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Nobody’s Hero
Copyright © March 2012 by Katey Hawthorne
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Katey Hawthorne

Chapter One

My sputtering iPod gave up the ghost on a Monday afternoon. Normally I don’t

mind the start of the work week—my name’s Monday, so I defend my day on

principle—but I was still slightly hungover from Saturday night. The only way I was

going to survive was with a little help from MGMT. The frigid silence of the old cube

farm drove home several irritating facts:

1. I had a phone number of dubious provenance in my wallet.

2. A tequila headache lingered behind my eyes.

3. I was totally unprepared for the sales call from hell tomorrow morning.

4. Last night’s visit from the recurring nightmare was clinging to my brain.

And last, but oh God, not least:

5. My stomach was cannibalizing itself.

To add insult to injury, my phone chose the exact moment of iPod death to vibrate

on the desk, screen flashing the most ominous word in the English language: MOM.

She picks today to bestow a phone call upon her grateful son. I love my mother, but I

really wasn’t in the mood.

Only one thing for it. The electricity was practically bouncing off the inside of my

skin, so I let tiny white sparks crackle around my fingertips. I shouldn’t, I knew. Any

sleeper—as in, non-superpowered-type—who saw me would freak and call for a wiring

inspection. Well, that or know me for what I am, or at least some weird sleeper-friendly

version of it. Call me a witch, maybe.

But really, screw it. I let the charge build up until the crackle became audible, then

let it go. It leaped to the iPod, sending up a hiss and spark from its useless innards.

Nobody’s Hero

Fried.

Not quite the storm I was craving, but the fizz of ozone in my nose and the tingle

it left in my hand—goddamn, that was nice. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Jamie.”

My stomach dropped. I shoved the iPod under some papers and spun the chair

around.

Clark leaned against the partition, eyebrows high. “The hell, you watching porn

on that thing?”

“What?”

“My mother once caught me with a copy of Swank, and that’s exactly how I

reacted.”

“You got a dirty mind, man.”

“Uh-huh, that’s great, coming from you.” He chuckled. “Get up, fool. I’m

starving.”

“Where’s Sarah?”

“We’re supposed to bring her a chicken Caesar. You getting one for your best

friend?”

“Yeah, it’s Monday.” My phone vibrated again. I shoved it into my pocket and

followed Clark out, listening to him rant about his mother-in-law—who I happened to

know was a really nice woman, by the way.

He paused near the door, nodding to the far corner of the cube farm. “You meet

New Guy yet?”

“The code monkey? Nah.”

“Off your game.”

“Shitty day.”

“I’ll introduce you.” He waved me along the narrow aisle between the drab gray

partitions and the beige wall. “Weird dude, though.”

Katey Hawthorne

“There’s a first, a weird programmer.”

“Ha-fuckin’-ha.”

That got him a dirty look from Isabella, since we were passing her cube. I swung

inside and kissed her cheek. “How you doing, gorgeous?”

“Don’t flirt with women older than your mother.” She patted my face. “Hot date

this weekend?”

“It’s not a date if you meet a guy at a club, slam shots for an hour, go back to his

place, and get a cab home at three a.m. So, no, not really.”

Really should’ve asked him to write his name next to his number. Ferris?

Frederick?

My head gave an answering throb. Fuck.

Bell chuckled. “Tell me more.”

“If I remember, you’ll be the first to hear it. Got any new romance novels for me?”

We had a barter system: I’d divulge tales of my sordid affairs, and she’d divulge other

people’s tales of sordid affairs. Because, yes, there were days when we were that bored.

“No, but I just went to the library, so I’ll have some for you soon.” She went back

to her keyboard, Clark’s verbal transgression forgotten. Mission accomplished.

I wandered around the corner after Clark and then almost forgot how crappy I felt

for a second. New Guy’s desk chair was in pieces on the floor, which meant he had to

bend over his desk. And you know how there’s always one guy on the football team

that’s a little slimmer than the rest of the line when they get set, but you stare at his ass

anyhow because it’s got that perfect shape?

Yep, that’s the guy.

Clark said under his breath, “If I looked at a female employee like that, I’d be

fired.”

“You did look at a female employee like that, and she just popped out your second

brat.”

Nobody’s Hero

“That brat is your goddaughter.”

“And she’s beautiful, just like her godfather.”

But by then New Guy was standing up, one of those “Welcome to Humphries”

folders in his hand. We weren’t near enough that he’d catch what we were saying, but it

would’ve been hard to ignore our presence.

Clark said, “Hey, New Guy.”

I gave him the once-over when he turned. First thing: he wore glasses, black wire-

rimmed. (Bona fide librarian sexy.) Second: basic white button-down, flat-front

pinstripes, plain belt, no watch, stylishly shaggy, no obvious hair product. (Didn’t ping

the gaydar but didn’t shut it down either.) Third: he was pale, super pale, but his hair

and eyes were a deep chocolate color. (Goth kid by night?) Fourth, and most

importantly: swimmer build. Tall, wide shoulders and slim hips, and did I detect a

telling bulge at the—

“Kellan, actually.” Luckily he was too busy eyeing Clark with extreme suspicion

to notice me checking him out like a hungry dog with a juicy bone.

No pun intended.

“Yeah, I know, but for about a month, you’re New Guy.” Clark accompanied this

announcement with his biggest grin. “That’s just how it works.”

“Right.”

Clark clapped him on the shoulder, and Kellan’s mouth pressed into a pale, thin

line. Oblivious, Clark went on. “This is Jamie Monday, our social director.”

I held out my hand. “Not really. Sales.”

He took it, and his gaze dropped, but nervously. His voice was warm, middle-

toned and gentle, which somehow took the edge off the words: “So you’re the guys

who sell things we don’t have and then expect me to produce them?”

I laughed.

Katey Hawthorne

Pricing consulting: selling software that doesn’t exist (yet) to companies that could

probably do without it, then bleeding them dry by charging for every planning

meeting, conference call, training session, and product update for years to come.

But hey, you want to know what a fifty-cent price cut will do to your holiday

sales? Have I got the product for you.

One corner of Kellan’s lips twitched upward, and his gaze dropped again. Those

eyes were something, now I was a little closer.

I got the feeling he’d been a little bit serious. Better keep it simple, then. “Nice to

meet you, Kellan.”

“New Guy,” Clark corrected.

Kellan pulled a face like a five-year-old staring down a plate of Brussels sprouts. It

drove home that he was a lot younger than I’d expected, but I recalled something about

him being a wunderkind. I mean young in a cute-college-guy way, not a creepy way.

Considerate of them to hire someone worth looking at, at least. Brightens the place up.

I said, “We’re going to lunch. You hungry?”

He poked at a cardboard box with his toe and chewed on his nails. “Ah, no,

thanks. Just arranging my stuff.”

I laughed. “Don’t let us tear you away from anything exciting.”

He looked up sharply, mouth pressing into that line again. It was like someone

pouring cold water over my head. I’m not saying I’m Prince Charming, but I’m not an

ironic dickhead either. Damn.

“Right.” He turned around and went back to digging through the lone pile of

papers on his desk.

“Okay.” I allowed myself one last look at his fine backside. Hey, I could be a jerk

too. Yeah. “Later, New Guy.”

“Later.”

Nobody’s Hero

We couldn’t talk about it in the elevator, since it was jammed full, but in line at the

sandwich shop, Clark said, “Told you. The code monkey has a stick up his ass.”

“Yeah, well he can stick his—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“James, I would do anything for your love. But I won’t do that.”

I sighed. “First Swank, now Meatloaf. Jesus, man. You have the worst taste in

everything—except women.”

“And you’re the expert there.”

“You’re such a cock.”

“And you’re the—”

But I was at the front of the line by then, so we stifled our adolescent banter long

enough to order sandwiches. We took the long way back to drop my extra off with Will-

Sing-for-Food Guy on the corner. Clark always called him my best friend, but I

considered myself a patron of the arts. You dropped a buck in his ancient coffee cup,

this guy made up the best couplets you’ve ever heard, usually based on you or

something going on down the block at the moment. Drop enough dollars, and he’d

eventually start talking—and you’d find out what kind of sandwich he liked.

If that’s not worth a three-cheese panini on a Monday, nothing ever will be, man.

* * * *

Clark, Sarah, and I made it a point to say hi to New Guy when we saw him. His

standard reply was to grunt a hello and drop his gaze, then keep walking. Sometimes

he’d do that little lopsided smile but never for long.

Clark decided he was stuck-up, Sarah pointed out he was just acting like a

programmer, and I didn’t know what to think. I shouldn’t have cared, but Clark calling

me the social director wasn’t far off. I arranged the happy hours; I managed the

intramural team; I knew everyone, and everyone knew me. Being just about the only

Katey Hawthorne

eye candy in the office didn’t make up for him giving us the cold shoulder. If I could

convince Isabella to sub in at left field, I was sure I could convince Kellan Shea to sit in

the dugout, at least.

So on Friday, I tried again, resolved that I wasn’t taking no for an answer. I

stopped by Bell’s cube to drop off a Danielle Steel novel I’d found in a bargain bin and

then pretended to take the long way back. When I saw the back of Kellan’s head, I

stopped and rested my arms on his partition. “Hey, New Guy.”

“Kellan.” Then he looked up, seemed surprised to see me. “Oh, right. Sorry. New

Guy, that’s me.”

Well, at least he was trying. I turned on the smile. “You like baseball?”

Looking even better than usual, he spun his chair around, lines of code flashing on

the screen behind him. His Casual Friday jeans were worn where they hugged his long

thighs, and the T-shirt under his tweed sport coat had a circular emblem made of

shamrocks and snakes. It said Flogging Molly.

I filed that away for later use. It’s a sales thing.

“Post-season, mostly,” he said. “Haven’t been to the Jake in years.”

Bonus points for not calling it Progressive Field. “The amount you have to drink to

make it through an Indians game these days, the bar’s more cost-effective.”

That halfway smile appeared. “So, office outing or something?”

“Better than that. We have an intramural team, play some of the other local

companies. Got a game this weekend, if you’re interested. We need a shortstop;

Megan’s better at first, and Lance is killing us there.”

He chewed at his fingernails. I’d never noticed before, but they were bitten down

to the skin. “Uh, no thanks.”

Usually when people say no, they give you a reason, either because they feel

obligated or because part of them wants you to convince them to change their mind. If

you do, and you’re good, you can even make them think it was their idea all along.

Nobody’s Hero

I didn’t have much of a read on this guy, but instinct told me there was more to it.

So I waited, schooling my expression.

Then he said, “More of a watcher than a player.”

There it was. “So come cheer for us. We’re pretty good—we won the league two

years ago.”

He smiled halfway again, but one dark eyebrow went up. “You really spend your

weekends with people from work?”

When I recognized the stinging sensation in my cheeks, I gave a low whistle.

“Ouch.”

“Shit. I didn’t mean it, uh, like that.” And he went back to chewing his nails.

I stopped myself asking how, exactly, he could’ve meant it otherwise. I chose that

moment to wonder if he was so awkward around me because of the queer issue.

Sometimes it takes a while to get an insecure straight man to treat me like, you know,

just a guy. Like I have to prove I’m not on a recruitment drive or something. I mean, if

they’re really that concerned about a gay man idly noticing whether they’re hot or not,

maybe they should stop checking out the T&A on every woman to pass by.

That’ll be the day.

In Kellan’s case, it was unlikely. He’d been awkward from the first, and though

Isabella’s interest in my dating habits had surely informed him of my proclivities by

now, he couldn’t have known then. Even so, the thought pushed me into an

uncomfortable mental area. “Forget it. I’m gonna go get a Coke. Need anything?”

“No.” He stopped chewing on himself. “Thanks…Jamie.”

“Later,” I said.

“Later.” But he didn’t turn around, just sat looking at me, lips pink from abuse

and parted like he wanted to say something else.

I got the feeling if he did, it’d be awful. As I pushed off the partition and walked

on, I noticed a plastic Red Bull cup full of chewed-up pens on his desk. Just above that,

Katey Hawthorne

he’d tacked a few pictures to his cube, among them an old-school—as in, Stan Lee and

Sal Buscema era—Amazing Spider-Man cover: Spidey swinging from a building with his

hand out, like he was about to spray webbing all over the desk.

That brought back my smile.

I know most kids consider comics vaguely dorky, but for us—people with

awakened electromagnetic manipulator-type powers—they were even more of a guilty

pleasure. Guilty because they were everything we weren’t supposed to be.

So yeah, okay, socially inept nerd, but probably not homophobic douche.

My mind turned to happier speculation: I wondered if his jeans were really as soft

as they looked and if his legs were as muscled under them as I suspected. Wondered if

that office chair would hold the both of us at once.

Heh. That was more like it.

* * * *

Halfway through that evening’s inevitable soiree, I sneaked out of Severance Hall

with the smoker crowd. Cleveland has this reputation for snow, I know, but in summer

it’s sweltering up here on the lake. The nights, though, those are nice.

Even when you have to spend them in a three-piece suit at a fundraiser.

“Still sneaking out for cigarettes, Jamie?”

I knew who I’d see when I turned, but my heart still skipped a beat. Not in that

“true love” way. In that, “God, seeing people who know how fucked-up you were as a

teenager sucks” way.

Billy Armin—now Dr. William Armin, plastic surgeon specializing in

reconstructive trauma surgery—pulled a Camel out of his pack and offered it to me. His

suit was as designer as mine but about three years older and slightly too big at the

shoulders. His watch was a brand-new Rolex, shined to perfection.

Nice to see his priorities hadn’t changed.

I held up one hand. “No, thanks. I quit when I was sixteen.”

Nobody’s Hero

He laughed and lit up, bright eyes tracing the front end of University Circle before

coming back to mine. “How’s your mother? Haven’t seen her in forever.”

“Hell, I see her once a week if I’m lucky.”

“Some things never change.”

“Was just thinking that myself. Never got to tell you, the wedding was really

nice.” Though I’d ducked in and out as fast as possible and barely even gotten to shake

his hand.

He grunted and made a face.

I grinned and shoved my hands into my pants pockets. Standing outside on a fine

early summer evening, smoking with Billy Armin. Jesus Christ, that brought back some

memories. “How’s Lisa?”

“You know how it goes, Jamie. Jesus, you’re one of the few who really does.”

I smiled, which I figured would say it all.

“We should hang out again,” he said. “Why’d we stop?”

I somehow understood that he wasn’t pretending not to know, more stating the

stupidity of our reasons.

“College,” I suggested as a polite alternative to the truth. “You went to…?”

“Temple.”

“Yeah. And I went right there.” I made a general gesture to indicate the Case

campus surrounding us. “So you were spared a few years of this bullshit.”

It wasn’t bullshit, not entirely. Yes, these charity events tended to be dual purpose:

for one, the awakened community gets together and actually does a lot of good. Our

particular gifts—be they of the thermal kind like Billy’s, who, through a complex

manipulation of electromagnetic fields and photons, could cool matter down enough to

freeze it—or electric like mine, are good for augmenting any number of regular

occupations. To some, using our powers responsibly might mean simply not being a

dick about them. But to others, it meant actively using them in service of the

Katey Hawthorne

community. In this case, we had a couple of correctional officers who thought some

money needed raising for a local charity that did volunteer work at prisons, and so

Mom had gotten this black-tie affair up with the symphony. Fundraising was the main

attraction, of course.

But it was also an opportunity for us and ours to get together. Prominent doctors,

police officials, energy providers, whatever—I’d have been surprised if any of the rich

and powerful who’d flocked to Severance tonight were sleepers. Fulfill our obligations

to the community and get together to talk, reconnect.

And occasionally marry off our kids to each other.

Billy smiled. “I’m making up for it. So’s Lisa. Tell you what, though, nothing

brings a couple together like mutual bitterness.”

“Well, at least make-up sex is the best.”

“No shit.” He dug in his inside pocket and produced a card. “I’m serious, give me

a call. We’re near City Center, in East Fourth.”

“Hip.” I took the card and tucked it away.

“Yeah, well. Lisa insists that she has taste. Apparently it’s something you can

buy.”

We had a laugh before I decided it was safe to ask, “So, you ever see…?”

He shook his head. “Guess Mason moved to the west coast. Like Mae.” He raised

his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yeah, don’t go there.”

He clapped me on the back. “And I don’t know what happened to most of the

other kids. But we all come home eventually.”

I was about to agree when a new voice interrupted from behind. “Jamie, there you

are.”

Mom’s Chanel No. 5 reached me before she did, and in the meantime, Billy

respectfully chucked his cigarette into the nearest smoker’s port.

Nobody’s Hero

“William, your father said you were here. It’s so good to see you boys together

again.” She did that mock-scolding face, the one that looks more like a smirk, as she

took my arm. “Not giving him cigarettes, I hope.”

“Tried, but smoking isn’t cool anymore; only doctors and nurses do it now.”

I forced a laugh.

Her grip on my arm tightened. It was meant to be a reassuring squeeze but served

the opposite purpose in practice. “Well, I’m glad Jamie didn’t like med school, then.”

I winced and hoped neither of them saw it.

“It was the worst four years of my life.” Billy looked at me with renewed respect.

“You’re my hero, man.”

I knew he meant it. And it was true that we were the few who could understand.

He’d done everything right. Gotten the right job, married the right girl, come back

to Cleveland. He was really powerful, at least as powerful as me in his own way—we

were bred that way. Lisa was a little weaker on the scale; no one would ever mention it,

not even in anger, but she knew that everyone knew she was meant to be more

impressive. But her blood, as they said, was strong, and she and Billy would very likely

produce perfect little superpowered babies to go on being doctors and police officers

and quietly fighting the good fight against humanity’s natural tendency toward

entropy.

And then there was me.

Funny, but no matter how sincere Billy’s admiration, I didn’t feel like much of a

hero.

Five minutes later, Mom dragged me back into the hall, where swaths of silk and

clouds of perfume adorned a crowd of Cleveland’s richest and most powerful—in the

awakened sense. “Jamie, honey, don’t pout. If you can’t joke about it—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mother.”

Katey Hawthorne

She rolled her eyes. The grayish green of them was the one physical feature I’d

directly inherited, but it always looked cleverer on her. “You only call me Mother when

you’re pouting.”

I rolled my eyes right back and let her brush invisible lint off my jacket for a few

seconds before finally saying, “Stop.”

“Sorry.” She took a step back to admire her handiwork. “Margaret’s here.”

I scrubbed my hand through my hair, trying not to scream. “That’s why I had to

come?”

“She hasn’t seen you in months.”

“She’s your friend.” And out of her damn mind, to boot. Woman smiled so hard, I

always thought of the Cheshire Cat. This did not inspire confidence, especially

considering—

“She says Mae can’t wait to see you again.”

I froze. “I thought Mae was still in San Diego.”

“Well, yes.”

I narrowly avoided yelping in relief.

“But Margaret wants to see you. Jamie, you’re going to be the father of her

grandchildren.”

Yeah, just lie back and think of England, Jamie.

“Let her look at you and think of how handsome they’ll be.” She leaned forward,

went up on her toes, and kissed my cheek.

I rolled a million snarky comebacks around on my tongue. That was power too—

the kind of power that made me sick to my stomach, just knowing it existed anywhere

in the world, let alone inside me. The power to hurt her. The power to let her down.

Again.

I took a deep breath.

Nobody’s Hero

She patted my face and stood there looking at me for a second. The wrinkles were

getting deeper at the corners her eyes these days. It made her smile sweeter, softer—

tiny lines at the corners of her mouth too.

I took her small, pale hand, compared it to my long, rough fingers and baseball

tan. Noticed how thin her skin felt.

I still felt sick but not in the same way. Something in my throat.

“You look really good, by the way,” I said. “Love that dress on you. That the new

Versace?”

