Heroine Complex (23 page)

“That you're extraordinary?”

“That I'm a monster.”

I'd never said those words out loud. But as they landed in the air, rushed and staccato, I knew down in my bones that they had guided me since that horrible day at the library.

What if you're a monster? What if you're a supervillain? What if you allow yourself to let go and be all unguarded and feel something for just one millisecond and everyone dies and it's all your fucking fault?

“You're not a monster.” Nate reached over and took my hand. “I'm standing by extraordinary. And for the record, when I've suggested exploring your power, it's not because I think you're an experiment or a science project or whatever you want to call it. It's because I want you to see that, too. That extraordinariness.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. I tried to process each one of those words, to internalize them. I'd gone to the brink of monsterdom—nearly taking Aveda's head off—and come back from it. I was on the other side of almost realizing my greatest fear and I actually felt okay. I was even making plans to use the fire
more
and battle this still-nebulous demon force.

For a moment we just stood there, Nate's hand clasping mine. I reveled in the gentle warmth of that touch. In the past, any kind of heat near my palm area would've been enough to start that familiar panicky feeling spiraling through my stomach. Now it just felt . . . nice.

“You may have been, as you say, ‘a jerk' to me, but I've been nothing but hostile to you throughout our acquaintanceship,” Nate said, bringing me out of my thoughts. “I should apologize for that as well. And I should tell you why.”

He stopped so abruptly, I wondered if there was more to that sentiment or if I'd heard wrong.

“Okay,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “Why?”

He dropped my hand and rocked back on his heels, his eyes going to the ceiling. This bit of movement looked
strange on him: casual and waffly and weirdly vulnerable.

“This is going to require ice cream,” he finally said. He crossed over to the freezer in the corner of the lab, opened it, and pulled out a small dish with a wooden spoon stuck in it. Then he grabbed a stool and dragged it over to me.

“Sit,” he ordered. “And eat this.” He shoved the dish into my hands. It was the promised ice cream. “There are some things I want to tell you. But I would like to request that you not interrupt me.”

I couldn't respond, because my mouth was already full of ice cream. Clever man. And it was the best flavor from Humphry Slocombe, Secret Breakfast: cornflakes and bourbon and sugar. I savored the taste and hoisted myself onto the stool and motioned for him to continue. He took a deep breath and fixed me with a piercing gaze.

“I've wanted to see you naked since the moment we met.”

I nearly choked on my mouthful of ice cream.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That's one of those sentences that didn't quite come out right.”

“But—” I sputtered unattractively. “How can you . . . you probably don't even remember—”

He held up a hand. “No interrupting. I do remember: You answered the door that first time I came to HQ. Your hair was coming out of its ponytail, sticking to your neck, and you were wearing a very tight T-shirt with a cartoon duck on it. And you told me, without so much as a hello—” A smile played around his lips as he went into a spot-on imitation of my put-out tone. “‘The bodyguard position has been filled. We are not accepting new applications at this time.'” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end in that way I used to find so odd. Now it was kind of endearing. “I have never meant to come off as disrespectful of you, the way you live your life, or the way you see the world . . . but I'm afraid that's
exactly what I've done. I was trying to put as much distance between us as possible. In the past, it's been very necessary to keep my life free of distractions. And you are a very big distraction. Especially in that goddamn tight T-shirt.”

He looked at the floor, stuffing his hands in his pockets. I licked my spoon and set my dish on the table next to the stones. My heart was beating very fast, and I didn't think it was from the sugar rush.

“So our sexperiment has been a long time in the making,” I said. I was going for “teasing,” but my tone came out more like “do me on this table right now, please.”

“Indeed. But perhaps we shouldn't call it that since I just clarified that I do not think of
you
as an experiment—”

“No, no, it's a joke. A funny wordplay thing,” I said quickly. “I mean, we agreed orgasms are our only purpose. We're not actually collecting hardcore data or anything.”

I was babbling now. I couldn't think of what else to do.

“Hmm.” He paused and placed his hands on the table on either side of me, hemming me in. I sat very still, trying not to betray how much the heat rolling off his body affected me. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Or are we?”

Whoa. Was
he
trying to be teasing now? Because his tone was definitely matching my “do me, etc.” cadence.

Should I keep going with it? Could I pull off sex kitten for more than one line? Actually, it wasn't even quite sex kitten, it was more like—

Jesus Christ.

