupid moment. It’ll pass.”
Annie sat beside Quinn with rueful eyes. “I know J and I put on a show.”
Quinn instantly felt guilty. “Never apologize for that.” She rubbed Annie’s bare arm. “I love your and Johnny’s loved-up love. It’s just…” Her smile faded. She searched for words that didn’t sting. “Seeing that makes me miss Bobby.”
Annie’s jaw dropped. “You miss Bobby?”
“Not as a boyfriend,” she corrected, wiping away tears. “Even though the sex was lit. I miss having a partner.”
Annie wrinkled her nose in disdain. “Bobby was trash.”
“I remember,” Quinn threw back.
Bobby Cafferty, Quinn’s last long-term relationship from almost three years ago. The South Boston boy was rough on the surface with a heart of gold, a real-life Good Will Hunting. They’d met during her junior year at Brown, fell in love and all that. Quinn had been supposed to move to NYC with Bobby where she’d lined up reporter job interviews. Bobby had moved first to set up their apartment. But Quinn had arrived two days early to surprise him, not expecting to find Bobby with another girl. Nor did she expect him to blame all his failings on her ambition. The ensuing, excruciating breakup had closed Quinn off to anything besides casual hookups since.