“Yes, it is, sweet talker.” She laughed. “Mae better come home soon; I don’t know

how one of these other girls hasn’t snapped you up already.”

I followed her into the crowd, stopping, waiting, smiling, speaking when I was

spoken to. Oh, Andrea, look at your boy! Jamie, have you met my daughter…?

* * * *

No big shocker that I had the nightmare again that night. People write about

recurring dreams, and there’s that cliché: The dream was always the same.

But it is, is the thing. Only twice a month or so, at least since I had the sense to

ditch the Doctor Jamie idea, but it’s enough that there’s no time to forget.

It always starts in an alley. Not a real one, but some weird gray and brown alley in

some strange city that exists only in my subconscious. And there’s always this guy

there—again, not a real guy, not the real guy, but he’s close enough, with his grizzled

gray hair and wild eyes. And he starts yelling at me in a language I shouldn’t be able to

understand. I can smell his sour breath and feel his hate. I mean hate like I’ve never

known in the waking world, hate like a nuclear bomb.

Sometimes I realize here that it’s a nightmare. Sometimes they come close together

enough that I really can’t forget, and something flicks on in me, some half-

consciousness. But it’s never a lucid dream; it just makes what comes next even worse.

Katey Hawthorne

Because I get angry. I get angry, and I puff out my chest, and I don’t even say a

word to him. I just put my hand into him—not on him, but I reach out and shove my

hand into his chest like the bad stereotype of a priest in Temple of Doom—and I amp

myself up hard. My whole body lights up; God, it feels so fucking good to let it go like

that, like I never could, never should. All of me exploding, racing from the little place

inside that generates the fields, through my torso, funneling it into my arms, into my

hands—

Into him. His mouth goes wide in a silent scream; his body lifts into the air in slow

motion, lit up like a storm cloud with all my lightning, jackknifing around and through

him.

And I’m not even sorry, because I’m too busy laughing and wiping the blood off

my hand.

At fifteen, I used to wake up screaming. At twenty-eight, it was just a lot of

shivering, so I guessed that was an improvement.

Nobody’s Hero

Chapter Two

In the first three innings, I knocked two out of the park. Sex, electricity, and

beating the hell out of the ball with a Louisville Slugger: the holy trinity. Cures

whatever ails you.

Of course, it had been a week since Dubious Provenance Guy, so I was getting

twitchy in the sex department. There were a couple of guys I could call for something

quick and easy, and Derrick was already on me to go down to the west side again,

but—

“Is that New Guy?” Clark asked.

I looked to the stands, where Isabella sat next to a lanky young thing in a green

ball cap and well-broken-in jeans. Huh. “I’ll be damned. It is.”

“What?” Sarah came up behind Clark and ducked under his arm.

“New Guy,” he said and kissed the top of her cap. Then he looked at me.

“Thought he impolitely declined, as usual.”

“To play,” I admitted. “Maybe Bell talked him into coming. They look kind of

chummy.”

“Jealous?” Clark asked.

I pretended to ignore him. “Aren’t you up to bat?”

“Nope,” Sarah said. And she took off, orange ponytail swinging behind her.

“Back up!” yelled the Datasoft pitcher when he saw her coming up to the plate.

“Outfield, back up!”

“That’s my wife,” Clark said, grinning.

* * * *

Katey Hawthorne

We hopelessly outmatched Datasoft, the poor bastards. Sarah and I had more runs

than their whole team together. I’m not exactly sure how, but Isabella convinced Kellan

to come to the Winking Lizard with us after. When I expressed surprise, she said, “He’s

a sweet boy, Jamie. You have a big personality; you have to be careful around people

like that.”

Only Isabella could consider herself an expert on someone after a week of cube-

farm association. Or, for that matter, consider grouchy-ass Kellan Shea a “sweet boy.”

The Lizard crowd thinned from eight down to four over the course of a lot of

wings and two rounds. Sarah and Clark hung around because Saturday was the day

they left the adorable brats with the grandparents. I guessed Kellan hung around

because the three of us kept putting beer in front of him. He drank like a professional,

keeping pace with Clark—who was an offensive lineman in college, to give you some

indication of what that means—and there was noticeable difference in both the amount

of time Kellan’s fingers spent in his mouth (less) and the amount of words that came

out of it (more).

And then they did it. Clark looked at his watch and sighed. “Guess it’s time.”

Kellan and I had both started new beers not two minutes before this

announcement. I hoped the dirty look I shot Clark would communicate my Et tu, Brute?

sentiments sufficiently.

He shrugged and smiled. I shouldn’t have been so surprised. It would’ve violated

Clark’s personal Man Code to say anything, but I knew goddamn well he thought my

voracious clubbing and random sex habits were juvenile, bordering on self-destructive.

Just, I never thought he’d stoop to a setup.

Sarah threw some money in my direction. “Pay for us, will you? Don’t want to

keep Mom waiting.”

“I feel that.”

She made a sympathetic face and prepared to leave. I looked at Kellan across the

table.

Nobody’s Hero

He had his head thrown back, gulping his Fox like someone was going to take it

away. I was very nearly disappointed, but watching his white throat contract and

expand as he swallowed distracted me.

The massive awkwardness potential of the situation presented an irresistible

challenge. When he put the mug down, I asked, “Thirsty?”

He laughed, always silently, but at least it seemed real. “Guess so.”

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Oh. No. I just thought you would.”

“Nope. Spending Saturday with people from work is kind of my thing.”

He flushed. He’d taken his hat off just before he’d sat down at the table—so had

I—so his hat-hair bangs fell into his eyes.

Cute. I could do worse than have another beer with him, anyhow.

Sarah kissed my cheek, and I kissed hers twice, saying, “Extra one’s for Caitlin.

Tell my baby I love her.”

The bill came as they were leaving, and Kellan was staring at me, obviously

wanting to ask, so I said, “Charlie and Caitlin, their kids. Cait’s my goddaughter.”

“Wow.”

“Kid has a black dad, a white mom, and a queer godfather. They figure that covers

her bases.”

Kellan blinked a few times. His mouth opened, then shut.

“It’s a joke, Kellan.”

He smiled, all crooked. “Yeah…I…yeah. Heh.”

Okay, so he wasn’t offended. Which left only one option for the source of his

mystification. He was either hard of hearing or completely oblivious, to go a week in

that office without hearing someone say something indicating my state of extreme

queerness.

Well, one way to find out if he was bothered: “You staying?”

Katey Hawthorne

He cleared his throat and said, “Sure. I must owe you three beers by now.”

Curiosity ruled me. Would he be more awkward now? Or less? Or was he in a

static state of awkwardness? “I got at least three more in me. Let’s move to the bar so

they can turn this table over.”

The second we were propped up on bar stools, he said, “I really didn’t mean it to

sound that way, about spending your weekends like this. It just came out wrong.”

“Forget it, man. You’re here, so you obviously don’t think it’s that pathetic.”

“Heh.”

“Though I almost asked what the hell else you could’ve meant. At the time.”

He waved for another beer, then pointed to me to indicate that I wanted one too.

“I meant—you seem like the popular kid.”

I raised my eyebrows. He blew upward, sending his bangs flying. Nice mouth.

Sweet lips, the bottom one fuller than average, pale, palest pink, and perfect teeth. More

idle speculation: Wonder what all that repression tastes like.

“In school,” he said. “The popular kid. The one who always had parties to go to on

a Saturday night because he’s everyone’s best friend. Baseball with your married

coworkers…”

“I’m starting to feel like a disappointment.”

He looked into his beer and bit his nails.

So serious. I leaned nearer, one elbow on the bar, and lowered my voice. “I’m

batting .1000 tonight with the jokes, so I’ll just be honest with you.”

“Yeah?” One corner of his lips quirked upward.

“Yeah.” I don’t know why I decided to tell him; he just seemed like the kind of

guy who’d appreciate it. “The truth is that we all have options. And my favorite day of

the week is the one where I play baseball with Clark and Sarah. Them, Isabella, Megan,

Lance—they’re good people.”

Nobody’s Hero

For the first time, he smiled. A full-on, teeth-showing smile. And, oh God, he had

just the tiniest dimple in his left cheek.

My blood rushed hard; I shifted to relieve the building pressure against my fly. I

wasn’t even sure what about the moment had just done it to me, but there it was.

“I know. I’m just really shit at being the new guy.”

“Nah. You just seem a little…”

“I know how I seem.” A pause, during which the bartender brought us drinks.

Kellan polished off his old one, and I made a sizeable dent in mine. Then he went on,

staring into his beer. “Like I think I’m too good or something.”

I scanned for something soothing to say, something to take the edge off it, to let

him know it was all right, we all give an impression we don’t mean to, and all it took

was five minutes’ conversation with him to realize—

“But I’ll be honest too.” He looked up, ruffling his hat hair as he scratched his

head. “I’m, like, the fucking definition of white trash, so I never look down my nose at

anyone. I’m just not good with new people, is all. So I’m sorry if I come off like a

douche bag. I mean, I am. But it’s not because of that.”

“I don’t know about trash.” And encouraged by his sudden affection for strong

language, I said, “But I do know you’re a fucking nerd.”

He laughed. “What gave me away? The affinity for SQL?”

This was sarcasm, but I replied in earnest: “Spider-Man.”

“Heh.”

“I mean, I was more of a Fantastic Four guy, myself, but—”

“Spidey and Human Torch crossovers.”

“Yes.” Torch. Obviously based on an experience with someone who was

awakened, by the way. You get a good heat-type, and they can make it look like they’re

covered in fire. It’s magnificent.

Katey Hawthorne

“Those were the best.” He took a long swig and grinned. His wide shoulders

rounded, he slouched, but not in that protective, curling-in-around-himself way.

“Fucking Johnny Storm, man.”

The strange softness of his voice combined with his wanton use of the word

“fuck” had a predictable effect. It beguiled me into admitting, “Always thought he was

hot.”

“Shit, I was just about to say you remind me of him.”

“That’d explain it.”

“What?”

“Why I think he’s hot. I get a little narcissistic sometimes.”

He smacked the bar and laughed, this time out loud.

“See, you laughing at my jokes only encourages me.”

He shot me a sideways glance, a little knowing smile.

The gaydar, which had been swinging this way and that all night, finally pinged

so hard it pinned the needle. Something hot woke up deep in my belly.

And then, of course, my phone buzzed.

While he was gulping his new beer, I pulled my phone out. Text from Derrick: You

coming tonight or not, sweet pea?

I typed back immediately: Not. But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, sugar britches.

Which sounds like a joke, but the number of times I’d scraped Derrick out of the gutter

on a Saturday night was astronomical. I was a slut but not an idiot. Derrick was both,

poor lovable bastard. That finished, I set the phone on the bar and said, “Sorry.”

“No, go ahead.”

“Just trying to shake off this—” It buzzed again. Since he could see “Derrick” as

well as I could, plus half of the text, no point in making up some story. “Friends trying

to convince me to go down to West Sixth.”

“It’s still early.”

Nobody’s Hero

I paused, on the verge of inviting him to go with us now that his self-conscious

facade had dropped. But something about his face, a bend to his lips that seemed to

signify vague distaste, stopped me. “I’m going to leave a conversation about hot comic

book characters to go be the creepy old guy in the club? No, thanks.”

He snorted. “Old. Right.”

“I’m twenty-eight. And you, wunderkind?”

“Not that young. I mean, old enough to drink.”

“Old enough to drink is old enough for anything.” Old enough to take you out to my

car and show you what a backseat is really for.

Huh. Okay, that was a little more than the usual idle speculation.

“Old enough to be over that bullshit.” He took another drink. “I’m twenty-three,

and I think it’s fucking pathetic.”

That probably should’ve stung, but I’d had enough to drink that the truth

sounded good. The phone buzzed again. He laughed.

“Dickhead. Take a hint.” I rolled my eyes and turned it off for the first time since

I’d bought the damn thing. “So, you don’t think Spider-Man’s kinda hot? I mean,

you’ve got the whole smart-guy-hiding-behind-glasses thing going, so you have to at

least appreciate Pete’s mystique.”

“Thanks for couching that in pleasant terms. Real nice of you, James.” He paused.

“Are you a James?”

“Yep. I even answer to it.”

“You look like a Jamie, but I like James too. So, okay, James, Pete’s awesome, but

he’s kind of a twat.”

“So’s Johnny.”

“Yeah, but Johnny makes it work. He makes everything work—that’s the point.

It’s fucking infuriating, right?”

Katey Hawthorne

And I swear to God, this discussion continued for another round and at least an

hour. His swearing got more creative, and we both got more and more pink-faced, and

he laughed and flushed at my flirting. There were even a few moments when he

seemed to call up enough courage to give me that look again and get my, um, hopes up.

Hell. It was fun.

* * * *

It was nearly midnight before we stumbled out onto the sidewalk. We’d covered

so many topics, but he was almost as good at diverting personal questions as I was, so

they’d all ended up rooted in music (we had never heard of each other’s bands), books

(we both stuck with our parents’ affinities for classics), and movies (we shared a love of

B-movies and crime drama). Which was fine with me…

Except that now I really liked him.

A sudden thought. “Did you leave your car at the field?”

“No. I live, like, not too far. Easy walk. You?”

“Same.”

“Pegged you for a City Center kind of guy.”

I chuckled. “Pegged me for a lot of things I’m not, looks like.”

He grinned and looked away. I scanned Coventry Road. It was clearing out, being

more of an evening spot than late night, but it wasn’t totally abandoned. I had a cavalier

impulse to offer to walk him home, nevertheless.

Well, that or invite him to my place, which was effectively around the corner.

Inappropriate. You work together. Don’t fuck this up.

Some college kids crossed behind him, distracted his attention, and I watched him

from the side. Admired his dimple. The curve of his neck. His shoulders under the

fitted T-shirt. His eyes, dark under the replaced baseball cap. He said, “Thanks for

asking me to come today. Someone less, uh, stubborn would’ve given up on me. I had a

good time.”

Nobody’s Hero

Not yet, you haven’t. If you weren’t so goddamn sweet… Isabella was right after all:

“sweet” was the very word. There was something about him that begged to be…

Dirtied up.

Oh, Jamie. You are so going to get fired.

I assumed that he, having had more beer than I, wouldn’t notice that my voice

was a little rough when I said, “Me too. So, you have my number.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he said. “And…you have mine.”

Invite him home. Invite him home; show him what you can do; make him like you, really

like you—

Yep. Definitely not the usual harmless ogling anymore. Goddammit.

“Talk to you soon, Jamie.” Two steps backward, and he shoved his hands into the

pockets of his jeans.

“Later,” I said.

And he turned to walk away. Once he hung a right on Euclid Heights, I made

myself turn toward Mayfield and not look back.

* * * *

There was some text messaging but nothing too obvious. I stopped for coffee on

Monday morning and asked him if he wanted one. Tuesday he brought me some

Flogging Molly, in re: our music conversation, and I brought him some Hot Chip. He

occasionally came out with something awkward and horrible during a conversation—in

person, not via text, at least—but I’d figured it out enough to laugh it off by then. He’d

flush, and I’d get hard and picture crawling under his desk and giving him something

to really flush about.

His being a coworker was all that saved me from doing something to ruin it, I’m

sure. I still thought I had the right approach, but my libido is blinding enough to blot

out even the sharpest instincts in a moment of weakness. I ignored Sarah’s questioning

looks, and Clark at least had the decency to keep his mouth shut about it. Bell was even

Katey Hawthorne

mercifully silent, though she did occasionally smirk when I stopped by on my way to

his cube.

It was a good distraction, in truth. I’d ducked Mom most of the week, but on

Wednesday she called and wanted to know if I’d heard from Mae since she’d given me

her new e-mail address. “You haven’t e-mailed her already? Oh, Jamie!”

Oh, Jamie.

By Thursday afternoon, I was officially on one of my “I can’t play this game

anymore” trips. I hadn’t seen Mae in probably ten years, right before college. I’d long

since given up on women by then, but I’d kept it in the closet for the most part, just to

avoid parental complications. I’d meant to tell Mae then, to ask for her help throwing

off this archaic bullshit.

We used to be friends when we were little, though things got weird after they told

us their absurd hopes and dreams for our future together. But we barely had five

minutes alone the last time we met, and Jesus, the poor girl had always stuttered a little

when anyone put her under pressure, but she could hardly get out three words together

that evening. I always felt bad for her, being so quiet, with the overbearing Cheshire Cat

mother. I spent the whole time trying to make her laugh and then couldn’t bring myself

to tell her that the idea of marrying her terrified me. As in made me feel like I was going

to puke in her lap.

Even a gay teenage boy knows goddamn well you can’t talk to a girl that way.

But we were older now, and she’d escaped Margaret’s clutches, at least

temporarily. She probably had a boyfriend—hell, maybe she had a girlfriend. And it

wasn’t like she’d ever tried to contact me. She’d understand.

Mae,

Hey, long time, huh? Mom just gave me your new e-mail and I thought…

I thought what? I thought you should know that I’m queer as a three-dollar bill, so

don’t worry about that whole marriage thing?

Nobody’s Hero

I’d been way too careful to ruin it all with one stupid e-mail. Yes, I needed to rip

off the Band-Aid, sooner rather than later.

But one problem at a time.

Mae,

Been a long time since we saw each other, huh? How’s life in southern California? Your

mom says you’re coming back after the postdoc, but I know how it is—moms can’t handle their

babies growing up and getting lives of their own.

Yeah, real subtle. Might as well tell her she had girl cooties while I was at it.

Fuck.

I scrapped the whole thing one more time and ended up with:

Mae,

Hey, Jamie here. Hope California’s good to you. Same old up here in the Mistake by the

Lake. We should probably talk before our mothers drive us crazy. Give me a call sometime.

Monday

Cell number in the signature.

I hit Send before I could think twice, pushed out from under my desk, and

wandered blindly in the direction of the coffee machine. Not the best choice, since I

needed a sedative more than a stimulant, but I’d take whatever drugs I could get. It was

either that or fry something for the momentary release, and seeing as I’d almost gotten

caught last time, I couldn’t justify it.

It was beyond stupid. I knew the answer, the one way out of this mess, and I was

just dancing around it. It was so, so past time to have The Talk. But I just kept thinking

of Mom’s little frown when I’d told her I was dropping med school, and my heart—

I rounded the corner near the copier, and my train of thought jumped the tracks.

Kellan was on his knees in front of the monstrous machine, pushing tray buttons at

random and swearing inventively under his breath. He sat back with his ass on his

heels, so it became obvious that his legs were just as tight as I’d previously speculated.

Katey Hawthorne

That was a pretty hard body he was working there. He looked up at me, sighing, mouth

just slightly open.

Hey, while you’re down there…

And there it was, the inappropriate workplace boner. I ducked down to eye level

and asked, “Problems?” This served to mask my reaction well enough that I could be

sure, at least, that he wouldn’t slap me with a harassment suit.

He made that face again, the annoyed-kid one. “Paper jam. I can’t find the fucking

tray. There’s A, B, and D.”

I reached out and tapped the side of the copier, as it happened to be near me,

where he couldn’t see it. The tray popped open, and I said, “C.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, leaving it wrecked, and pushed his glasses

up on his nose. “Motherfucker.”

I couldn’t help it. “You know, Kellan, you got a mouth on you.”

He bit his bottom lip as if to keep from smiling. “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. Really.”

He grinned outright but looked down.

I rearranged myself as best I could without showing off how impressed I was with

his dirty mouth and dug out the paper that was causing him grief. “Poor old thing.

He’ll work for anyone, but there’s just no heart left in him.”

“Him, huh?”

“Wrong or right, men are statistically more likely to work for anyone.” I fixed him

with a significant glance around the copier.