Was I really overthinking
incredibly hot sex
again?

“I've collected an abundance of data so far,” he said. He dipped a finger in the melting remnants of my ice cream. “For instance,” he said, “my highly scientific analysis indicates you have a very sensitive spot right . . . here . . .” He dabbed a droplet of ice cream on the curve of my neck, right below my earlobe.

“Hey!” I protested, unprepared for that bit of cold against my skin. Before I could elaborate on that thought, he leaned in and flicked his tongue over the spot. Which was indeed quite sensitive. A giggle escaped me. “Very funny.”

“It's not funny.” He gave me a stern look. “It's
science
. I have also been able to discern that you turn a rather violent shade of pink right . . . here . . .” He dabbed another drop of ice cream along my collarbone. “ . . . when you're aroused.” He pressed his lips against my skin, gently sucking at the ice cream. The melding of the cold with the heat of his tongue created an irresistible sensation, a feeling so heady I couldn't find words superlative enough to describe it.

But I was pretty sure that bit of skin was now an exceptionally violent shade of pink.

“And here . . .” He eased the stretched-out collar of my T-shirt over my shoulder, exposing the top slope of my right breast. He dabbed the last of the ice cream just above my nipple, which remained frustratingly covered. “Here, you like teeth.” He grazed the spot to demonstrate. I inhaled sharply, all of my nerve endings standing at attention.

He kept his focus on that spot, licking and sucking, even though the ice cream was long gone. Desire coursed through me so fiercely, it felt like it was jabbing at my vital organs, a repeated shock to the heart. A single thought pulsed through my brain, relentless and ridiculous.

Science is awesome!

Science! Is Awesome!

Science . . . is . . . awesome!!!

“Science . . .” I gasped out loud.

And then I felt it. That telltale warmth in my palm, that sensation that was usually accompanied by panic.

But once again I didn't feel panic.

“Nate!” I pulled back from him and held up my hand.

Right there, perched in my palm, was a perfect fireball. It was contained and still and unlike the wild bursts of flame that usually shot out of my hands. I goggled at it, unsure what to make of its seemingly docile nature.

Nate's eyes went wide.

“That,” he said, “is awesome.”

“WOW,” NATE SAID
after a few moments of awed silence. Then he looked at me anxiously. “That's not . . . I wasn't trying to do that. I wasn't even thinking about your power. I meant what I said about you not being an experiment, I was going along with your ‘funny wordplay' idea—”

“I know. I got it.” I smiled and thought back to what he'd said earlier.

I want you to see that, too. That extraordinariness.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I could see it. Or at least I wanted to. The more I figured out about my fire, the more control I gained, the more I wanted to learn about how my power worked.

I couldn't believe I actually
wanted
that.

But I did.

I fixated on the fireball, orange shot through with streaks of molten gold. It was beautiful. It was glorious. It . . . was just sitting there. Steady, steady, steady. As if awaiting its marching orders. I gently batted my hand back and forth. It remained stuck to my palm, as if affixed with glue.

“So that's different,” I murmured.

“Why is it not . . .” Nate mimed the fire exploding out of my hand and flying across the room.

“I'm not sure.” I closed my fingers around the fireball
and felt the heat vanish. When I opened my hand, it was gone. I flexed my fingers. Suddenly, I had an idea for an experiment of my own.

I felt emboldened by the need to see some extraordinariness.

“Let's see if I can bring it back.”

“I could kiss you again.”

“No. I mean . . . maybe later.” I smiled at him. “Let me try something else.”

I closed my eyes and summoned the feeling I'd had yesterday: the pure, unadulterated rage toward Aveda. No other thoughts, no inhibitions. I let the anger flood through me, drowning out everything else.

When I opened my hand, the fireball was there again.

“Still awesome,” Nate said. “How do you think this is working?”

“You mean, what's my hypothesis?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

I studied my fireball. “These past few days, I've gotten accustomed to feeling things,” I said slowly. “I'm used to having a suppression reflex: kill a big emotion as soon as it starts. But ever since Tommy—ever since I let the rage out—that reflex has been breaking down.” I met his eyes. “Just now, with you and, uh . . .” I gestured at the empty ice cream dish. “I was completely in touch with what I was feeling. I was
focused
on that feeling and nothing else. Does this sound insanely stupid yet?”

He held my gaze. “No.”

