Heroine Complex (15 page)

“You should write that down, love,” Lucy said, flapping a hand at Shasta.

“No need,” Shasta said, attempting to morph her glare into a smirk. It retained the same “indigestion” vibe. She
glanced over at Nate, who was still occupied with his beer. “How about you, anything to add? You're always so quiet.”

He stared back at her. “‘Always?'”

“Well, at the benefit last night,” Shasta said. “That's the only time we've seen you out with Team Aveda and Maisy was wondering . . . you know what, never mind.”

I rolled my eyes. Obviously Maisy was still trying to get the scoop on “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Frowny.”

Shasta turned back to me. “Make sure Aveda gets us that statement. In a timely fashion.”

“So odd to see the toady away from her queen,” Lucy said as Shasta stalked off. “She looks like a detached limb.”

“It's tough being attached to someone with an outsize personality,” I said, watching as Shasta grabbed a cocktail napkin from the bar. She glanced around, frowning, then marched over to Stu Singh and whispered something in his ear. He handed her one of the golf pencils the bar's patrons used for karaoke slips. She scribbled on the napkin. Apparently she needed to write down my quote after all. Without Maisy around, Shasta's haughtiness seemed oddly defanged. Maybe it was all part of a “Maisy's sidekick” act she wasn't very good at, but didn't know how to drop. Maybe augmented bitchiness was her version of the soothing voice I used with Aveda. “Who knows what Maisy's like behind closed doors?” I added.

“True. Probably almost as bad as she is out in the open,” Lucy said.

I laughed. Dealing with Shasta—a very assistant-y sort of task, after all—had relaxed me. I felt comfortable, glad to be back in my uniform: jeans, T-shirt, neon undergarments (electric orange this time). Glad to be wearing my own unnotable face.

I allowed my heart to lift a little. This was supposed to
be a celebration, after all, so enough with the freaky demon talk and sudden lip obsession. I was here to have fun, dammit.

I signaled the server for another round of potato skins.

By the time Scott showed up I had moved on to nachos. Beautiful, beautiful nachos. I'd also scored some spam musubi, which Kevin had recently added to the appetizer selection in an attempt to, as he put it, “get some true mixed-race dishes on the menu.” I savored the taste of my OG comfort food, alternating bites of musubi and nachos with reckless abandon. It was like I'd never had food before.

“Bea told me you guys were here,” Scott said, plopping himself into the lone empty chair at our table. “I have some updates on the spell.”

He hesitated, then leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Sorry about what I said on the phone last night. And the way I've been reacting to this in general. I just . . . I want you to be safe.” He squeezed my shoulder.

“I know,” I murmured back. I patted his hand reassuringly. “It's okay. I'm glad we're working on the whole safety thing together.” I raised my voice so the rest of the table could hear. “So what are the updates?” I said, lifting a fully loaded nacho to my lips.

Scott leaned back, draping an arm over my chair. “I think I've figured out part one. I have an idea of how to take the fire out of you. But I'm still working out the specifics of the transfer.”

“Can we test it?” I asked, stuffing the nacho in my mouth. “Part one, I mean.”

“That's not a good idea,” Nate interjected. “If the spell is as dangerous as Scott keeps claiming—”

“Then we should let
Scott
tell us about that,” I said. I resisted the urge to give him a glare. We'd just reached a
rare moment of agreement, thanks to our discussion of demon oddities, and I was trying my best to be an adult and not mess that up.

I turned to Scott. “We need to get on this,” I said. “There's a possibility that the demons are going through some sort of change, and if that's the case, we need to get the fire into Aveda as soon as possible. So she can handle the situation.”

“Noted,” Scott said, squeezing my shoulder again. “But no tests 'til I have a better handle on things, okay?”

“It can't merely be a better handle on things,” Nate said. “If—”

“Please stop nitpicking every little thing Scott says,” I said, attempting to keep my tone from veering into testiness. Did he have to act like such a superior know-it-all when it came to
everything
? And was he still pushing the idea that I shouldn't go through with the power transfer at all? I sopped up leftover potato grease with my last nacho. “I trust Scott, he'll handle it, end of story. He's trying to move our master plan forward, here.”

Nate frowned at me, then muttered, “I would have more essential data to contribute to this process if
someone
hadn't destroyed the tiara.”

This time I did glare at him.

Being an adult was overrated.

“Gah.” Lucy, who had apparently zoned out from our discussion, leaned so far back in her chair that it almost tipped over. “Do you see that?”

She gestured to the entrance. Letta, mopey as ever, had just sauntered in with some equally depressed-looking friends. They scanned the room and headed over to the bar, where Shasta had plunked herself down and was now nursing a martini. I wondered how long she was allowed to be away from Maisy.

“Letta's ignoring me,” growled Lucy.

“Maybe she didn't see you, Luce,” I said.

Lucy shook her head. “This is not acceptable. She
hasn't responded to my last three texts, either. I have to pull out the big guns.”

She snatched a request slip from the abandoned table next to us and filled it out with gusto.

“You've been agonizing over the Letta-bedding song choice,” I teased. “Did it just come to you?”

“You inspired me, Evie.” She nodded at her slip with satisfaction. “So this particular song is also for you: demonbuster, firestarter, and heroine of the day. You want to join me up there?”

She inclined her head toward the piano.

“You know I never do,” I said. “But I'll watch.”

“All right, then. And by the way, the showstopping performance you're about to witness will also qualify me for that.”

She pointed at a bright yellow flyer pasted to the wall above the bar. It announced an upcoming Ultimate Karaoke Battle, a duel to the musical death featuring two lucky souls deemed to be the best of The Gutter.