He shifted in a familiar way, sort of folding in on himself, still on his knees. He

laughed, and the little dimple appeared in an unnaturally flushed cheek.

Couldn’t get a clear view to check the state of his package, but I didn’t need to—

other than just wanting a good look at it. I told myself to stop there, let it be, but

something perverse in me pushed me onward. “We can’t help ourselves, I guess.”

Nobody’s Hero

“No shit.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. They were better than good when he

was genuinely amused—they were exquisite, even hidden behind glasses.

I wondered what he’d do if I stood, let him see how hard this got me, and then

nodded toward the door. Would he follow me to the bathroom? To my car in the

garage? Or would he just silently fantasize about yanking down my pants and sucking

me off in the middle of the office? Maybe pulling me down on the floor and fucking my

brains out right there and then?

The way his flush crept into his ears, I could almost buy that it’d be something like

that anyhow. Always the quiet ones, right?

No. This was anything but idle speculation. This, I wanted. Bad.

“This thing giving you trouble again, James?”

The sound of that particular voice snapped me out of my head so fast I almost got

whiplash. I looked up at Amy Delmonico: read, my boss. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and

wears power suits; great sense of humor, but never steps over the line; doesn’t drink too

much at the Christmas party; at her desk by nine a.m. sharp. She’s one scary-perfect

executive, I mean to say.

Not someone I wanted to fuck with. But thank God, she was smiling.

So I said, “Yes, ma’am.” And then, though I knew I shouldn’t, that perverse

thing—probably the one in my pants—made me continue with, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it

a good flogging.”

She laughed and walked on.

Phew.

Kellan said, now from behind a hand, “Can’t help ourselves with that either,

huh?”

“Hell no.”

He chuckled silently as I finished digging out his paper jam, calming down

slightly but not even close to enough to stand.

Katey Hawthorne

When I handed over the crumpled remnants of his print job, he said, “My hero.”

By that time, my brain was screaming at my dick to stop it, but this was definitely

a libido-override situation. I licked my lips, fixed him with another look, and said, “At

your service.”

No, really. Anything you want. Anytime you want it. At. Your. Service.

His grin was blazing—he wasn’t even pretending I hadn’t meant what I really

meant. He cleared his throat, made a useless effort to school his face, then stood. And

though he strategically positioned the worse-for-the-wear papers just in front of his

crotch—

Goddamn. He was filling out those pinstripes real nice, up and to the right. Briefs?

Guh, the thought of him in a pair of white jockeys… And what the fuck—weren’t Irish

guys supposed to be tiny?

He spared me one last guilty grin before turning to walk away. Leaving me on my

knees, my cock impatient against the inside of my thigh, watching his ass retreat.

I laughed at the completeness of my own stupidity, stuck my hand into my pocket

to readjust while I made a big deal of getting up, and swiped at it just in case it was as

dire as it felt and about to leave a wet spot on my favorite work pants.

And then I went straight to the men’s room—thank God it was empty. I unzipped,

got out my dick, and the relief, the thrill I got just wrapping my hand around it almost

collapsed my knees. A few good, tight jerks, an outlandish fantasy about Kellan pulling

out a mouth-watering hard-on under his desk and going at it at the same time, and my

head was done in. I had just enough time to grab a wad of paper to contain it, and I

came harder than should’ve been possible in a workplace bathroom stall; I had to lean

against the wall and bite my tongue to keep from moaning.

I was just congratulating myself on one hell of a self-administered orgasm when I

realized just how fucking pathetic the situation was. Not to mention creepy and wrong.

But sometimes, you do what you’ve gotta do to get through the day. And I have to

admit, the rest of it went a lot smoother.

Nobody’s Hero

* * * *

I had the nightmare again not long after, so I resolved to forget Mae and my

mother and devote the rest of the week to Operation: Ask Kellan Out. When I wasn’t

acting like a horny teenager, I was aware of the potential problems success might bring.

If he’d been awakened, like I said, it would still be complicated. He was somewhat

local, and therefore our families would know each other. I’d dated a couple of

awakened guys in an almost-serious way but never for more than six months. Partly

because I always expect to be judged by them for dropping the ball—even though our

weird system of intense expectations and overtly arranging marriages seemed to strike

most awakened from outside Cleveland as insane—but mostly because I just never fell

for anyone, I guess.

But we’re all raised to be very, very careful when it comes to relationships with a

sleeper. Mostly, they’re outright discouraged. Yes, sometimes it works. There was even

a (sort of) generally accepted system of criteria for telling them about your powers in

extreme cases. But if you really want the relationship to work, odds are good you never

tell them.

How well is that really working, though?

I’d never cared either way, and I didn’t really care then. It was putting the carriage

before the horse. But it was always there in the back of my mind, which was as it should

be. Reminded me why I stuck to fuck ’em and forget ’em most of the time.

But yeah, not an option here. So Friday morning I brought him the coffee he liked

(double cappuccino, plain), and he flushed and stammered and thanked me too much.

And I lingered and flirted and eye-fucked him until he got over it and started grinning

again, showing me that little dimple.

And the second I got to my desk, I got slammed with last-minute bullshit from the

Timely Rentals people in Denver—to whom I was trying to sell a pile of our software

and services—and only managed to eat lunch because Clark and Sarah took pity and

Katey Hawthorne

brought me fast food. It was almost seven by the time I was done, which I guess is only

five in Denver. Good for them. Bastards.

I was in a hell of a mood for a Friday night when I finally lumbered toward the

exit, but I saw a light in the far corner that lifted my heart. I started past Isabella’s

abandoned cube, and sure enough, there was Kellan’s dark head bent over his desk.

The telltale white screen, tiny-ass lines of nonsense, and barely familiar icons told me he

was neck deep in SQL hell.

In view of the Copier Incident, I could only suppose that my time had finally

come.

He didn’t even hear me coming up behind him. I leaned against the partition.

“The hell are you still doing here?”

He sat up straight. When he spun his chair around, he had a chewed-up pen cap

between his lips. He started to say something, realized it was there, and swiped it up

with one hand. “Uh, working. How about you?”

“Some bastards in Denver kept me late.” But suddenly, I wasn’t so angry at those

bastards. “You gotta sleep some time, you know.”

“Sleep is for the weak and the dead, James.”

“It’s Friday night.”

He did the lopsided smile. “And I’m not one of the cool kids.”

“You seem like a nice guy, in spite of your best efforts, so I’ll tell you a secret.” I

sauntered into his cube and leaned my ass back against his desk so I was looking down

at him; he swiveled around to follow. I finished with, “After high school, there are no

cool kids.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling and running a hand through his hair. Not self-

consciously—in fact, he left it a mess. It wasn’t long, just in that in-between haircut

stage where it covered the tops of his ears. “Only the cool kids would ever say that.”

“You have a complex.”

Nobody’s Hero

“Takes one to know one.”

“True that.” I looked down at the screen and made a face. “Am I keeping you?”

“Yeah.”

I was torn between laughter and injury. But considering the specific mission I was

on, it was enough to induce second thoughts.

I was strangling an impulse to push off his desk and wish him a good night with

his lines of meaningless drivel, when he said, “I mean, you are, technically, keeping me.

But that’s okay. I’d rather you did. Just, you are. And that’s what you asked.”

Then I laughed. He looked away, scratching at the back of his neck and flushing.

I really, really wanted to find out if that chair would hold the both of us, suddenly.

Which, no, still at work. After hours, but—

Right. Get him out of there. Then jump him. “Seriously, are you busy tonight?”

He looked up and raised his eyebrows as if to ask if I was serious.

Phantom fingers, the electricity crackling inside me, squeezed my heart. God,

what a rush. “Want to go out?”

He cleared something from his throat, pointing at his own chest as if to clarify to

whom, exactly, I’d addressed that question. “Like…?”

“On a date. With me. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Seriously?”

“Man, Kellan.” I laughed again. “What did I ever do to you?”

When he smiled, it was that same slightly evil smile from the bar. From the copier.

“Uh, nothing.”

I licked my lips. “Yet.”

He laughed out loud.

“Look, I’ll even wait until you’re done so we can leave together. What do you

say?”

Nobody’s Hero

Chapter Three

We discussed dinner options on the way to the elevator, in that weird cloud of

first-date tension that I always associate with the feeling of electricity running over my

skin, of my insides coming out and taking over—in a good way. In the way that makes

me remember why I love it. But seeing as he was awkward when he was happy, I didn’t

want to know what he was like when things got weird. God only knew what a disaster

he’d be under pressure.

I said, as we waited for the Down button to work its magic, “And, just for the

record, if you end up hating me, I am really good with smoothing shit over. So you

won’t have to be all awkward at work.”

He was looking at the door with that lopsided smile on his face. “I’m definitely

not going to hate you.”

Seeing as it was after-hours, the elevator popped right up. We got inside, and I put

myself a little too close. “You never know. It could happen.”

He leaned against the wall, looked me in the eye—he was close enough that it sent

a lightning bolt into my stomach—and said, “There’s no way you’re that fucking

clueless, James.”

“Oh, so you do like me.”

He grinned full on. “What I know of you.”

“A lot?”

“Shit, you weren’t kidding about the narcissism.”

“You mind?”

“No. God help me, I like that too.”

Katey Hawthorne

I’d done so well up to that point, if not controlling, then at least hiding my

inappropriate urges. But there was something about being alone in that small space

with him, standing close enough to smell his aftershave.

Okay, and I’m a slut for flattery above all else. Say something nice about me, and

I’ll hit my knees like a two-dollar hooker.

I leaned forward and kissed him before I even knew what I was doing. It wasn’t

the best moment for it, since I had my bag over my shoulder and had to balance by

resting one hand on the wall beside him, but his mouth found mine without hesitation.

At first, neither of us was breathing—he might’ve been as surprised as I was—but he

grabbed my belt loop with one hand and tugged me nearer.

Then it really happened. His lips parted and unexpectedly, gently opened mine

under them. The rush of it, the faint taste of spearmint gum, the sensation of warm lips,

the promise of his mouth… He turned his head and pushed in on me, and I went with it

again. His tongue ran over the connection between our bottom lips, then the edge of my

top teeth, sending a wet, electric thrill through my head and then down through my

chest, my stomach, my cock, my legs.

It started with me kissing him and ended up with him thoroughly kissing me,

filling my head with the sweet taste and smell, the gentle push of him. By the time he

closed it off, my knees had gone weak. He didn’t move, still held my belt loop tight, and

let his forehead rest against mine.

The elevator dinged. I wondered how many floors we’d gone down, but not

enough to actually look.

“Fuck.” God, he made the word sound so charming. “I thought I was just

imagining…”

“Been wanting to do that since we met.”

A puff of hot breath, spearmint and sugar on it. “No way. I was a complete dick.”

And man, I must’ve liked that, because I kissed him again, this time moving in

nearer so we were almost touching.

Nobody’s Hero

Ding. And the door slid open.

We pulled apart, smiling in that guilty-wonderful way, and stepped into the lobby

together. Jared, the ruddy-faced, middle-aged security guard, stared into the elevator, a

hilarious look of trepidation on his face.

Guess you can see that corner of the elevator from the security desk. Duly noted.

I cleared my throat but couldn’t look at Kellan again. I could feel him trying not to

laugh behind me. “Night, Jared,” I said.

Jared managed to choke out a very civil “Night, Jamie” before we made it through

the marble foyer and out the door.

* * * *

Yes, he fired off a few more classic Kellan lines over a dinner of mori soba and

Honeyed Fox seasonal brew. But after that kiss and the way he kept looking at me like

he wasn’t even close to finished—hell, he could’ve indulged in any abrupt jackassery he

wanted, and I would’ve begged for more.

It was barely nine when we’d eaten enough to stave off the kind of ravenous

hunger born of working overtime, and we’d had a drink or two, but nothing near the

damage we were capable of. Catching that look from him again, I felt confident enough

to say, “It’s early. You want to come over for a movie or something?”

“Yeah.” He paused, bit his bottom lip. “But I can’t.”

My heart hit the ground. I flipped back through the entire meal in my head, trying

to find the moment where I’d fucked up my chances of getting… Okay, I probably

wasn’t getting nailed, but I’d thought I could at least count on some heavy petting.

Weirdly enough, that was even more exciting. There was something kind of low

pressure about the whole idea.

Fun.

He sighed, and his shoulders rounded. “I have to feed the cats. They’re going to be

pissed.”

Katey Hawthorne

“Cats. As in multiple.”

“Three of them.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “Uh, you okay with cats?”

“I never met an animal I didn’t like.”

He dropped his gaze and adjusted the bag over his shoulder. So quietly I could

barely hear, he said, “You, uh, want to meet them?”

Just like that, my heart was back in my throat. I mean, where the hell had this guy

come from? “Love to.”

He looked up, then laughed. “The fuck are you grinning about?”

“I just figured out why Isabella’s in love with you.” Not really a lie, since she was

as much a stereotype as I—happily single middle-aged woman with four cats.

“People, I can take or leave. Animals, I love.”

“That explains a lot about you.”

“Shut up.”

* * * *

He lived in one of the old gutted and remodeled buildings on Euclid Heights, just

a neighborhood or two away from me. It had an open kitchen and living room with a

recessed dining area, authentically creaky but well-restored hardwood floors, and top-

of-the-line fixtures. Track lighting over the island counter separating kitchen from

living room, restored woodwork and doors. Hell, it was even decorated in a modern

but too-expensive-to-be-Ikea way.

Didn’t smell like he had cats; smelled like incense or something. No clutter, no

dirty dishes. The rugs even showed evidence of recent vacuuming.

Shame I hadn’t seen this earlier. I would’ve known he was gay for sure.

He left me to lock up behind us as he threw his keys on the counter and flipped

open a little book. I realized it was some kind of tablet only when he tapped it a few

times and lights came on in the living room—revealing, unsurprisingly, old-school

Nobody’s Hero

Spider-Man posters in the dining area and what appeared to be framed genuine comic

art panels against the far wall of the living room.

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah, welcome to the nerd cave.” He tapped a few more times, and the kitchen

lights came on.

“That’s awesome.” By this time, two small four-legged creatures had emerged

from one of the back rooms, one of which was extra small and trundling toward me at

an alarming rate. I’m one of those people who’s reduced to utter stupidity at the sight of

cute, furry things. I announced, “Hey, cats.”

The lanky ginger tabby went straight to Kellan. He picked it up and kissed its

head. “Hey, buddy.”

Ginger cat mewed. Had to admit, he did sound kind of pissed.

The kitten, mostly gray fluff and overlarge white paws, knocked its little head into

my shin. I knelt and scratched its ears. It purred and rubbed against my hand.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“Morgan.” He put the tabby on the counter. “This is Wyatt. Virgil will come

running when he hears me open this cupboard.”

I laughed. “You named your cats after the Earps.”

“Well, yeah.” Ginger Wyatt meowed at Kellan from his perch on the counter, and

Kellan spared him a dirty look. Then back to me where I crouched on the floor with

little Morgan. “Drink?”

“Yeah, thanks. Whatever you’re having.” I continued to oblige the sickeningly

adorable kitten with scratches and murmurs while Kellan knocked around the kitchen

with a bottle of something. Eventually the third cat emerged from one of the bedrooms,

hopping carelessly along on three legs. I let out a surprised “Whoa.”

And then felt kind of bad. Not that the cat would care.

Katey Hawthorne

Kellan, pouring drinks into icy glasses, said, “My sister’s to blame for everything

here but my Spidey collection. She picked every stick of furniture, and then she filled

the place with mangy cats. She’s into rescue. She keeps fostering them, and I keep

adopting them.”

This was the longest single speech I’d ever heard Kellan give on himself or his

family. He’d mentioned a brother and sister—maybe more than one—often, but never

got too in-depth. But I was more impressed because he was, like, even cuter than the

kitten.

“Last time, I told her I’m out of Earp brothers, so no more.” He put the cap on

whatever it was and brought two drinks to the counter, pushing one across it toward

me. Whiskey on the rocks. “It’s Powers. Little bit like Bushmills. I grew up with it, so…”

I stood and swiped it off the table. He sipped at his gently. Not like he drank beer,

but like he was really enjoying it rolling around in his mouth. Like he talked.

Like he kissed.

Then he left it on the counter and turned to dig through a cupboard.

Virgil picked up speed so he could shove his head between Kellan and the cabinet

door.

“Doesn’t seem to slow him down,” I said.

“Animals don’t have inadequacy issues,” came the response from deep within the

cupboard. “Part of what makes them good company.”

“Never thought about it.” Good point, though. I let him sort out the cats, all three

of which were congregated under his feet now, and wandered into the living area. The

smaller wall had framed photo collages and one or two portrait-type pictures.

When I got there, I was surprised to find a small painting of the Virgin Mary

staring down from the top, like it belonged in the family tree or something. One of the

portraits beneath, a sort of informal deal, caught my eye as actually having Kellan in it.

Nobody’s Hero

Must’ve been a few years ago, but it was him and a bunch of other similar-aged types

standing in front of a pond, feigning patience for someone’s camera.

However long ago it was, he hadn’t changed. Still had the same hair, and his T-

shirt said Dropkick Murphys. Today he wore an ancient, beat-up Pogues shirt under an

open button-down.

Over the impatient mews of cats and Kellan’s occasional swearing, I asked,

“Family reunion or something?”

He poked his head up and made a face. “Uh, no. That’s just my brothers and

sisters. Fourth of July a few years back. We do a thing.”

I sipped on my whiskey—which did have kind of a Bushmills bite and was damn

good—as I counted. Then I counted again, just to be sure. But yep, four boys, three girls.

“Seven of you?”

“We’re, uh, really Catholic.”

I glanced up again. “Yeah, so I guessed from the Blessed Virgin over here.”

Don’t normally see that outside old Italian ladies’ apartments, do you? Weird. But

seeing as he was from a family Catholic enough to produce seven children in this day

and age, not as weird as it could’ve been.

Even though he was gay. Which was decidedly un-Catholic of him.

Oh God. He wasn’t one of those bizarre Catholic queers who thought it was okay

to have a relationship but not sex, was he?

I glanced over to find him again, but he was ducked down, dishing out food.

Nah. He was bizarre, but in a good way. Not a self-hating, religious-hardliner way.

I contented myself with searching for him in the other pictures. There were a

couple, mostly of awkward teenagers with their arms around each other, one of him in

an inelegant high school state of development and goofy running shorts, a blue ribbon

around his neck, and people I presumed to be his parents on either side.

Explained the thighs, anyhow.

Katey Hawthorne

By that time, he’d appeased the wild beasts and come to my side. “What?”

I looked up and realized I’d been grinning. “Hmm?”

“What’s that look?”

“Seven? What number are you?”

“Five.” He pointed at each of the siblings down the row: “Maura, Kennedy, Finn,

Erin, me, Tara, Ryan.”

“Wow. So which one’s your decorator?”

He pointed to the girl under his left arm. “Erin.”

“Which one’s the vocalist at CIM?”

This time he pointed to the girl on his right, one of the two light-haired kids in the

picture. “Tara.” Then he pointed to the remaining girl, the one first in line. “Maura’s

obsessed with scrapbooking and makes us all these framed monstrosities, which we’re

obligated to put on our walls.” He eyed me sideways. “You never mentioned any

siblings.”

“Only child. That’s why I’m so spoiled.”

He smiled and sipped at his drink. “Just because you drive an old Benz doesn’t

mean you’re spoiled. Your mama did good by you.”

“How do you know?”

He lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. “You took your hat off.”

“What?”

“At the Lizard. You took your ball cap off before we sat down to eat. And you

chew with your mouth closed.”

I took another drink myself and asked, “You always notice how people chew?”

“If they’re sitting close to me.” A pause, wherein he pretended to eye the pictures

on the wall. “Or I like their mouth.”