“It's like catching the feeling. Grabbing on to it and letting it overtake me. That brings the fire.” I looked at my little fireball again. “But this thing seems to be stuck to my hand. I want to try throwing it.”

“Where?” Nate surveyed his precious lab, apprehensive.

“Out a window?”

“You might hit an innocent passerby.”

“Into a bucket of water?”

“We own a bucket?”

“How about over there?” I nodded at the lab's basin sink. “That's like a bucket.”

He considered it then nodded. “Okay.”

Before I could say anything else, he scooped me up and carried me over to the sink.

“Hey!” I gave him a look. “I can manage. This fire thing doesn't impede my ability to walk.”

“You should focus on keeping your hand still.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “And maybe I like carrying you.”

I rolled my eyes at him. We made it over to the sink and he set me down on the counter and turned on the water. I whipped my wrist back and forth, trying to separate the fireball. But it stayed stubbornly stuck to my hand.

Hmm. If pure emotion was the key to forming these fireballs, maybe pure emotion would also help move them?

I cleared my mind and tried to focus on a single feeling. I dredged up my exchange with Bea from the day before, when I'd said she reminded me of Mom: the happiness that surged through me when she smiled. Warmth, contentment. A sense of relief that maybe I hadn't fucked her up for life.

The ball floated in my palm, unmoving. I bit my lip in frustration.

Oh! That was a good one—frustration! I summoned it up: the impotence I felt over this new breed of demons. The flicker of rage that flashed through me whenever I got one of Dad's useless postcards. The burning need for Nate to rip the rest of my shirt off, exposing my attention-starved nipple . . . no! Bad example. I felt my collarbone area flush pink.

After several more seconds of deeply feeling every feeling I could think of, I shook my head.

“Shut the water off. Not happening.”

I closed my hand over the fireball, extinguishing it, while Nate turned off the sink.

“Okay,” I said. “So apparently I can now call my fire up on cue, which does indicate a further level of control. Which means I don't have to worry about it shooting all over the damn place. Which is pretty amazing.” I paused, considering. “And just like last night, I think that level of control means I can also still . . .” I closed my eyes, channeled my frustration, and felt my palm heat.

No,
I thought to myself.
Not now.

The fire didn't appear. Triumph surged through me.

“I can keep it from coming out, too!” I crowed. “Like, regularly. Last night wasn't just a fluke.” I flexed my fingers and frowned into space. “But if I can't figure out how to make my fire
move
, it takes my power from horrifically destructive to possibly useless.”

“Not useless,” Nate countered. “It is still fire, after all.”

We shared a few moments of contemplative silence. Then he leaned in. “We don't seem to be getting much further with this hypothesis.”

“Just like our new breed of demon hypothesis.”

“So why don't we try that kissing thing again?”

“For science?”

“For fun.”

I had no objections.

He had just managed to get my shirt almost all the way off when the lab door flew open and a very pissed-off Aveda Jupiter hobbled in on her crutches. Lucy, Bea, and Scott trailed in behind her. When they saw us, they came to a standstill.

“What?!” Aveda squawked. She gave us a once-over. “Whatever you two are doing cannot possibly be sanitary. This is supposed to be a scientific laboratory.”

“We're aware,” I said, rearranging my shirt so it sort of covered my torso. “Do you want to tell me why you all just barged in?”

Aveda glared at me. “Just when I think there's no
possible way you can make things worse, you go and . . . and . . .”

“And what?”

“Oh . . . em . . . gee . . .” whispered Bea, her eyes widening as she stared at me and Nate. I realized I was still tangled up in him and made a move to extricate myself, sliding down from the counter. So much for keeping our sexperiment a secret.

Weirdly I found I didn't care. Given how much I'd exposed myself the past few days—both literally and figuratively—getting caught in a hot, heavy, possibly unsanitary make-out session seemed like small potatoes. Although my baby sister probably didn't need to be seeing this. I gave Scott a meaningful look, trying to silently tell him to get Bea out of the room. But he just grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. Lucy snickered.

My friends were so awesome.

“Evie,” Bea began, holding up her glittery phone. “You need to look at . . .”

Aveda snatched the phone from Bea and shoved it in my face. “Explain this, Evelyn.”

The screen displayed Maisy's blog, her sickeningly cute logo splashed across the top. Below the logo was one of her typical headlines. Only, for once, the headline wasn't about Aveda.

It was about me.