“Everyone already knows you're the best of The Gutter,” I said.

She shrugged. “Might as well reinforce the notion.” She grabbed Scott's arm. “Come on, Scotty. I need help with this one.”

“Your surfer boy sure is game for a lot,” Nate observed, watching Lucy drag Scott away.

“He's not mine,” I said quickly. “I mean. I guess he used to be sort of . . . ours. Mine and Aveda's. But not anymore. Not really.”

But as these words spilled out, I found myself contemplating the idea of Scott and me. After all, Dead-Inside-O-Tron appeared to be . . . well, considering last night's Bathroom Incident, it was safe to say “on hiatus.” Scott was one of my oldest friends, he was sweet and supportive, and he loved Bea. And except for last night's stressed-out phone conversation, we never fought. Maybe if his spell worked and I finally became normal
after all these years, we could have something. It wouldn't be a totally supernatural-free something since he still did magic for a living, but he wasn't like Aveda. He didn't let his power define his entire identity.

Hell, maybe he was right. Maybe I could find another job, another life. And maybe that life could be with him.

I watched his ass as he loped up to the piano. It was a nice ass. Really nice. Well-shaped. An ass that . . . um . . .

So not working. No sexy feelings whatsoever. Apparently, Dead-Inside-O-Tron wanted to malfunction only when it came to certain people.

Nate and I sat there in silence as Lucy handed Stu Singh her request slip. I gazed mournfully at my now-empty plate while he sipped his beer with those perfect lips.

Why was I thinking about his lips again?

Goddammit, Dead-Inside-O-Tron.

Nate set the beer down and studied me, looking like there was something he wanted to say.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said.

He gave me a quizzical look.

“About why I shouldn't let Scott go through with this depowering spell,” I said. “I know you think it's a bad idea—though I can't imagine why, especially given this possible demon evolution—and I know you really want to convince me with science. But right now, I would rather just . . .”

I trailed off as the plinky opening chords from The Bangles' “Eternal Flame” wafted from the piano. I smiled. Lucy knew me well.

“. . . listen to the song.” I gave him my own attempt at The Tanaka Glare. Even without a mirror, I could tell it wasn't as good as Bea's version.

“Okay.”

“Um, what?” I blinked in disbelief. “That's the second time you've responded with a simple ‘okay' rather than backtalk. Are you feeling all right?”

His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Just fine.”

I sat back in my seat, perplexed. “If we're not going to argue, what the hell are we going to talk about?”

He set down his beer and spat out a short, harsh bark of a laugh—a bizarre sound I was pretty sure I'd never heard before. He leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table.

“Why don't you tell me why you like this song?”

I hesitated. Was he making fun of me?

“You just smiled,” he said. “When the song started—you smiled. You don't do that very often.”

I turned toward the stage, where Lucy had draped herself over the piano in classic siren fashion. She tossed her hair back from her face, pointing straight at me, belting out the big notes.

I felt that unhinging inside of me again, that recklessness I had been overtaken by earlier in the day. I tried to block it, tried to get my usual control back, tried to call up Soothing Internal Voice to advise me against allowing my words to spill out. But like Dead-Inside-O-Tron, Soothing Internal Voice seemed to be on extended hiatus.

Two days of being a fake superhero and my internal safeguards were thoroughly fucked. So my mouth opened and I started blabbing.

“It's the song I was always waiting for.” I curled my hands around my ice-cold beer bottle. “At school dances? You know how you were always waiting for that certain song, hoping the DJ would magically read your mind? Maybe that was just me,” I added as a hint of amusement flashed through his eyes. “Annie—er, Aveda and I found an old Bangles cassette tape at Goodwill. We must've listened to it a thousand times.”

I paused, picking at the label on my beer. It flaked off in satisfying bits of gluey paper. Talking to him this way was weird. But as long as I was talking, I wasn't thinking about his lips.

“We both thought it was a perfect slow dance song . . . shut up!” I said, as his mouth started to curve. “You aren't allowed to laugh at me. We were twelve.”

My eyes wandered back to the piano. Lucy and Scott were tearing it up, hands over hearts, singing to each other like their lives depended on it. The senior citizen audience ate it up, their gray heads swaying back and forth.

“I'd wait for it, every junior high school dance. And the DJ never came through with the mind-reading. The song was too old to be relevant but not old enough to be vintage cool.”

I decimated the remainder of my beer bottle label, arranging the remnants in a pile. “Then we were at our first high school dance. We were freshman, the lowest of the low. And this dance had something we'd never seen before: a live band.”

I picked at my pile of label pieces, snagging glue underneath my fingernails.

“I wouldn't shut up about the song that night. I kept obsessing about it. Like, if they somehow managed to play this one song during the first dance of my high school career, freshman year would be automatically awesome.”

I pushed my label pile to the side and looked up, meeting his eyes. He was biting his lip kind of hard.

“You
are
allowed to laugh at that,” I said, grinning in spite of myself. He didn't laugh, but he smiled back, taking a final swig of his beer and setting the empty bottle on the table.

“So? What happened?” he asked.

“Aveda kept hounding the band guys. Which I didn't want her to do. I didn't think it counted if we
made
it happen. But she was a lot like she is now.”

“Relentless.”

“Yes. So finally she's had enough. The band guys are ignoring her, pretending like they can see right through
her, which was
never
okay with her, even back then. So she climbs up on the stage . . .” I smiled at the memory. “And while the lead singer dude was basking in the screams from hormone-crazed groupies, she slips in front of him, commandeers the mic, yells, ‘this one's for you, Evie,' and proceeds to sing ‘Eternal Flame' in its entirety. A cappella.”