Unh.

Nobody’s Hero

My brain function halved just like that, the instinct I had thus far counted on with

him obscured. I was frozen, with zero grownup experience of this kind of thing to go

on. He wasn’t just a nice guy—he was a really nice guy, in every way imaginable. He

adopted stray cats and let his sisters take over his apartment and had a picture of a

religious icon on his walls.

But, Jesus Christ, I was hot for him. Just hearing him say that had me hard, and I

wanted to—

“Ah, fuck it.” This wasn’t unusual of his sudden interjections, but this time he

followed it up by stepping closer and laying another of his brilliant kisses on me. We

were both holding drinks, but I slipped my free arm around his neck, turned my head,

and pushed my front against his. I breathed deep, the whiskey-spit taste of him filling

me with an unfamiliar but thrilling sense of gratefulness. He put his free arm around

my waist and pulled me against him, so I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the

tightening of his hard stomach, the press behind his fly.

He was slightly taller, so I tilted my face upward, and he rearranged the angle of

the kiss so he pressed in on me, parting my lips under his just like before, dipping his

tongue into my mouth and taking it back. It became a hot, wet, building thing between

us, lingering seconds, closing off one kiss and starting another. Not the teeth-clacking

first real kiss of desperation—but it was there, just beneath the surface. He sighed,

shifted his stance so one thigh slipped between mine. His cock swelled against me, up

high, and we both angled our hips to better advantage.

He pulled his lips off mine after a good bit of that, his forehead still against mine,

and said, “Sorry. But—”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath, then cleared my throat. Like he’d said, though, fuck

it. “Maybe we could…?”

“Definitely. Couch?”

“Perfect.”

Katey Hawthorne

He rained a series of similar if shorter kisses on me as we edged toward the couch

and peeled off random inconvenient articles of outerwear: shoes and glasses and

button-downs and anything else that was too much in the way, eventually left in a pile

on his Scandinavian designer coffee table. Once we took care of all that, it was obvious

he was settling into the couch for the long haul, and I had my hands far enough up

under his shirt to know his body was at least as good as I’d hoped, if not better. He was

warm and hard, perfect flat planes and tight, long muscles.

He tangled his fingers in my hair and pulled me close. I kept coming forward so I

was pushing him back into the couch, up on my knees, and sat down in his lap facing

him, one leg on either side, both hands on his shoulders. His hips shifted in

acquiescence, and he slipped lower until his stiff cock—mmm, goddamn, it was thick

too—pressed tight in the crook of my thigh. I sat down and snaked upward so he was

pinned into the couch

I halfway expected a moment of hesitation, but his arms were around me, one

hand flattened under my T-shirt at my side, the other pulling my ass forward, feeling

me up. The position put me slightly above him, and I came in for another kiss hard,

openmouthed, and lost myself in the rush of his mouth, of the way his hips fitted into

me, the mutual subdued desperation of trying to rub off on each other through two

pairs of jeans.

Eventually he pushed my shirt up over my navel, and we pulled apart with a

faint, sweet kissing sound, breathing like we’d forgotten to for the last couple of

minutes.

I said, “God, you’re good at that.”

He laughed. “Right.”

I kissed him again, this time quickly, and reached down to help him get my shirt

off. “Even better than I expected.” I threw it behind me blindly, added to the pile.

He swallowed, his eyes fixed on my bare stomach. In a voice gone ego-pleasingly

faint, he said, “You, uh, expected?”

Nobody’s Hero

I leaned forward and grabbed for his shirt, pressing my lips against his again. He

made even the tiniest kiss about the connection between us, about the heat inside us. He

ran his hands all over me, up my back, down my side, brushed the thin trail of pale hair

down the flat of my belly into my jeans. Gentle, almost careful, a barely there touch like

a static charge.

“Imagined,” I said into his lips. “Wanted. Whatever.”

“No way.”

Jesus, what did it take with this guy? Jumping into his lap and trying to get him

naked wasn’t good enough? Not that I minded the challenge, and I’ll sure as hell never

turn down a chance to talk dirty. “I think about it at your desk, especially. Wonder if

that chair would hold us. All the goddamn time.” I shifted my hips forward again,

earning a sweet little gasp from him. I jerked the hem of his shirt upward. He

cooperated, sitting forward and helping me get it off.

I froze just after I got it over his head, still holding it in one hand, looking down at

the work of art I’d just unveiled. “Fuck me,” was all I could say.

Not even just his body, which was great, but not in some extraordinary perfection

way. What turned it into an expression of appreciative surprise was that his right side,

starting just beneath his pectoral and ending inside the jut of his hip bone, was covered

in a huge, black, knotted Celtic cross tattoo. One cross-arm stretched into the center of

his torso, finishing with an intricate knot just beneath his sternum. The other stretched

around his side, finishing in the same way just before it curved around to his back.

He bit his bottom lip but at least seemed to take it in the right spirit. “Uh, I

mentioned the Catholic part, right?”

I ran my fingers down the length of it. Like I’d uncovered this weird artifact that

explained everything. (Hey, not a lot of blood to the brain. I was in no position to

construct a decent metaphor.)

Man. It is always the quiet ones.

Katey Hawthorne

When I got to the end, I tucked my fingers into his jeans and leaned forward,

flattening my other palm against his chest. His heart pounded hard, and he turned his

face up, lips parted, sinking one hand into the back of my jeans and trying to pull me

impossibly closer. God, what I would’ve given to send electricity racing all over him

just then, to let him see just how good I could be to him.

I settled for, “You are so fucking hot, Kellan.”

He gave one of those abrupt little laughs. “Shut—”

But before he could finish, I shut him up with my mouth. The taste of him was

familiar now, wrapped up with mine, still tinged with whiskey, and I drank it in. It was

thoughtless then. Our hands had all those new places to explore; one of mine rubbed at

the back of his neck, fingered his hair, the other still flattened against his chest, tracing

the lines of him down, then up.

He shifted his hips under me again, pulling my ass forward with both hands

before returning to petting me. But one strayed to my thigh, up, up. I ran my thumb

along the dip in his shoulder, down to his stiffening nipple, the same pale pink as his

lips, and rubbed at it, spreading my legs just a little farther so my knees pushed into the

back of the couch and my cock thumped against him. He broke off the kiss to gasp, and

I buried my face in his neck, opened my mouth, and sucked at the soft part of it,

pushing with my tongue. I took my other hand out of his hair and fitted it between us,

finally. Jesus Christ, finally. His erection was hot even through his pants, and when I

lifted so I could flatten my palm and feel it up good, he clutched hard at my ass.

I had him unzipped before I even knew what I was doing—and sure enough,

white waistband with the word JOCKEY in gray print and a fat seven inches straining

against white cotton underpants.

No shit, when his fingers found my button, I started to drip; I thought I was going

to lose it right there.

I felt him up through his underwear. He swelled again to my touch, shifting and

sighing under me. He tugged at my pants so they hung open and low on my hips,

Nobody’s Hero

returned the favor, pulling me down with his free hand for another kiss. I was just

thinking that I needed to get his pants off—as in, five minutes ago—when he started

sitting up. I sat up to crawl off him for long enough to get out of my jeans.

He grabbed me by the front of my shorts and held me there, biting his lip. He was

looking straight at the tent I was pitching, but eventually his eyes—they were so, so

fucking dark—found mine. He swallowed hard.

For a second, I thought he was going to call it off.

But he smiled and said, his voice all rough, like he hadn’t spoken in years, “I, uh,

imagined something too. At work.”

Now we’re talking. “Tell me.”

He let the front of my shorts go and guided my hips so I could back off him and

stand without falling over the coffee table. I dropped my pants, and he started

wriggling out of his.

“Yeah,” he said as he lifted his ass off the couch, which meant I was staring at his

erection trying to bust out of those absurdly sexy white underpants. God, it was

so…Kellan Sexy. Kind of dorky and cute but mind-bending all at once.

“I, uh—” He interrupted himself again by kicking off his jeans and reaching out

for me when I climbed back on top of him. “At the copier.”

“Fuck, that was hot.” I kissed him, replacing my knees on either side of his lap but

not sitting down yet. Then I kissed his ear, his jaw. “I had to go jerk off.”

“Jesus.” He ran his fingers so softly up the inside of my thigh, to the lower hem of

my shorts. “I was on my knees…”

My legs had that quivery feeling, but I wasn’t sitting just yet. I hadn’t quite

decided what I wanted to do to him first; where he was going with this confession

would dictate where I’d go with my ass. The anticipation was incredible, like I’d

scream, like I’d die. I kissed his face, ran my hands all over him. “Yeah.”

Katey Hawthorne

“All I could think…” He trailed off again, kissing my neck, his fingers moving up

and up, to the softest part of my thigh, tickling, so close. “I have a, uh, fixation, kind of.

Maybe you noticed.”

I put my forehead against his, hands at either side of his face, and laughed even as

he tugged my shorts down around my hips until my ass was halfway out. I don’t think

I could’ve cracked the joke with anyone but him: “Is it too soon to tell you I love you?”

He laughed and then sort of lifted me up, rolled us over, and pinned me flat. Two

seconds and I was on my back, my head resting comfortably just below the couch arm.

There was even a pillow convenient, and he was over me, grinning with that goddamn

gorgeous dimple owning his face.

Oh my God, whatever that was, do it again. Do that all. Fucking. Day.

In this spirit, I rearranged myself, parting my legs so he could fit between them,

and he lowered himself slowly. I pulled him down with my hands in his hair until we

were there—that first moment where two bodies, naked or very nearly, fit into each

other in that singular way. The one where all the parts really click into place, stomachs

rising and falling in synch, cocks pressed tight between hips, thighs fitted between

thighs, mouths gasping together, still connected. The thrill raced all the way through

me and then back again, and I shifted under him so we both sighed, Kellan with a kind

of “unh” sound into my lips.

Just a few seconds of it, and he started kissing his way down my chest, stopping at

all the good spots on the way. His mouth was just as persuasive there as it was against

mine. He teased my nipple with his hot tongue, made my skin prickle and my cock

pound. At the same time, his hand slipped softly downward, tugging my shorts the rest

of the way down. A flash of self-consciousness finally hit me—always does when I’m

the first one to lose all his clothes. But by then he’d moved his mouth farther down,

licking a line across my belly and then kissing it, lifting himself up so he could get the

shorts off all the way.

Nobody’s Hero

Another tattoo: a yellow and blue shield that filled the space between his shoulder

blades. Upside down, I read the word O’Shea in script beneath it, shifting with the flex

and stretch of muscle as he threw the last of my clothes at the table (and missed), then

went back to putting his mouth all over me.

This was so much better than I’d expected. Not even because he was so keen on

this blowjob idea, but because he was hot. I knew that, but he was so hot, in such

completely unexpected ways. Like…like—

His hand, which had been slipping up the inside of my thigh again, found my

balls. They’d pulled up tight, and his gentle-hot touch sent me reeling. He pressed his

hot, eager lips to the inside ridge of my hip bone, opened his mouth, and sucked at my

skin. The hair on my arms rippled. My cock, standing straight and just barely brushing

against his pale shoulder, ached for attention.

I swallowed a groan, grabbed the pillow, and stuffed it behind my head. The

better to watch him—for multiple reasons, not the least of which was the way his

eyelashes fluttered behind his bangs, the way he sighed and smiled against my skin

with those pretty lips.

He left small, benign pink marks between my hips, kissed up to the clipped patch

of hair at the base of my cock before he started somewhere else. I shifted my hips, and

he—in case I thought for a second he wasn’t torturing me on purpose—grinned. Then,

all at once, he took one of my balls into his mouth. I almost sat up, the wet shock of

pleasure was so intense. He licked me all over, first one, then the other, until I was wet

and gasping, absolutely dripping for it.

By that time, I was propped up on my elbows, legs as wide apart as they’d go,

being up against the couch on one side, watching in amazement as he worked me into a

state of confused, hot, wet excitement. Then he stopped, replacing his mouth with his

hand, and licked my cock from base to head. The sensation I was desperate for

magnified by the slickness of his tongue shook me, starting between my legs and racing

up and out. My arms gave, and I fell back against the pillow. He licked me once or

Katey Hawthorne

twice more, just at the head like he was tasting me, then opened his mouth and took me

in.

Fireworks went off in my brain, but I strangled them for a few seconds by closing

my eyes and focusing hard, every muscle in my body tight, back arching involuntarily.

Just, his mouth was so hot, and his tongue was so clever. His fingers had slipped

behind my sac, rubbing all that spit in the direction of my asshole, and Jesus, he could

take a cock, look at him, building that steady, unrelenting rhythm with his lips getting

pinker and pinker wrapped around me, and fuck that was deep—

I shifted my hips with him, pushing deeper into the willing heat of his mouth but

also angling my ass into a better position. He never let up, not for a second, just kept it

building until the waves of sensation were coming too fast and hard to deny anymore.

One ran through me, and I shuddered, sighing. Another right on its heels, and his

fingers crawled backward, teasing me, almost there. Another, and I said something like

“Oh God,” but then another, and I couldn’t speak, because it was all I could do to—

“Unnh.” Another, another, oh God, too fast to tell one from the other until it was one

supermassive explosion of light and sound that just crashed me.

I came with a string of expletives, and he swallowed—I felt him swallow—and

another shudder ripped through me, an aftershock almost as devastating as the quake.

Then I just lay there, gasping and running my fingers through his hair. Smiling.

“Oh fuuuuck,” I said once I could.

Kellan was in the act of crawling back up toward me. His mouth was gorgeous

and red, his eyes burned hot and dark, and I caught sight of a wet spot soaked into his

underwear. He kissed me, mouth closed until I opened mine and tasted sex in it. I

rolled onto my side and wriggled into place against him, making him close his eyes and

clutch at me hard.

“Okay,” I said, my voice weak and rough. “I didn’t expect you to suck dick like

that either.”

Nobody’s Hero

He smiled, kissing my face here and there, mostly just grabbing at my ass and

letting me rub him off against my leg. “Don’t get too excited. It’s my only area of sexual

expertise.”

I could finally see, but my legs weren’t going to be able to work anytime soon.

“No way someone hasn’t punched your V-card.”

“No, but not by much.” He pulled back just enough that I could see him making

that uncertain face. “Um, should probably, you know. Keep it that way.”

“Oh, baby.” I kissed him and rolled a little more so he was pinned beneath me.

Started tugging off his underwear. The things were fighting a losing battle anyhow.

“I’m way too creative for that to hold me back.”

“Fuck yeah.” His cock stood at an angle, heavy and…guhhh, no words, just, guh.

Now if I could just get my legs to work well enough to put me in blowjob position,

we’d be good to go.

Katey Hawthorne

Chapter Four

I spent the night. Partly because he asked me, partly because we couldn’t stop

making out, which generally led to a happy ending, another round of drinks to wet our

dry mouths and crushed lips, and a resolve to watch an episode from his beautiful

collection of Mystery Science Theater 3000. And then the whole thing starting all over

again until it was suddenly 4 a.m. and we were falling asleep sitting up.

And when I’m not paying attention to MST3K, you know I’m hooked.

I woke starving, with cotton mouth, a sweet, tired soreness between my legs, a

vaguely aching jaw, and…a fluffy gray kitten curled up between my knees. When I

pushed myself up off my stomach and looked over my shoulder, Morgan looked up

from under one of his massive white paws and protested with a little mew. Kellan’s

side of the bed was empty, as straightened as it could be with me still taking up the

other end, and the door was shut, faint music thumping through it. I looked up.

Yep. Plain wooden cross hanging over the bed. Still.

That should’ve been creepy—possibly even creepier than the BVM (as my

blasphemous college Art History 101 prof had called the Blessed Virgin Mary) in the

living room. But there was something wickedly hot about his Catholic trappings that I

wasn’t wanting to examine too closely. I had a feeling they had something to do with

his request to keep our activities to anything-but-fucking. But hell, that was kind of hot

too.

Yes, I wanted his dick. It was gorgeous, and every time I’d looked at him last

night, I’d imagined him doing that thing where he flipped us over and ended up on top

of me, but with me facedown and him nailing my ass to the couch. Or bed. Or kitchen

Nobody’s Hero

counter. But there was something about having it just out of reach that I couldn’t

quite—

Holy shit. Was that bacon I smelled?

I tried to get out of bed without dumping the cat over the edge. He stood and

mewed at me till I scratched his ears, then curled up with his head on my pillow. I

detoured to the bathroom, pissed, splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth

with my finger, tried to lay my hair down flat—my cowlicks are murderous, which is

why I keep it short—and pulled on my jeans. Only then did I emerge into the living

room. The undeniable strains of his Irish-American punk rock thumped from the high-

tech speakers, and that wonderful smell… Oh yeah. Definitely bacon.

Kellan’s shaggy hair was a sexy just-been-fucked mess still, and he had his glasses

in place. He turned away from the stove and swatted at Wyatt, who watched him from

the island counter, with a “Fuck off.” Once the cat hopped off to join his three-legged

brother on the couch, Kellan finally noticed me standing there. He scratched at the back

of his neck and said, “Uh, morning. Sorry, I know it’s gross, but I can’t keep him off the

counter. Little bastard loves bacon.”

“I don’t trust anything living that doesn’t.” I came to lean against the counter

Wyatt had just abandoned. “I can’t believe you cook too.”

“Well, yeah. I eat like a horse and live alone.”

“Me too, and my fridge is full of take-out containers.”

He smiled—the shy, crooked one. “So stay for breakfast.”

“Thanks. I was just about to ruin your good opinion of my upbringing and invite

myself.”

His smile became easier, and he turned back to whatever he was doing at the

stove. The yellow and blue O’Shea crest showed through his ribbed under-tank. Last

night he’d said his oldest brother had gotten one when he turned eighteen, and all the

others had done the same after. I admired the smooth, easy movement of his back, the

Katey Hawthorne

way the shiny track pants hugged his fine ass. I wondered when the last time a man had

made me breakfast was. But I said, “What are we listening to?”

“The Tossers.” He reached into a cupboard, grabbed a coffee cup, and started

pouring.

I laughed. Because yes, in my mind, I will always be thirteen.

He turned and slid the coffee across the counter, grinning. “Plain, or you want

whiskey in it?”

“I’m not that hungover. Maybe just sugar and milk.”

He turned to the cupboards again and pulled out a little bag of sugar, obviously

rarely used. “Milk’s in the fridge. I gotta flip.”

I went around the counter and opened it. Holy God, he even had vegetables. A little

box of cherry tomatoes and fresh carrots and a half-eaten bag of salad, all kinds of shit. I

glanced at him over the refrigerator door, noticed that he had fat slices of yellow tomato

frying in the bacon grease too. He scratched at his hair, flipping a tomato over and

eyeing it for defects.

Man, the weirdest shit about him got me hard. My cock protested even as it grew

heavy. It got too much more action before I left, and I wasn’t walking out of there.

Wasn’t my fault if he was sexy. And gave a killer blowjob. And, as it turned out,

had already made a promising start when it came to pushing my buttons while—

He looked up, blinking in surprise. Probably to see me standing there with the

damn fridge open, staring at him. “What?”

I licked my lips and ducked down to grab the milk out of the door. “Nothing.”

When I emerged and closed the door, he was back to flipping, chewing on his lip

and grinning like he knew damn well what.

I threw my coffee together and watched him while enjoying the abrasive,

infectious twang of the Tossers, until he seemed content that his flipping was done and

Nobody’s Hero

turned back around. He leaned against the counter and sipped his own mug, so I could

see the outline of the cross down his right side through the shirt.

Ah, what the hell. “So, if I ask you about the crosses, am I stepping over a line?”

“I had your dick in my mouth after one date, Jamie.”

I laughed. “We had a half date before. The Lizard was a total setup.”

He considered. “Okay, one and a half. But still, if there was a line, we blew right

over it.”

“Didn’t think of it that way.”

He laughed into his coffee. “Didn’t think you would.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You calling me easy?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

I raised my eyebrows again, this time with less accusation and more suggestion.

He put his coffee down. “Okay, wait till we’re done eating to be superhot, James.

Your first lesson in Catholicism is that it’s a sin to waste food when there are starving

children on the street.”

“So, you’re really Catholic? Not just hereditary Catholic? Go to mass, confession,

all that?”

“Not as much I as used to.” He shrugged and set down his coffee, then opened the

fridge. “I’m partial to the priest I grew up with, and he’s way down in Medina. But in

theory, yes, I am really Catholic.”

I admit that a priest crack flew to my lips, but even I’m not inappropriate enough

for that. Instead I said, “I’m not trying to be a jerk, but…you’re gay.”

He snorted. “Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

See, a few days ago, that might’ve stung. That morning I just smiled and took

another sip of his supercharged French Roast. (Yes, I was getting the impression that

Kellan Shea was not a man who halfway did anything.) “I’m just saying, the Church,

capital C, thinks you have a disease that wants curing.”

Katey Hawthorne

He emerged with a carton of eggs. “They also think that God made me exactly

who I am and that He loves me.”

“So how do you reconcile that kind of…?”

“Hypocrisy.”

“I was looking for a nicer word, but yeah. That.”

“It’s not about force-feeding dogma.” He set the eggs down by the stove and

didn’t turn for a moment, head bowed. I thought that meant he was looking for a way

to get out of the conversation and came up with several options. He turned around

before I got any of them out, making a serious face, but earnest, not angry. “You’re

taught to use your conscience, meditate and pray on things that confuse you. I’m not

saying it never bothers me that the pope hates me, but fuck it, I don’t like him much

either.”

“But he’s God’s representative. He’s divine, right?”

He barked out a laugh. “I’m willing to have this conversation, but you have to not

be a patronizing dick about it.”

“I—Sorry.” I flushed, because, “You’re right. I don’t get it, but it’s fascinating. I

really want to understand.”

“About the pope. And me.”

I nodded.

His smile slipped into that lopsided shy thing. He shrugged once more, picking up

his coffee. “Okay, there’s the obvious answer: that believing anything unilaterally is

stupid. Even Jesus had human moments and questions, and that’s what made him

awesome. So, the specific-to-Christianity answer is, if someone who’s supposed to be

the son of God can have doubts, how can anyone else be right all the time?”

All I could think was that it was the first time in my life that I had heard a rational

adult refer to Jesus as being “awesome.” And my respect for both his sanity and his

superior intelligence made it seem…kind of cool.

Nobody’s Hero

(No, that was not my desire to fuck him talking, either. I’m perfectly happy to fuck

an idiot. I spent most of my twenties doing just that with staggering success.)

“I know it’s picking and choosing—I want to believe in love; I don’t want to

believe in hate. But I’ve read the books. I know what the Man said and what he didn’t.

They’re informed choices.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” I was careful not to take a tone, as my mother called it,

when I asked, “So do you believe the stories, the gospels, in a literal way?”

“Not how you’re thinking, no, but it wouldn’t change the point if I did. You’re an

atheist?”

“Agnostic, I guess. I’m not saying there’s nothing. I’m just saying I…” Actually, I

didn’t know what I was saying. I’d never given it too much thought, apart from

wondering where my dad had ended up when I was much younger. But I’d long since

reconciled myself to the idea that I wasn’t supposed to know until it was my turn.

Still smiling, he turned and started removing the bacon and tomatoes onto a bed

of paper towels. “You don’t believe your spiritual authority expands with the size of

your hat.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I get it, believe me. I’m not trying to explain the inexplicable phenomenon of

faith; I’m just coming at it from a rational humanist standpoint here.” He finished that

task, then made for the eggs again. “Two, three?”

Jesus Christ, did I win the lottery or something? I stopped just short of telling him

that this morning, I definitely believed in God. “Wow. Two, please?”

“Scrambled, over easy, over hard, sunny-side up?”

“You’re incredible.”

He looked over his shoulder, flashing that dimple.

Guh. “Whatever you’re having.”

Katey Hawthorne

“Over easy.” He started cracking eggs and dropping them into the bacon grease.

“People act like Catholics can just commit murder and go ask God to forgive us, and it’s

fine; we’re going to heaven. But it’s the opposite. It’s direct accountability to the Guy

Upstairs. You personally have to face what you’ve done, and you have to be okay with

it to move on with your life. If you do it right, it’s really hard to make the same mistakes

over again. You ever do something stupid you wish you could just accept so you could

stop living in it all the time?”

“God, yeah.” Every weekend. Except this one. “So it’s not a cop-out, you’re saying.”

“Honestly…” He trailed off as he cracked the fourth egg, then swished the pan to

settle them. When he turned around again, he said, “It’s really hard. It sucks, admitting

what an asshole you are. But it keeps a fourteen-year-old poor kid whose parents don’t

have time to wipe their own asses from doing a lot of stupid shit. I know it can be a

form of tyranny. But it’s not supposed to be.”

“Historically, it has been.”

“Any human organization ends up that way. We’re imperfect; that’s my point. But

when you’re on your deathbed, it’s just about you and God. I’m talking personally.”

“I…” I paused with my coffee halfway to my lips again, working this over and

over in my mind, wondering at the alien shape of it, finding that it wasn’t so alien after

all. “I could see that.”

“And unlike me, you have everything going for you, probably always have. Only

thing to single you out in a potentially bad way is that you’re gay, and you probably

made it into a fad at your high school.”

That got me to prickle a little, though it wasn’t even what he’d said. “I wasn’t

exactly out then.” Just that, you know, I wasn’t even completely out now. And I

definitely didn’t have everything going for me—Good job. Good family. Good friends.

Never gone hungry. Never been lonely. Hot guy with a libido to rival mine making me breakfast.

Also, incredibly high-level electronic manipulation, causing my own people to envy, covet,

and expect great things of me all at once.

Nobody’s Hero

Well, fuck. Couldn’t complain about any of that, could I?

“But you see my point,” he said.

Too well. One of my tried-and-true conversational techniques was necessary: turn

it back around. “How do you not have everything going for you, exactly? You’re

ridiculously smart, I know you make more than I do, and you’re painfully hot.”

He looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

“Plus you can cook, which is icing on the sex cake. So—”

“Easy on the flattery.”

“I’m trying to rack up points here.”

“Yeah, I lost count last night.” He paused to pry the first egg from the Teflon and

gently flip it, then continued down the line. I was about to jump on this opportunity to

get out of looking like an overprivileged dick, but he started before I swallowed my

coffee. “In school, I was the nerdy shy kid in hand-me-down clothes that you would’ve

pretended didn’t exist. Your friends probably would’ve given me shit, even if you

wouldn’t. It’s easy to ignore God when you don’t need him, especially as an invincible

teenager.”

“First of all, I was really nice to everyone in school—especially the nerdy kids in

hand-me-downs. And second…” Well, okay, some of my friends would’ve been dicks

to him, but, “I wouldn’t have kept any friends that gave you shit.”

He laughed.

“I would’ve defended you to try and get laid, if nothing else.”

“That, I believe.” I heard the smile in his voice even if I couldn’t see it.

That set me a little more at ease. Anyhow, if I was going to question his religion, I

could at least be gracious about him questioning my socioeconomic privilege. “But I

take your point, otherwise.”

I spared a moment to appreciate the weird profundity of it too. I’m not sure why I

hadn’t expected that my initial question would be biting off so much. Just that I only got

Katey Hawthorne

into these conversations with people like Sarah and Clark usually. Hell, sometimes even

Derrick and Mike, if we were all really fucked up and still hanging out at the end of a

long night’s work downtown.

It did lead to one more, incredibly self-centered thought, though. As he finished

up the eggs, I considered him with…not new eyes, but a new depth of perspective. He

didn’t just inspire prickliness; he was practically a porcupine himself. But he was

apparently feeling pretty open to me after last night. Why not? “So, would you confess

about me?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly, “I don’t know.”

“Sorry. Too much. Strike that one from the record.”

“No, it’s…” When he turned around, he was smiling, but in a sheepish way that

implied he’d been the one to say the wrong thing. “Okay, a little too much. But not in a

bad way. It’s cool.”

Jesus. Kellan Shea was actually capable of being gracious. Who knew?

He shuffled the eggs, tomatoes, bacon, and forks onto a pair of plates and pushed

one across to me. “Good morning.”

“It really is.”

He looked away, flushing a little.

What the hell was he doing to me? One second, we were having a serious

conversation about God; the next, I wanted to get down on my knees and give him

fucking everything.

In the circumstances, I kept it to, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He sipped his coffee while I took the first couple of bites—which did

not disappoint, because it was even better than it smelled. And then, before even

touching his own food, he said, “Okay. I will say this: if I confessed, it wouldn’t be

because you’re a man. And it definitely wouldn’t mean I regretted it.”

More graciousness. The fucking sky was falling. “Well, that’s a relief.”

Nobody’s Hero

Then he started eating.

* * * *

We didn’t realize just how like Dad I was, just how powerful, until I was fifteen.

Mom was running a drive at a soup kitchen just off Euclid, and I sneaked out the back

to smoke with some of the other awakened kids, including Billy Armin. A back alley

behind a shelter—smart place for a bunch of swaggering teenagers in overpriced shoes

to hang out sneaking cigarettes. But if anyone needs evidence that we’re just as human

as sleepers, they can have that for proof, I guess.

Of course we were approached by one of the city’s many homeless, probably a vet,

definitely not in his right mind. All our families were into the “help the less fortunate”

scene, but most of the kids were spoiled dickheads, me included. Though that day

made it pretty clear that, at least comparatively, I had a little compassion in me.

And that it wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Anyhow, we were out in this shitty neighborhood, this poor guy ranting at us

about how he was going to shoot all us worthless brats in the head. It scared me a little

but not as much as it probably should’ve. Even the cockiest of us wouldn’t dare to use

his powers on the guy unless it became actually dangerous, but we all knew how to

handle ourselves.

The oldest boy among us was sixteen, a handsome, swaggering athlete type called

Mason. He was a hot-thermal manipulator—the opposite of Billy, he could make fire

from thin air. And he started egging this poor guy on, telling him to go ahead and do it,

pull out his gun and shoot us, or get his crazy ass into the building where he belonged.

Effectively mocking the guy for being shell-shocked.

Mason was hot, and I was a horny adolescent, but I wasn’t exactly starving for the

approval of my peers. Kellan was right about me in that. While the two other guys

laughed uncomfortably around quivering cigarettes, I told Mason to shut the fuck up.

Katey Hawthorne

We got into it right there, him threatening to fight me, this guy still yelling that he

was going to blow our brains out against the wall, electricity crackling about my

fingers, the temperature rising a sudden twenty degrees all around Mason.

I thought I was doing the right thing, standing up for someone who couldn’t stand

up for himself, like I was raised to do. Like a Monday. But it was just as much bullshit

grandstanding as Mason’s mockery. I should’ve just gone inside and gotten help for the

guy and ignored Mason strutting like a cock in a henhouse.

But I didn’t, and Mason went after me.

And the random guy pulled an actual gun.

If Billy hadn’t seen him and jumped between us, I don’t know if we would’ve

noticed. As it was, he managed to knock Mason out of the way, but I just got

sideswiped. So I was left staring down the barrel of an unhinged—if understandably

provoked—man’s gun.

I still remember that moment, every single detail of it, or at least it feels that way.

That’s probably why the nightmares stuck so hard when they came. Mason’s leftover

heat all over my skin, soaking through my T-shirt, my jeans. Billy gasping for air, trying

to make something calming come out of his mouth, unable to think of anything. The

other guy—I hardly knew him, some kid from one of the Akron families—probably

staring into the back of my head, waiting to see if it’d explode.

The guy’s hand was shaking, and his finger was on the trigger. And I was fifteen

and scared and stupid and vibrating with electricity. I’d never been amped up that high

before; it coursed through my bones, like they’d pulverize if I didn’t let it out.

So I shoved my hand out, palm to the middle of the guy’s chest, and let it fly.

There was a huge pop, and he was thrown backward like someone getting

Tasered in a cartoon, limbs and layers flying, gun held out wide. His finger squeezed

the trigger—they dug a slug out of the brick wall later. He hit the far wall and slumped

into a pile, eyes shut, gun clutched tight in his lap.

Nobody’s Hero

I was fifteen and scared and stupid, and I thought I’d just killed someone.

Electricity still running up and down my right arm from the charge, and just me,

staring, my throat full of puke and my heart squashed under my feet.

Billy ran to him, grabbed the gun, and sent it skittering across the alley. He felt the

guy’s neck, told us he was alive, and yelled for someone to go get his mom.

Mason was still frozen against a wall, and the Akron kid didn’t move either.

So I went and got Dr. Armin myself.

My mom didn’t say anything about what I should and shouldn’t have done. She

just kept saying it was all right, everything had come out okay in the end, and I’d

thought quickly. She understood why I’d done what I’d done. She knew I agreed with

her already about why I shouldn’t have.

I told her I wanted to go to bed early that night, but really, and maybe for the first

time in my life, I just wanted to be alone. It wasn’t until she hugged me—weird in itself,

as our usual practice was to shout “good night!” down the hall at each other—that I

noticed her hands were shaking. The next morning, her eyes were bloodshot, but she

smiled and made me breakfast—another oddity, since she was usually out the door

before I rolled out of bed on a weekend—and asked if I had homework. Her voice and

hands were steady. I never saw them shake again.

I don’t know how many kids that age realize how lucky they are to make it that

far. I wonder how many parents take it for granted that theirs have. And I wonder how

many awakened, knowing what we can do, how much damage we can cause, soothe

their conscience by performing anonymous good works. I wonder if it makes them feel

like their world is safe from them.

I’ve never had the heart to ask my mother. Hell, I’ve never even had the heart to

tell her about the nightmares, so I definitely wasn’t going to ask her about her own

issues. Sometimes I tell myself she does it because it makes her feel like her life

matters—like most people, sleeper or awakened, who get into charity. Sometimes I tell

myself it’s just the way she was raised, and she took to it.

Katey Hawthorne

* * * *

And sometimes I just have to realize I don’t know the first fucking thing about

her.

She came up to Coventry for dinner at Tommy’s Saturday evening, a tradition

we’d kept up about once a month since I was a kid. Mom’s schedule was so crammed

full that it was about the only time we got alone. Peanut butter and grilled cheese and a

giant chocolate shake to wash it down, for me. She liked to go through the spinach-pie

menu and then start back at the beginning. Today she was on the MR3, so it was a mess.

I was still thinking of Kellan, enjoying the lingering tiredness, the physical

reminder of one hell of a night, and wishing harder than ever I could be honest with my

mother. Not because I’d tell her about him—she never asked about my love life, and

God knew I considered that a convenience. But I was still high on the nice-boy thing. I

had this romantic idea in my head that Kellan was the kind of guy you tell your mother

about. Eventually.

“I feel like you’ve been avoiding me,” she said about halfway through.

“This from you?”

Her manicured eyebrows pulled down and together. “Honey, I always answer

your calls.”

I laughed it off because if I didn’t, she’d start sectioning off extra time in her

planner for me. That was just about the last thing my life needed. “No, I just missed the

call. Date went later than I expected.”

The eyebrows went up. “Oh.”

“I do date sometimes. It’s a thing single people do.” I poked at my shake with the

straw. “You could try it.”

In twenty-five years, she’d had one boyfriend and a handful of dates that never

went anywhere, that I knew of. There must’ve been more, but she never seemed

impressed or inclined to take anything very seriously.

Nobody’s Hero

Maybe I got that from her.

“It’s a young people’s game.”

But it might give her something to think of outside her little circle of friends, their

weird plans and clubs, their unconsciously high-horse efforts to let them sleep at night.

Something to do for herself. “You’re barely middle-aged. You’re beautiful. You’re set

for life. And you’ve got all the time in the world to do anything you want. Sounds like a

better time to date than when you’re…me.”

She reached out and took my hand on the table. “Jamie, honey. I’m not like you.”

“What’s that mean?”

She paused, watching me, and eventually answered my question with another

question. Another thing I must’ve gotten from her. “You don’t think I’m unhappy, do

you?”

I just looked at her for a long time, at this face that was so familiar I hardly ever

saw it anymore. I thought about it. Did I think she was unhappy?

If she was happy, would she be so set on never having a minute to herself? Would

she be trying to plan my life in spite of not really having one of her own?

Or was all that really just a function of who she was, who she was raised to be?

Just a function of losing her husband young and realizing how easy it would be to

lose her son too not long after?

“I don’t know, Mom. Are you happy?”

“Yes. Are you?”

I thought for a while longer. Then I said, “Today, yeah. I’m happy.”

She toyed with the Tiffany diamond pendant I’d given her for some ancient

Mother’s Day—hell, I must’ve been seventeen, and she still wore it all the time. “You’re

not always.”

“No one is. I’m happier than most people.”

Katey Hawthorne

She smiled, a small, tight thing, but it reached her eyes. I read genuine regret in it.

She said, “You’re still mad at me for bringing up med school last weekend.”

What do you know? I was. I took my hand back and made for another bite of my

sandwich. Denial would only make it worse, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

Like she was reading my mind, she said, “It’s over and done, Jamie. If you can’t

laugh about it, or at least talk about it, it’s never going to get better.”

“I’m fine with it. I’m the one who dropped out.”

Her jaw tightened. “Honey, you have to let it go. You had good reason, and no

one thinks any less of you if—”

“Mom, please.”

She let it drop and eventually turned the conversation back to some inane

community-happenings gossip. I let her talk me down until I was comfortable in my

skin again.

Nobody’s Hero

Chapter Five

I like my job. I probably even love it sometimes. It’s hard, makes me think on my

feet, surrounds me with people, lets me use the things I’m actually good at. That’s all

anyone wants from a job. And then they want to go home, put up their feet, make a

drink, watch some TV, and forget about it.

But I liked coming in to work even more after that weekend. Work didn’t just

mean work; it meant Kellan. It meant that my urge to talk to him more than was

probably acceptable in a brand-new relationship was easily satisfied without revealing

just how much I was obsessing. It meant lunches full of his special kind of weird

conversation. It meant an after-work visit to Sarah and Clark’s to drop off cool vintage

toys (turns out Kellan and I both took proximity to Big Fun into consideration when

apartment shopping) expanded to include him. It meant we could casually arrange to

meet up for old movies on someone’s couch and then make out all night and wake up

tired and fall asleep at our desks the next day.

Bell hinted around with questions but nothing detailed—she still thought of

Kellan as a “sweet boy,” and I wasn’t about to contradict it. Sarah was surprisingly

quiet about it. It was Clark who finally asked outright a few weeks after it all got

started. “So, that Kellan thing’s working out for you after all. You fucking him or

what?”

“Something like that, yeah. Thanks, by the way.”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sarah was wondering if he was your

boyfriend. Weren’t sure what to tell Charlie. You’re Uncle Jamie; he’s the Guy Who

Brought the Jean Grey Action Figure with Uncle Jamie.”

Katey Hawthorne

“I’m not seeing anyone else. Don’t think he is either.” As I said it, I had a

revelation. Kellan and I talked a lot—mostly during work hours and dining out, as we

had better things to do when we were alone—but we didn’t really talk about us after

that first time with the God conversation. This seemed to suit us, but now Clark

mentioned it…that, the whole together-or-not thing, was something Kellan would care

about, wasn’t it? Hell, that might’ve been why he never talked about us. And I still

remembered that hesitation in answering my confession question.

Was that why he’d confess about me? That he was sleeping with someone to

whom he hadn’t made some kind of commitment?

Clark was going on, “You better go talk to HR. You have to sign that—”

“Actually, that’s a good point.” Now I thought about it, seemed idiotic that I

hadn’t considered it sooner. And if not totally heartless of me, at least inconsiderate.

“You think? Surprised Delmonico isn’t on your ass about it already.”

“That too, but I mean the whole—”

A dark head poked around my partition. “Hey.”

I smiled, both at Kellan and at the stupid fluttering in my stomach his sudden

appearance caused. “Hey.”

He stepped inside the cube. “I’m glad you’re both here, because I have a question

about the Archibald project. Just from a sales point of view.”

“We can do that,” Clark said.

Kellan cocked his head, shoved his hands into his pockets, and asked with a

completely straight face, “Am I Jesus Christ?”

Clark stared.

I laughed. “What?”

“Am I Jesus Christ?” He looked from me to Clark again. “Do you guys think I can

walk on water and multiply loaves and fishes on command? Because what you want is

a miracle.”

Nobody’s Hero

I held up my hands, grinning. “Wasn’t me. Not my sale.”

“That makes my personal life easier but doesn’t really lessen the shit-storm I’m

about to experience rewriting half my code.”

Clark made a face. “What, you wouldn’t be pissed if it was Jamie’s fault?”

“I’d be even more pissed—that’s what I mean about it making my personal life

easier. I tweak on him; he doesn’t put out; everyone ends up with a cranky code

monkey.” Still totally straight-faced, he raised his already high eyebrows, stood to his

full six feet one, and looked Clark in the eye. “Seriously, Clark, this is bullshit.”

“Two flaws in your argument.” Clark settled back on my desk as if for a long

conversation. “One: I’ve known Jamie for six years. The man will always put out.”

I nodded in agreement.

Kellan rolled his eyes.

Clark continued, “Two: you’re always a cranky code monkey.”

“So stop doing this to me.”

“My job is to sell the product.”

“They warned me about you sales fuckers.”

Clark punched my shoulder. “You gonna let him talk to us like that?”

I held up my hands again. “No one likes a cranky code monkey, Clark.”

“You are one selfish bastard, James. Kellan, I think you might be overreacting.”

Now Kellan started to look prickly. His jaw worked hard, and his forearms flexed,

hands still stuffed into his pockets. “You try explaining this shit to five Ukrainian

programmers and tell me I’m overreacting. These guys are working overtime every

night for you bastards, and I’m not going to be responsible when one of them drops

dead just so you could up your sales record.”

Knowing I was taking my life into my hands, I said, “You’re hot when you’re

bossy.”

Katey Hawthorne

Clark, with that impeccable timing that made him my only real competition for

top sales, pushed himself up off my desk. “I’ll leave you two alo—”

Kellan stepped into his way. “You’re not getting out of this.” His eyes flicked to

mine, and one corner of his mouth tried to pull up, just barely. But it was enough. “I’ll

boss you around later, Jamie.” And he beckoned for Clark to follow him out. “Come

here. Let me show you the special hell I’ve just been thrown into thanks to your…”

I silently wished Kellan good luck because he was going to need it to convince

Clark to feel shame.

Then again, Clark didn’t have the benefit of sex to get the better of Kellan’s

infallible logic. So maybe I should’ve been wishing him good luck, all things considered.

Nah.

* * * *

I was just starting to forget about the Mae issue, so of course that Friday she

finally e-mailed me back. This was all I got:

Hi Jamie,

Hey, yeah, long time. Things are really chaotic for me at the lab right now. Maybe next

month sometime. Tell your mom I said hi next time you see her!

Mae

No phone number, no nothing but “Dr. Mae Haywood, Aidan Faulkner Research

Fellow in Nanotechnology” in the signature.

Never been so happy for a brush-off in my life. I definitely wasn’t going to tell

Mom about it, because God knew what she and Margaret would get up to if they

realized we were both totally uninterested in their plans. Would’ve been better if we

could work together on thwarting them, but it was enough to know Mae, at least,

wasn’t going to give me crap.

I had better things on which to spend my precious mental energy. Clearly.

Nobody’s Hero

That afternoon, Kellan went about arranging things in his usual way. “So, you got

anything going on this weekend, apart from the game?”

This question had many variations, such as “Already have lunch plans?” (which I

never did), “Are you hanging out with your mom Saturday?” (which was even less

likely), and the most direct of them all: “You have time for a drink tonight?

Or…tomorrow?” (which I always did—at least, for him).

At which point I always started making plans for us, and he seemed relieved to go

along with them.

That night we fed the cats, then went to my place. While I stood before the DVD

shelf trying to decide which of my golden-age vampire collection would be best to lay

on him next, Kellan poured drinks at the wet bar in the corner.

He asked, “What are we watching?”

“More Bela? Or some cheesy seventies color vamps? Ineffectual English public

schoolboy accents, Peter Cushing, Chris Lee, that kind of thing?”

“Bela.” He came bearing whiskey, handed one off, and stood eyeing the Hammer

Horror collections with appreciation.

It was time. I plucked out Mark of the Vampire. “Then tonight, you get to see my

all-time favorite Lugosi film.”

“Whoa.” The dimple appeared. “Taking it to the next level.”

“Scared?”

“Bring it, Monday.” He threw himself at what I already thought of as his spot on

the couch. It was one of those L-shaped deals, and he always went straight for the

corner.

I set it all up and crawled up after him, rearranging him so I could fit between his

legs and lean my back against his chest. I fully intended to broach the boyfriend subject

tonight, so he wasn’t far off with the “next level” thing, but now the time was here, I

wasn’t sure how to go about it. It wasn’t that I thought he wouldn’t want it. It was just

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that I’d never had to ask anyone before—they always asked me. And Kellan…was

Kellan.

Which is to say, physically incapable of asking for anything. Even when he kissed

me first, half the time he ended up saying sorry or stammering like he’d done

something wrong. Only after I had him warmed up would he start taking over.

And God, it was good when he did.

But in the meantime, it was usually up to me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get

a kick out of that too. This shouldn’t be weird, just more of the same. And the more I

thought about it, the more I thought I really should’ve done it ages ago.

So how the hell do you bring that up, anyhow? And why was it freaking me out?

We watched the first half of the movie like that, his arm thrown over my shoulder,

his hand resting against my chest, sweating glasses held against our thighs, sipping and

occasionally offering commentary, the thump of his heartbeat audible in my head. It

was warm between my legs, down low in my belly, at the base of my spine, a kind of

patient arousal common when I had him near but was otherwise engaged. I actually

finished my drink before him, I was thinking so hard. When he took his last sip, I sat

up, saying, “Want another?”

He handed me his glass but grabbed the waist of my jeans just above my ass crack.

“Not yet.”

That patient fire flared, sending its heat through my veins. I set our glasses on the

table and returned to my former position, but this time up higher so more of my back

was tight against his front and my ass fit into the inside of his thighs. He slipped his

arms under mine and wrapped me up, one hand sinking into the waist of my jeans.

“Sorry,” he said. “I—”

I wriggled, pushing his legs outward in the hope that it’d put his crotch in closer

contact with my ass.

He didn’t finish the sentence, just kissed my neck, then bit at my ear.

Nobody’s Hero

I sighed and leaned back into his arms, pulling my legs up and resting the

outsides of my thighs against the inside of his, feeling my way up the soft denim over

his long, hard quads. My knees fell farther apart, the shape of my stiffening cock visible

just down the right leg of my jeans.

He scooted forward so I could feel his pressed into my back. I shifted against it,

and he sighed hot into my ear, biting at it again. One of his hands moved under my

shirt, fingers light and electric against my belly. The other drifted south and found my

dick. It jumped at the warmth of his hand through the material, and he traced it,

teasing. This time when I wriggled, it was involuntary.

I had to have him. I might not have thought of it if Clark hadn’t said anything, but

now it was driving me up the wall. I finally said, “Can I ask you a serious question?”

I felt his lips against my ear, heard the smile in that sweet voice. “Oh, I like those.”

“You seeing anyone else?”

He ran his fingers softly, so softly, through the trail of hair down my lower belly,

so my torso broke out in goose bumps. His other hand rubbed at my erection again, this

time with a little more pressure. “Thought you said this was serious.”

He shifted so my knee hooked over his. The cotton of my boxers bunched up on

my cock, the denim flattened it and increased the pressure. Kellan rubbed the length of

it again, and I bit back a groan.

Fuck, what were we talking about?

I thought hard, tried to focus. The one time Kellan was able to tell me what he

wanted was when we were hot. It was perfect. I should ask now. I found the thread

again and said, “I’d be jealous.”

He laughed and kissed at me, petted me more.

I arched as he stroked me, harder now, and ran his fingers up under my shirt,

tickling and burning. I asked, “Mmm, are you all mine, then?”

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“Sure. Yours.” That time he didn’t laugh. He unzipped my jeans and felt me up

from inside them, so I squirmed against him. I reached up to put one arm around his

neck, and his other hand found my nipple. He pinched; I arched again. He rubbed my

hot cock against the inside of my thigh, and I sighed and closed my eyes.

Now his voice was rough but still like honey in my ear. “Fuck, you feel good.”

The wet sensation of his lips, his breath, the sweetness of the words, translated to

something equally wet and sweet in my shorts.

That was another thing he was getting good at: he’d figured out that any little

compliment could get me off twice as fast and hard.

I toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, let him pinch me and rub me into a

state of desperation for the next few seconds, lost in it.

Then he said, “Pause the movie.”

I fumbled for the remote but managed.

He pulled his fingers out of my shorts and applied both hands to my shirt. “Unh,

can you…?”

I helped him get it off and leaned forward so he could lose his.

But he caught me by the waist again. “No, all of it.”

I looked back over my shoulder, already scooting to the edge of the couch and

pulling off my pants. “So fucking bossy.”

He swallowed hard, just watching for a moment before he realized he was still

mostly dressed. While he took care of that little problem, he asked, “You complaining?”

I yanked off my shorts and threw them over the back of the couch. Then I pulled

at his long-suffering underpants, mouth watering at the familiar but thrilling shape of

his thick erection through them. “Complimenting.”

Once our clothes were strewn randomly about the room—which didn’t make

much of a difference, since I lived in chaos anyhow—I climbed back onto him. I

straddled his lap like I had that first night (he liked that—if I got him hot enough, he’d

Nobody’s Hero

put me there himself) and sat my naked ass down with his heavy, straight cock in the

split of it.

He closed his eyes and grabbed for my waist, sighing. “Jesus.”

I ran my hands down his chest, to his belly, then leaned forward and pressed my

dick into it, leaving a little wet spot against him. His hands lowered to my ass, and he

held on as if for his life.

My first instinct was to tell him what I felt, what I wanted. How having him so

close set my whole body crackling, how he made me ache and burn. How I wanted to

feel him inside me, under my skin, filling me up, and give him everything.

Someday.

I couldn’t. Even in that stupid state, I knew it was too much. But it was the truth,

the only one I knew right then, and I rolled it around inside me, enjoyed it.

I put my forehead against his, pressed a breathless kiss into his mouth, and said,

“I have a brilliant idea, Kellan.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat when it came out like a croak, squeezed my ass

again. “You usually do.”

“You should be my boyfriend.”

He laughed and kissed me harder, his face turned up and his mouth suggesting all

kinds of vague, delicious things. “I will be anything you fucking want, James. But

especially that.”

We made out like that for a while, me shifting regularly to rub us both off. There

was something about fake-fucking him, like a demonstrative promise, like driving

myself, him, us crazy. Like being a teenager and discovering sex but without the

awkwardness, just the first thrill and the sheer fucking pressure-free fun of it. He held

my ass and tweaked my nipples and sucked my tongue and licked my neck,

occasionally pushing up against me, his cock swelling between my legs.

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Then he bit at my neck gently, just as gentle as his fingers on my skin, and

muttered, “You’re too fucking amazing to be real, Jamie.”

My dick pounded with my heartbeat. I wrapped my hand around it and gave it a

quick, tight stroke against the flat of his belly. The thrill made me gasp into his hair.

He gasped with me and bucked his hips. His cock pushed tight against my ass, my

balls, and I loosened up, let my legs slide as far apart as they could. He clutched at me

harder, lowered his mouth to kiss my chest. I reached behind with my free hand and

pulled the head of his cock upward to catch it tighter in the split of my ass, the better to

work us both up. I stroked myself again, slow and tight, and he found my nipple with

his tongue. This wrung a little moan out of me, and I looked down, catching a glimpse

of my dick pressed next to his tattoo.

There was something blasphemously hot about that. I rocked my hips, still

holding his cock tight against my ass.

“Jesusfuck,” he said.

Speaking of blasphemy.

Normally when he pulled out that one, it shocked me a little. This time just the

sound of the word fuck made me drip. I stroked my cock faster, and he licked my

nipple, then sucked at it, tighter and harder, so I got faster and faster, grinding down on

him and rolling my hips. I gasped. “Oh goddamn.”

“Need more?”

“Uh-huh.”

He dug his fingers into my ass on both sides and lifted. I went with it, sitting up

on my knees, though I sure as hell missed his dick. He said, “Turn around.”

I did, as fast as I could, and he nudged and pushed and pulled until we were

arranged how he wanted, with me on all fours, hands propped up on the armrest, and

him behind me. He traced the crease of my ass with hot fingertips, sending another

spark-wave across my skin, then deep into me. I tried to get my knees farther apart but

Nobody’s Hero

was in serious danger of slipping off the couch, especially with the way my legs were

shaking.

I looked over my shoulder, watched him spit. When it hit my crack, I lifted up and

bit back a moan, grabbed for my cock again. He licked all the way down until he got to

my hole.

I arched my back; my dick pounded in my hand. “Oh fuck yeah.” My voice went

up at the end, and I bit down on my lower lip hard.

“You close?”

“So fucking close.”

He licked some more, teasing until my ass was so wet it was dripping. He reached

up and cupped my balls, rubbed the spit around with his thumb. My back bowed

involuntarily, and I dug into the armrest with my fingernails.

His other hand started working on my asshole, at first just mimicking the motion

of his tongue, but harder, which made me buck and moan again. So much electricity, so

much sensation all through me that my fingers, toes, my dickhead tingled with it. Then

he pushed up a little, inside, just one finger, and moved it back and forth, pressing into

my taint and desperately near where I needed it.

“Mmm, fuck m—” I started to say, but I cut it off with a gasp when he added in

another finger, stretching me out—and almost shorting me out. A static charge built in

my middle and pushed to my hands before I knew what was happening. I bit my lip

again, harder, wrestled it down quick.

He pushed up inside me, spit-slick and careful, and crooked both fingers just a

little. That place inside me lit up, sent electricity racing through my blood. I slipped my

knee off the couch and planted one foot on the floor to open up more as I rocked back

on him. Lightning crackled behind my eyes even as I turned my head to look at him

again.

He worked his fingers up and down, feeling his way, stroking my balls so they

pulled up tight. His mouth was open, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and taking in my

Katey Hawthorne

ass with so much abject appreciation, I almost came right then. The second I squeezed

my cock and started my hand moving back and forth under the head, catching his

rhythm from behind, it was like my entire body might explode into pieces. I swelled

impossibly, rocked my hips, and arched my back, concentrating on him taking me from

behind, trying to hold on to the moment.

But there was just no fucking way, with him working me from the inside out.

When the mounting explosion was finally too much to hold, I pushed back on him,

locked my elbow, and dug my nails into the couch, then shuddered and came with a

hell of a satisfied moan that sounded a lot like “Oh yeah, baby, fuck yeah.”

I tried to catch most of the damage, but there were four or five really fucking good

spasms to it, and my hand, even my belly was dripping by the end. His hand stilled on

my balls, and the other rubbed what was left of his spit into my ass, bringing me down.

He got up on his knees and kissed my back, between my shoulder blades, down my

spine, into the small.

When I stopped shaking with the last major wave of perfect fucking pleasure, he

pulled out and took me by the hips, fingers all sticky, and fitted himself into the curve

of my ass. I rocked backward, rubbing off his fat cock in my wet crack and grinning

over my shoulder at him, panting like a dog on a hot day.

“You’re so good, Jamie.” He palmed an ass cheek with that same hot-as-fuck

appreciation. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking good.”

Which was funny, since he was the one who’d just taken all of sixty seconds to

finger-fuck me into bliss. I ached a little, in that sweet way, where he’d been inside me,

and goddamn that was sexy. I laughed breathlessly and turned on him, grabbed my

underwear off the back of the couch to wipe my hand but left the mess on my stomach

intact. When he fell back into the L of the couch, still wide-eyed and looking at me like I

was some kind of rock star, I climbed into his lap again.

I’d tightened up while blowing my load, so I relaxed my legs, my ass, and sat

down on him, rolling forward until his cock was trapped between me and his own lap.

Nobody’s Hero

Now he could reach, and since he already knew goddamn well I wasn’t shy about

where his mouth had been, he kissed me openmouthed.

I could almost think again. I smiled into his kiss, leaving my cock to deflate

against his belly as I felt up his chest. “Really? You think I’m good?”

“Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

I grinned and pulled back slightly, still breathing hard and wriggling to work a

groan out of him. “Which part of me?”

“All of you.” His hands went back to my ass. His eyes were veiled by thick,

drooping lashes, sex-confused and hungry. Voice gentled further still by shortness of

breath, he made a valiant attempt. “Your hands. Your mouth. Your—You have really

pretty eyes.”

I laughed, mostly because he was actually looking at my eyes when he said it, and

kissed him. “Good start.”

“Your legs.” He ran one hand down the length of my thigh, then back up. “Your

ass.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I sat forward and retrieved his dick from between us. I kissed his

mouth again, and this time when I pulled back, bit down carefully on his bottom lip.

“Keep talking.”

“Uhh—”

But the moment he opened his mouth, I traced his dickhead along my belly, right

through a trail of still-warm cum. I rubbed it all over him with my thumb, into the hole,

down the slit.

His head hit the cushion behind him. “I—Jesus…”

“Nope.” I kissed him again, then sat back so he could watch, if he wanted, and

built a slow, tight rhythm. I lingered under his dickhead, then squeezed in the middle

where it was a little thicker, enjoying the hell out of it. My cock, still only halfway

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down, lay lazy next to his as I worked him. I angled so I could get my free hand

underneath and cup his balls, just brushing my own on top. “Just Jamie.”

Sure enough, he looked down. His grip on me tightened; his hips shifted again,

like he’d fuck my hand. “Uh, I said ass, right?”

“Yep.”

“Your stomach.”

This being a new and satisfying answer, I went a little faster.

He gasped, one hand now clutching the cushion below his ass as if he was afraid

of falling off the couch. “God, so good. I just—I want to…”

I grinned and kissed his open, pink mouth again. “What else?”

“Your cock.”

I tightened my grip.

His back arched. His fingers dug into my ass hard. “Your—Oh God.”

“Come on, baby. This is a beautiful cock.” I felt him, hotter and fatter than he

could sustain in my hand. I jerked faster, stroked his sac as it pulled up, suddenly

supertight. I whispered, “I want it, Kellan. I fucking want it.”

“Ah fuck.” He reached up, locked one hand into the hair at the back of my head,

and pulled me down for a kiss. I let him guide my lips to his, licked at the roof of his

mouth. His cock spasmed in my hand, hot sex spraying across my belly. He moaned

into my mouth and held me there for a long moment, ruffling my hair, curling his

fingers against my scalp, almost like he was trying to soothe me or put me to sleep,

playing with it. I held his cock until there was no more and its pounding was just the

rush of his blood, the aftershock.

Then his other hand pulled my ass forward, and I took the hint and got my hands

out from between us so our bellies met, slippery. We smiled into a new kiss,

closemouthed so he could catch his breath. I put my arms around his neck and applied

myself completely to it.

Nobody’s Hero

After the rise and fall of his chest had leveled out, he said, “Your ass. That’s a

really good part. Definitely.”

“You already said that. Three times now.”

“It’s fucking evil to make me talk to you while you’re, um, doing that.”

I licked his lower lip, then bit down on it. “But I like it when you tell me how hot I

am.”

“I know.” He ran his fingers through my hair again. “And I know I said ass three

times. That’s how hot it is.”

“Well played, Kellan.”

A few more seconds of making out, heartbeats regulating. And then Kellan

laughed. “Fuck, we’re a mess.”

“That’s how you know we’re doing it right.”

* * * *

Massive Attack was Kellan’s favorite of all my music. I was convincing him about

plenty of it, just like he was convincing me of his beloved paddy rock, but that one had

grabbed him first, if only because it’s superior make-out music.

I turned it up the next morning after breakfast so he could hear in the shower, so

I’m not sure how I heard the doorbell ring. I dried my hands on my track pants—I

always cleaned up since he always cooked—and looked through the peephole,

expecting the landlady or a neighbor or something.

Instead, it was the absolute last person I’d ever expect to show up unannounced:

my mother.

My heart froze. There was no pretending, what with the dirty bass of “Atlas Air”

thumping through the door at her. I turned down the volume to a more reasonable

level, made sure I could still hear the shower running, and took a deep breath that did

nothing to dispel the sensation of electricity vibrating through my skeleton.

I opened the door.

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Mom, immaculately put together as ever, eyed my state of disarray and laughed.

“Another late night, honey?”

“Uh, no. I mean, yeah. Kind of. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday. I need you to come to lunch.”

“I have a game this afternoon.”

“It’ll only take an hour. I thought I could come and meet your work friends after—

I haven’t seen you play in years.”

“I can’t, Mom. You—”

The shower shut off.

Mom looked over my shoulder.

“I can’t,” I repeated, this time more quietly. “I’m busy all day. You’re not the only

one who—”

“Hey, James.” Kellan’s voice echoed down the hall.

Mom raised her eyebrows. There was nothing suggestive, nothing accusatory in

the expression. Just pure curiosity.

My heart was in my throat. I stepped backward, letting her inside. And looked up

just in time to see Kellan step into the hallway, his lower half wrapped in a towel, his

hair wet and fucked up, tattoos and long muscles and scrubbed-pink-ivory skin and

dark eyes. Looking like a goddamn work of art.

Looking like my boyfriend.

“Where’s that—” He stopped talking when he saw the look on my face. Peeked

around the corner. And, naturally, met my mother’s inquisitive eyes.

There I was, half naked, with an extreme case of bed head, thanks to his

thoroughness on the couch and between the sheets the night before. This was not how

she should find out. And if she already suspected, this was not how it should be

confirmed.

She deserved so, so much better from me.

Nobody’s Hero

Mechanically, I did the only thing I could. “Kellan, this is my mom, Andrea

Monday. Mom, Kellan Shea.”

Only the faintest suggestion of confusion in her eyes, Mom smiled. “Hello,

Kellan.”

He flushed. “Ms. Monday. I, um, sorry for the…”

Her smile grew. With more than enough grace for all three of us, she recovered. “I

understand, dear. Nice to meet you.”

“And you, ma’am.” He disappeared down the hall with less grace but a good

amount of speed.

She schooled her expression. “A new friend?”

I was torn. It would’ve been easy to tell her the truth right there and then. She

knew. Though she’d erased all traces of it from her face, I felt it in her body language,

saw it in her eyes.

Just like I knew she saw the truth in mine.

But it wasn’t the time and place, and she deserved the full explanation. She’d

deserved it for a decade, and I found myself staring down the black hole of years past,

wishing I’d had the common sense to see that it’d come to this.

The awakened were liars by nature, liars by omission. It was how we survived.

But we didn’t lie to our own.

I shot her a significant look, one that promised the full story later. “We work

together. He’s the new head monkey at Humphries.”

“He’s very…young.”

She didn’t mean young. She might’ve meant handsome. Or wet. Or naked. But all

possible options implied the same end result: There’s a handsome, wet, naked young man in

your apartment on a Saturday morning, Jamie.

I nodded, still holding her eyes, but said, “Yeah. Kind of a wunderkind.”

“He comes over to shower?”

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My breath hitched. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Kellan was still in the

bedroom and stepped nearer, suddenly wishing I’d left the music on loud. “Something

wrong with the water in his building, I guess. Look, we’ll talk at lunch.” This

accompanied by another significant look. I expected fully that she’d recognize the lie; I

expected she’d know it for a refusal to get into the truth with him there.

She squared her shoulders, an undeniable tension in the set of her jaw and

straightness of her spine. “Margaret’s meeting us.”

My knees nearly gave out. “Not today.”

“Just come to Mama Santa’s. An hour, no more. After, we can—”

“I’ll stop by. In half an hour.”

She looked at me in this scary and unfamiliar way. Like she’d never seen me

before. Then she said her good-byes and left me with a kiss on the cheek.

I closed the door behind her and leaned one forearm against it, then rested my

forehead against that, sighing.

I deserved that. I deserved her questions, her unwillingness to let it go for the sake

of my convenience. I even deserved the inevitable anger and betrayal that’d be turned

on me after I did my explanations and mea culpas that afternoon.

But goddamn, this sucked.

Light footsteps jerked me out of my unpleasant reverie, and I looked over my

shoulder to see Kellan shoving his old T-shirt—which had spent the night on the

cluttered coffee table—into his bag.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

He dug his underwear out from behind a pile of magazines and stuffed it into the

bag.

“She doesn’t usually turn up like—”

When he turned, the force of his dark glare shut me up. A muscle in his jaw

twitched, and his right hand made a fist at his side. His voice was pitched sharp and

Nobody’s Hero

hard, almost unrecognizable. “Problem with the water in my building? We work

together?”

I leaned back against the door, knees going weak again, this time irretrievably.

“No, it’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“Maybe I’m getting the definition of boyfriend wrong, but this is not what I meant.”

The guy could throw a verbal kidney punch even when he wasn’t aiming. That

one, carefully placed as it was, knocked the air out of me. “That’s…that’s so not what

that was a—”

“Oh, so it’s not that I embarrass you.” He strapped up his bag and threw it over

his shoulder. I noticed belatedly that his T-shirt was slightly crooked, one edge of it

pulled up high enough to show skin, wet patches betraying the uncharacteristic haste

with which he’d dried and dressed. “For a second I thought you didn’t want your mom

to know you’re fucking tattooed white trash. My mistake.”

“The hell? Christ, Kellan, where’d that come from?” But as soon as I said it, I

realized exactly where it came from. I saw my mother through someone else’s eyes: her

shiny blonde hair, gray meticulously covered by sunny highlights, swept up in an

elaborate twist at the back of her head. Her high forehead, her clever eyes, just the right

touch of subtle makeup. Her simple but expensive designer slacks-and-blouse

ensemble, her Tiffany pendant and diamond ring the size of a meteorite and Prada bag

and shoes.

And Kellan, the poor kid in hand-me-downs, who I would’ve pretended didn’t

exist in high school, his heart written across his naked body in permanent ink for all to

see.

He covered the distance between the living area and the front door in a few long

strides and stood there like a boxer glaring down the opposing corner. “You tell me.”

My head throbbed. It was stupid, all so stupid, just a misunderstanding. I had lied

to her, but in a way that she’d be sure to understand. But how to explain that to him

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without it sounding like some miserable excuse? Jesus, why hadn’t I just shuffled her

out and apologized to him right away for the crappy introduction? Why hadn’t I…?

Both his hands clenched then. I knew if I didn’t say something, he’d push past me

and be out the door. The first thing I could think of leaped out of my mouth. “It has

nothing to do with you or—”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“Oh, so if it was your mom, you would’ve just said, ‘Yeah, meet my new

boyfriend’?”

“That’s exactly what I would’ve said.”

“And she would’ve been okay with that?”

“Jamie, my mother is the most amazing human being I know. But whether she

loves it or hates it doesn’t alter a fact.”

I ran a hand through my hair, pulling on it. All my clever explanations, my

smooth excuses deserted me. I just stared at him and wished so, so hard that I could tell

him the truth. “She’s not ready to hear it so bluntly. I’m having lunch with her. I’ll talk

to her about it then, I swear.”

“Right. She’s not ready.” Then he paused, mouth slightly open, as if having an

epiphany.

I had a sick, sinking feeling he had.

Confirmed when he said, “Jesus. Does she even know you’re queer?”

I closed my eyes. “Kellan.”

He took an audible deep breath, and when I opened my eyes again, his hands

were spread wide in front of him, chest rising and falling with controlled slowness. He

said, in a tight, frightening voice, “Okay. You know what? It’s none of my business.

Nothing about you is any of my fucking business.”

I pushed off the door and took a step nearer, reaching out for him. “No, it is.

You’re right. Just, you don’t understand.”

Nobody’s Hero

“I noticed.” He stormed past me and reached for the doorknob.

“Please, don’t just walk away. Let me explain.”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“But—”

“I’ll say something I can’t take back.” He looked over his shoulder, biting his lip,

but his eyes still burned hot and dark. “Megan will have to be your shortstop today.

Tell everyone I’m sorry.”

“Kellan—” But before I got any farther, he was out the door. He closed it in my

face—gently, but it still amped me hard. The charge started in that place deep in my

middle, the source of it, and jumped from wire to wire until it raced all through me,

begging to get free.

I turned around, let little lightning bolts arc across my hands, jumping from finger

to finger. The visible, tangible expression of all my frustration, everything I held inside,

everything I wanted to scream from the fucking rooftops.

I shoved one hand forward, sending a bright blue arc from my fingertips, right

into the nearest poster frame on my wall. The plastic sizzled; the paper curled in

sudden frenzied electrical flames.

I put it out before it set off the alarm and emptied the whole fucking building.

Feeling like exactly what I was: a giant fucking five-year-old. Lonely, frustrated, and

pathetic.

Shit. And this is why I can’t have nice things.

Or nice boys.

Katey Hawthorne

Chapter Six

I don’t remember walking down Mayfield Hill, but eventually I found myself in

Little Italy. So I edged into the incredible hole-in-the-wall we all knew and loved as

Mama Santa’s, and searched for Mom at her usual table.

Margaret sat there alone. Mom’s Prada bag was next to Margaret’s Gucci, but she

must’ve been in the bathroom. I considered slipping out, but Margaret chose the exact

wrong moment to look up and give me that unnatural Cheshire Cat grin.

Any other afternoon, I probably would’ve been some combination of annoyed,

frightened, and amused. But I was battle hardened, my brain still muddied from the

instant, devastating wall Kellan had thrown up between us with so little effort or

conversation.

I took up a seat across from her, painting on a smile only half as fake as hers.

She said, “Sweetheart, look at you!”

She’d been Mom’s friend since childhood, and so I was always as polite as

possible. Her husband was a nice guy; Mae and her brother, Rick, were good kids. But

Margaret’s constant commentary on my appearance made my skin crawl.

Wonder what kind of fee Mom gets if I knock Mae up, anyhow. Wonder what they’d say if

they knew Mae wants to talk to me about as much as I want to talk to her.

But no. That wasn’t fair, and there was no point getting into that mess now, not

with how fucked-up my head was. I’d only make a bigger hash of it, if that was

possible, and I wasn’t here to start another fight. I kept my comments to, “You just saw

me, Margaret. Last month, I think.”

“But you were in that monkey suit; today you look like you. How’s the current

running?”

Nobody’s Hero

Wouldn’t you like to know? “Fast and hard, like always. Sorry, but I’m only stopping

by.”

“Andrea said you’d be in and out.” She winked, flashing improbable blue eye

shadow at me. “But I knew you wouldn’t abandon us. You’re too good a son.”

Keep it classy, Margaret. “Yeah, except not. So how have you been, anyhow?”

Thankfully, Mom’s Chanel No. 5 cut through the baking-bread-and-cheese smell

of the restaurant. She kissed my cheek and slipped into the seat next to me. “Honey,

glad you’re here.”

I glanced at her from the side, but she was looking down at the menu. “Mom.”

“Jamie’s being modest, Andrea,” said Margaret.

“He’s incredibly modest—when it suits him.” Mom smiled, mostly unaffected.

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve laughed. Today, not so much.

“He says he’s not a good son.”

Mom put her hand on top of mine. “He’s the best son.”

Likely this was her way of telling me it was all right. That whatever happened that

morning, whoever I was sleeping with, whatever I did, she loved me. I swallowed hard.

“Mae’s dying to see you again.” Margaret had moved on in her bubbleheaded

way. “After she missed Billy and Lisa’s wedding, she promised to come back soon.

She’s working on nanotech—”

“I know.” I couldn’t help it; I had to shut her up. “Brilliant stuff.”

Mom said, “Jamie e-mailed her a few weeks back.”

“She’s apparently really busy,” I said. Or just really grown up. Wonder what that’s

like.

“I’ll remind her to write back. You know how shy she can be.”

I was trying to strangle a smart remark when Mom squeezed my hand. I couldn’t

even begin to fathom her timing. The dark little restaurant started to close in around

me, the current racing through my bones again.

Katey Hawthorne

We’d never get to talk with Margaret there, and Margaret would never leave so

long as I was there. I’d just tell Mom to come over after. I pulled my hand out from

under hers. “Well, I should—”

“Call her, maybe?” Mom said.

I paused, mouth still open. What the hell? “Maybe not,” I replied. Now my smile

was utterly false.

Margaret laughed. She had a sweet, low voice and a smooth, infectious giggle, but

it irritated me anyhow. “Jamie, you were never shy. Let me give you her number.” She

started digging through her bag.

I looked between her and my mother, suffocating. “She has mine. I’m pretty sure

she’s not interested, honestly.”

Goddammit, why couldn’t she have just faced up to it and worked with me on

this? Maybe I should write back and convince her—

No. Shit. That wasn’t even fair. If she wanted to run away and hide in California,

hey, I couldn’t blame her. If Margaret were my mother, I’d probably have done the

same, and Christ knows I wouldn’t want to hear about it.

At least one of us could escape.

But if Margaret was kind of airheaded, she wasn’t stupid. Yet here she was,

laughing like I’d just told the joke of the century. “She’d die if she heard you talking like

that, Jamie.”

Oh, Jamie. I hope the babies are comedians like you! I bit my tongue to keep the

sourness from spilling over, making to stand up. “It was good to see you, Margaret, but

I have to be on second base pretty soon.” I turned, searched my mother for a sign that

this clusterfuck had just been a slip on her part. A momentary lapse, like mine not an

hour ago, the one that had sent Kellan storming out of my apartment.

I got nothing. “Mom,” I said. I pushed the seat in behind me and started out.

Nobody’s Hero

She said something to Margaret and followed me out onto the sidewalk. “Jamie,

it’s going to rain. They’ll call the game.”

I looked down the street in the direction of Holy Rosary. Already signs up for the

Feast of the Assumption, and it wasn’t for another month and a half almost.

I wondered if Kellan celebrated it. Wondered if he came down here and ate the

deadly carnival food and watched the procession. Wondered if he spent the morning of

the feast praying at the altar and his evening drinking wine and laughing and playing

bocce with the old guys on the lawn.

Or was that just an Italian thing? What’d the Irish get up to on—A fat raindrop

plashed onto my forehead, reminding me where I was.

“What’s all this about?” Mom asked, laying a hand on my arm.

“Be serious, Mother.”

She withdrew her hand and sighed. “You’re acting like a child.”

I looked over and down at her, surprised. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Make up your mind.”

She cocked her head.

My stomach fell into my shoes. I’d been wrong. She was not on my side on this

one. Yes, maybe she knew what it was about. Maybe seeing my half-naked boyfriend—

hell, she’d probably spotted his clothes all over the living room too—had informed her

of my proclivities once and for all.

But it didn’t matter. Whether I was dating a man or a woman, it would never

matter. It was irrelevant. It was just something to occupy me until I finally settled down

with The Right Girl.

Just like she had. Or just like Dad had.

I felt sick. “First you want me to be a child so you can tell me where to work and

who to marry and what I should do with my electricity. Then you want me to grow up

Katey Hawthorne

and be you—or Dad. I don’t even know, but I wish you’d make up your mind. What do

you want from me?”

She considered this question with a seriousness that made me despair, then said,

“I want you to find the balance.”

“What does that even mean?”

“The balance between who you are and what you want. The place where you can

look at your life and know it is what it should be. I want you to be happy.”

I wished I could feign confusion, but I understood too well. I would never be free

of this sense of duty. Of the honorable ideal, of the mechanical chivalry to which I’d

been raised. I would never be happy if I felt like I’d betrayed it. And she knew it

because she knew that six years later, I still felt bad about med school.

But she didn’t know everything. The truth was, “I know what happy feels like.

Happy is my life twelve hours ago.” I had the thought and spoke the words

simultaneously. Hearing them out of my own mouth was a revelation.

What the fuck had I done? How could I ever explain this to his satisfaction?

Halfway would never do—he was too smart; he’d see right through me. One stupid

little sentence, one unnecessary lie, and—

“Honey, I—”

“I gotta go.” I started in the wrong direction, toward the church, shoving my

hands into my pockets. Another raindrop smacked me in the face, fat and full. I finally

looked up at the steel gray sky.

They’d definitely call the game. Good, since that meant it would be perfectly

acceptable to eat a couple of Presti’s glazed doughnuts for lunch.

At least the weather gods had my back today.

“Jamie, please—”

“Margaret’s waiting for you,” I said. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

But not right then.

Nobody’s Hero

Right then, I was afraid I would say something I couldn’t take back.

* * * *

That evening was…well, it wasn’t pleasant, anyhow. I didn’t have the game to

distract me, and I declined Sarah and Clark’s dinner invitation, then Derrick and Mike’s

request for my presence at West Sixth. My electricity was freaking out a little in spite of

my fizzle of a temper tantrum earlier in the day. It was a hot, rainy summer night, and I

wasn’t about to subject the people I loved to my miserable self.

I was, of all things, pensive—a new and strange state of being, with a confusion of

emotions on which I didn’t normally dwell. I bounced from bewilderment to guilt when

it came to Mom, from agony to resolve with Kellan. I felt like shit about Mom, one part

pissed and three parts hurt, but part of me knew we’d work it out. She’s my mom.

With Kellan, not so much. The resolve was the most confusing of all, maybe.

Resolve to apologize, yeah, but also tentative resolve, or at least, the idea that I ought to

have some, to let him go.

He was open, honest, wholehearted. I couldn’t begrudge him his dickhead

moments, even when they hurt; they were his only line of defense. I was born to lie,

mostly by omission, but I knew—I knew—it was all the same to him. He deserved better

than I could give him.

But how could I sleep at night with him out there hating me?

All this chased itself in my head until well into Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t ready

to speak to my mother but had to force myself not to call Kellan constantly. I allowed it

once or twice, and I never left a message, since he never checked them anyhow. A few

texts, just “Please call me” or other simple, pathetic things, not even really knowing

what I’d say if he responded.

It didn’t matter, since he never did.

I refused to feel sorry for myself, as all my troubles were of my own making, but it

didn’t help with the gnawing loneliness. Half of my life was awakened, the other half

Katey Hawthorne

full of sleepers, and what I could say in one wasn’t allowed in the other. For the first

time in a long time, I had no idea what to do with myself.

And then I remembered Billy Armin’s card in my jacket pocket.

* * * *

We met for a drink on the roof of the Green House Tavern in Billy’s trendy

neighborhood. Lisa came with him to say hi, then left with some of her friends. We

caught up on school, jobs, family, all the usual bullshit over our first Fox summer ale.

Over the second, I got the lowdown on the latest advances in plastic surgery meets cold

manipulation. That got him going, and just being around him, this same skinny, bug-

eyed kid getting so excited about weird science, made me feel a lot better somehow.

On the third beer, he finally said, “I didn’t think you’d call.”

“I wasn’t sure I would.” Great, that sounded like some Kellan shit to say. “Not because

I didn’t want to. But…you know. Lots of memories.”

“I guess none of us will ever be over it. We shouldn’t either.”

I considered saying that I was, for the most part. But I was sick enough of lying

just then to leave it with a “Yeah.”

“At least you stuck up for the guy,” he said.

“Not my finest moment, for all that.” I snorted and glanced at the late-Sunday-

afternoon foot traffic below. The rain had cooled things off overnight, but the sun was

back, though it hung low by that time. Seemed like everyone was out for a last nice

meal, an evening at the Improv, something before Monday came and strangled them

again.

“We were kids. We got lucky.” He shrugged. “You’re not the same cheerful Jamie

you were back in the day, though.”

“I am. Just not today.” I scrubbed a hand through my hair, that wave of confusion

and frustration crashing over me again. Hadn’t really wanted to bring this up—I’d

Nobody’s Hero

come here to escape it. But the hell with it, at this point. This was Billy. “Had a big fight

with the boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Maybe. Fuck.”

His eyebrows disappeared under his hair. “Uh…”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” He flushed a little. You know a guy your whole life, that he’s slated to

marry some girl you’ve known just as long, it’s natural to be a little surprised by that

kind of thing. “I mean, that’s cool and all.”

I smirked.

He laughed and leaned back in his seat. “Hell, Jamie, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. And for a while there, it was very cool.”

A pause while the bartender came to ask if we wanted another drink (which we

did), and then Billy said, “I dated this girl for years in college. Lived with her, even. My

parents hated it, wouldn’t even meet her, but what could they do?”

“What happened?”

“Didn’t work out.” His smile slipped into something nostalgic but not quite sad. “I

try not to be old-fashioned, but I’m not sure I ever could’ve told her. In retrospect, I

think I sabotaged it. It was just too hard.”

“I’ve been there.”

“So…” He cocked an eyebrow. “Just guys?”

“Yeah, my gate only swings one direction.”

“But your mother still, ah…?”

“My mother is in a state of denial. Either that, or she’s lost her mind completely.”

“They all do. This guy a sleeper?”

“Yeah.” I considered the question. That was the thing that strangled any tentative

resolve to let Kellan go. If he were anyone else, any less honest, any less loyal, okay.

But, “I think he might be the kind of sleeper you could trust with it, though.”

Katey Hawthorne

Billy looked impressed. “What’s the old saying? After ten years, you can consider

it?”

“We’re a long way off that. If he even speaks to me again.”

“They always do, if only to tell you where to stick it.”

“Sounds like Kellan.” We laughed over that, and our beers came.

By that time, Billy had formulated another probing question. “Why’d you drop

med school? Seriously?”

“I never wanted it. I only tried so I wouldn’t have to let Mom down.”

“Yeah, didn’t we all.”

“What you do is brilliant. Just because I couldn’t do it, it doesn’t mean I don’t

appreciate that. All that power in you going to help people—”

He snorted. “For a fee.”

“Everyone’s gotta eat. And everyone knows you do clinic work.”

He shrugged again. “I probably wouldn’t have chosen it, if I wasn’t an Armin. But

I love it now.”

There was a moment of silence as we both considered that, and I, at least, applied

it to his entire life. Which seemed to be working out okay.

Then he said, “But you’re the brave one. You’re doing what I think all of us

secretly dreamed of when we were kids. You just said no.”

“I’m a goddamn coward.”

He made a face.

“I don’t mind little stuff, using it on someone’s skin or even in the muscles, but

any deeper…” I suppressed a shiver, afternoon heat or no. Suppressed the memories

and the nightmares with it.

“But that’s good. You should respect it. I hate when I catch myself taking it for

granted.”

Nobody’s Hero

“No, I mean—” I faltered. Half of me really wanting to just say it, finally, just get it

out and admit it and get the fuck over it; half of me still stuck in mortified-teenager

land. I took a deep breath and made myself finish. “I can’t. I can’t use it to fuck with

someone’s life, because”— it reminds me of being fifteen and scared and—“it makes me hate

it.”

Something sour rose in the back of my throat, and it wasn’t the beer.

“You don’t hate it. You’d drop dead if someone took it away, just like the rest of

us.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. I don’t want to feel that way about it.” That was why

it made me shiver, in fact. Like two warring notes, some bullshit psychological

dissonance that never resolved. Hate what I can do, love what I can do.

“Lookit, maybe this is hypocrisy coming from me. But I was there,” he said. “I saw

what you can do, and I’ve never seen anything like it since. So you take the

responsibility seriously. How is that a crime?”

It didn’t make me feel like less of a coward. But it did, at least, make me feel like

less of a madman.

“Responsibility should be scary.” He went on, “I’m terrified of having kids. And

so’s Lisa. We’re both sure we’d end up dropping the thing on its head, and neither of us

likes them very much.”

I whistled low. Brave words—braver than mine. “So don’t have them.”

“We’re talking about it. It seems kind of stupid. We got married mostly to please

our parents, because we’re supposed to have babies. Now we’re together, we’re kind of

united against them all.”

Yeah, looked like it was working out just fine. “Wow. Hardcore awesome.”

“Jeez, I never said that to anyone else.”

“I know, right? Feels good.”

Katey Hawthorne

“Really good. Anyhow, who says you have to be a goddamn superhero? And who

says I have to pass on this power to some poor kid who never asked for a crappy dad?

Hell, talking about it makes me realize how I’d actually be an awful human being to go

along with it.”

“In your case, yeah, why screw up some kid? But mine’s completely selfish. I just

don’t want to hate who I am.”

He raised his full glass again. “I think we’re all working on that, man.”

* * * *

Lisa gave us hell about being drunk when she came to get Billy. Then she sat

down and drank enough vodka and tonic to sink a small ship, and the three of us talked

shit until it was time for them to stagger down the street and me to hop into a cab,

seeing as we were responsible adults with real jobs.

I knew very few things when I came into the office Monday morning, but I knew

them for sure. The first was that Kellan was still pissed, because he had yet to reply to

any of my texts, let alone call me back. The second was that though the success of our

relationship depended on factors partly out of my control, I wasn’t letting him go

without a fight. The third was that my mother was getting antsy, as she sent me a text

on Sunday night to which I replied, Will call this week. Love you.

One problem at a time, but I intended to line them up and knock them over.

I don’t know how he did it, but Kellan managed to avoid me until almost

lunchtime. When I finally ran into him, it was on the stairs between our floor and the

one above, where the big conference room was. Lance and Sarah and a bunch of other

implementation consultants came flooding down. Having noticed and commented on

my state of distress earlier in the day, Sarah stopped, grabbed my hand, and nodded

upward. Sure enough, Kellan trailed behind the rest, his face buried in a tiny notebook

and a pen hanging out of his mouth.

Nobody’s Hero

Since I hadn’t seen him for a few days, which was just enough time to forget the

effect he had on me, I stalled out. Fuck, he was…so…just…

She squeezed my hand and left, closing the stairwell door behind her. He kept

coming down, oblivious, and when he got within four steps of me, I finally found my

voice. “Kellan.”

He froze, back foot still on the step above him, and blinked as if I might be a

mirage. Or a nightmare. He chewed his pen cap and tucked the notebook under his

arm. He made as if to push his glasses up, but he was wearing contacts, so he ended up

poking his nose and then staring all wide-eyed.

Electricity surged in my belly. I wrestled it down but had enough presence of

mind to enjoy the thrill of it. Enjoy the moment. Live in hope and all that. “I’ve been

trying to call.”

“I know.” He took the pen out of his mouth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He

chewed on his lip instead.

“Please, let me explain.”

He opened his mouth, the bottom lip almost red from abuse. Nothing came out.

I took one step up so I was nearer to looking him in the eye. “I mean, there’s no

excuse, but there is an explanation.” What little of it I could give him.

Not now, maybe. But some day. He’ll forgive you when he understands.

He has to.

Just like that, he deflated, leaning against the railing and chewing on his nails.

“This weekend sucked.”

“Apart from Friday night.”

He looked down at his fingers. I took one more step and grabbed his free hand. He

started but allowed it.

“Let’s take a long lunch?” I suggested, increased hope propelling me forward. I

stepped up again, this time on the level with him.

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He ran his thumb along the edge of mine, down to the knuckle and back again.

Another surge of hope, and I moved nearer until I could smell that mint gum and

shampoo and Kellan scent. “Please. Just to talk.”

He pulled his fingers out of his mouth. “I didn’t pick up the phone, because I

wanted to be angry. It’s easier.”

At first, this was baffling. But then I considered, well, him. And, “I…think I

actually understand.”

“I don’t know how to apologize.” He swallowed visibly. His fingers weaved

between mine. “But I need to. If there’s any fucking thing I should understand, it’s

feeling like you can’t tell your family anything that matters. So…”

The world was full of happiness and light; there were fucking angels singing in

that stairwell. I wanted to run and scream and shoot lightning like a coked-up Greek

god.

“Don’t. You were right.” But more than any of that, what I really wanted was to

kiss him.

So I did. Just a little one, right there in the stairs, where anyone opening the fire

door above or below would’ve had a first-rate view.

I hadn’t felt that kind of relief, the leg-weakening, earth-shattering kind, in years.

There was something unspoken—neither of us wanted to get carried away right then,

and if we opened our mouths into it, we’d never stop. But all I needed were his lips

against mine, that perfect demand-and-yield balance between us, to know that this was

going to be okay.

Seemed a little melodramatic that I’d ever thought it might not be.

So I pulled back just enough to separate us and said, “Come on. I gotta buy

someone a sandwich. Then let’s go get a beer.”

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101

Chapter Seven

He slid into the same side of the booth as me once we got to the dark little Irish

pub down the block, which I took to be a very good sign. I explained as much as I could

without touching on superpowers, over a meal neither of us seemed interested in

eating.

He already knew that it had just been me and my mom for as long as I could recall

and that I had dropped out of med school after one year. He didn’t know that the two

were intertwined in my mind, so I started there. My great failure, my mother’s attempts

to spare my feelings and hide her disappointment. But when you’ve lived alone with

someone as uncommunicative as her for so long, you know how they feel even when

they pretend they don’t, right?

Then I told him about our circle of family friends. He knew about the community

spirit in which I and my “rich kid friends” had been raised, but he hadn’t quite grasped

the link between the two. I explained about the archaic practice of intermarriage—felt

good to discuss it as disparagingly as I really wanted to, for once—and about Billy and

Lisa. And then, finally, about Mae.

He’d maintained a look of disbelief almost the whole way through, but that finally

pushed it over the edge. “Are you, like, the duke of Cleveland or something?”

“Heh. No.” Though, now he mentioned it, it was a decent comparison. Noblesse

oblige and all. “But the thing is that everyone in my mother’s life knows about this.

Including Mae’s family. And they’re all pretty much just expecting us to go along with

it. So if I don’t, my mom… It’s not that these people won’t be her friends anymore, but

it’s kind of a fuck-you to them.”

“What kind of fucked-up country club is this?”

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“Good description. Thing is, she’s always juggling a million things, but she

doesn’t really have another person in her life. And I—” I faltered, hampered by my

inability to open it up and put it on the table like I really wanted. The closest I could

come was, “It sounds so pathetic, but I hate letting her down.”

“No, I get it. I’d do anything for my mother.” He paused, chewed at his lip, an

inscrutable, stony look in place. “But let me just make sure I have this straight. You’re

twenty-eight years old and living a double life as an out gay man with your friends and

a closeted mama’s boy with her friends.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“And she never figured this out before?”

“I have no idea. We’re kind of close. But—”

“But you have a monthly dinner appointment and a lot of crowded social events

and otherwise behave like little Lord Jamie and the duchess of Monday?”

I shifted in my seat. “I guess it is kind of weird.”

“That alone would be weird. On top of the double-life thing, it’s straight fucked-

up.”

I flinched.

He grabbed my hand. “We’re all fucked-up. You meet my family, you’ll feel one

hundred percent better about yours, believe me. That’s why I should’ve been less shitty

about it.”

“No, it was stupid of me to lie about it. I didn’t even expect her to believe it. I was

just saying random things to make her go away so I could talk to her later.” My face

was still hot, but that was all right. It ought to be. “But that was the worst thing I

could’ve said. The…I don’t know, the commitment thing—that’s important to you.”

His hand tensed over mine. He looked away, took a long drink of his Guinness.

I squeezed him. “Don’t be like that. I just mean that I figured you were feeling

guilty about us at first because we weren’t, you know, officially together.”

Nobody’s Hero

103

He took his hand back and picked at his fries. “So you just wanted to be my

boyfriend because you thought it’d save me a couple of Hail Marys?”

“Shit, Kellan.” I pulled at my hair and leaned back. Knowing why he did it sure as

hell didn’t make it sting any less. “Can we have a conversation without the boxing

gloves?”

He stuffed a fry into his mouth.

I watched him chew, helpless. Bereft of all strategy, except the certain knowledge

that anything but the truth would lose him, I said, “I guess when I say things while you

have my dick in your hand, they hold less weight, but I meant it: if you were seeing

someone else, I’d be scary jealous. That usually means it’s time to make it official.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s what I thought, yeah.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I just panicked, and it won’t happen again.” That was all I

had. I moved closer, willing him to look me in the eye.

He flicked me a sideways glance. “You talk to your mom?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you first. But I will.”

“Not because of me.”

“This never would’ve happened if I’d been honest with her from the start. But I’m

going to talk to her now because of you, yes.”

“Don’t.” He looked up. “I’m sorry for being a dick about it. Don’t try and have

that talk until you’re ready. I’ll never—”

“Kellan, she saw you naked in my apartment on a Saturday morning. I’m not

telling her anything she doesn’t know. I just need to lay it all out. I owe her that much.

But you said something, like, whether she loves it or hates it, it doesn’t change facts,

right?”

He nodded.

“I want to be with you. I’ll grow up if that’s what it—”

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He rolled his eyes, but one corner of his mouth was pulling up. “Knock it off,

Shakespeare.”

I grinned and leaned a little closer.

The other corner of his mouth pulled up, and he tilted his head like he’d kiss me.

But then he stopped and said, “You sure you don’t…?”

Okay, this talking thing was just going to get me into more trouble. I shifted to

make up for the half-assed angle of his head and swept in. He kissed back with zero

hesitation, mouth going soft. I slipped my fingers into the silky hair at the nape of his

neck and held him close for a long second. A faint kissing sound as we parted, and I

breathed into his lips, “Please forgive me.”

“You know I forgive you, you dick.” He kissed me again, this time opening my

mouth under his, running his slick tongue over the connection between our lips,

drawing me into him and resting his hot, strong hand against my thigh. He pulled back

before I was ready, saying, “Shit, it’s sort of a relief to know you’re screwed up. For a

while there, it was like trying to fuck an angel. Freaky.”

I laughed and pressed in on him, pinning him against the tall wooden booth. He

licked at the roof of my mouth and slipped his arm around my waist, holding me tight

against him. I threw a leg over his lap and drank it up, my blood racing, my electricity

singing. By the time the server dropped the check off—he disappeared fast enough after

that—I was so hot, I couldn’t imagine not getting him off right that very moment.

Not just because I wanted it, though. Also because I wanted to know he was mine.

I wanted him to look at me like that, break down that awful, angry wall and feel him.

Know for sure that it was okay.

I slipped my hand down his chest, down his stomach, and went right for his

crotch. And goddamn—

He sat up straight, gasping into my mouth. “Ah, Jesus”

I scrambled for my wallet, yanked out some cash to throw at the check, and

shoved Kellan out of the booth.

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His lashes fluttered, heavy over glazed eyes. “The hell, Jamie?”

“Bathroom.”

“What?”

I finally got him to his feet, where he adjusted to try to hide the press behind his

fly without a lot of success. I stood, doing the same, and said, “You and me, in the

bathroom, right now.”

His mouth hung open.

Yeah. Exactly.

I dragged him through the lunch crowd and locked the bathroom door behind us,

then put him against the wall, right next to the baby-changing station with the freaky

cartoon koala. Even that couldn’t slow me down. I started unbuttoning his shirt, trying

not to tear it in the process.

He was already on mine too. He sighed out, “Jesus.”

I leaned in and kissed him, barely leaving room for busy hands between us. “Did

you miss me?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Think of me?”

“Yeah.” He finished with my shirt and tugged at it. I finished with his, and we

both tore them off, tucking them into the metal railing behind his ass for safekeeping,

ignoring under-tanks and starting on pants. He went on, “Three or four times, in

particular.”

My cock swelled again, a rush of blood and a jolt to the brain. “Was it good?”

He said, his face buried in my neck, “Only fun I had all weekend.” Then he licked,

sucked at the soft spot just beneath my jaw, sending goose bumps down my right side.

I thought of him sitting on his couch, jerking off and imagining, wishing for me on

top of him, like the other night. The electricity wound low and tight in me, sparking and

fizzling, building. I got his pants open, then hit my knees on the cold tile floor and

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yanked them down around his ankles. Oh God, his perfect package in those demure

little briefs. Mouth watering, I kissed it, breathing hot and heavy on him through the

soft, straining cotton.

He gripped the metal bar behind him and smothered a groan.

I opened my mouth, sucked carefully so as not to wet the fabric too much, then

moved my mouth up, up, until I couldn’t anymore, pushing up his undershirt to show

a strip of flat belly. His dick moved, begging to be let out. I looked up again, caught his

eyes, and said, “Show me.”

Again, his eyelashes fluttered, sex and confusion in his expression.

I pulled his underwear down. His erection stood, the weight of it causing it to

angle downward slightly, flushed and smooth and hard. Mine gave a twitch, still

trapped in my shorts, and I leaned forward so bare inches remained between him and

my mouth. I looked up again. “Come on. Show me, baby.”

He almost took hold of his dick but stopped, this funny little half grin on his lips.

“Um, are you seriously telling me to jerk off in your face?”

I don’t know why—is there ever a real reason? I was so taken with the idea of him

jerking off over me that I wanted, more than anything else in the world right then, to

see it. “I’ll help,” I said. And to demonstrate, I licked my lips.

His whispers had gone rough now. “Goddamn, you are fucking—”

I licked the head of his cock, just the slightest application of my tongue against the

slit of it, then up over the tip for a taste. Then I rolled it back into my mouth and looked

up.

He blinked so slowly, it was more like shutting his eyes for a few seconds. His

hand found his cock, wrapped tight around it, and stroked it a few times, like he wasn’t

sure how to operate the equipment.

While I had no qualms about helping to service myself, I had yet to see him do

more than the occasional self-grab or readjustment-fondle. The perpetual repression of

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Kellan coming out of the box—fuck, I was going to come in my shorts, and I had to

wear them all goddamn day after this.

I licked him again, this time burying my face in the crook of his thigh to get at his

balls. I sucked one into my mouth and felt him sigh, then fall into a more natural

rhythm, still slow but tight and regular. I put my hands at his waist, drank in the feeling

of his soft, warm skin, his hard muscles through my fingertips, my palms. Breathed the

scent of his sweat and soap, tasted his skin, swallowed it down and went for more in

another spot. Now his belly, now his inner thigh. Then, sitting back slightly, I situated

myself to taste his cock again.

His hand slowed; his gaze fixed on me, on my lips an inch from the head. My

mouth watered. I opened it, turned my head, and licked at him, this time tasting the salt

of his precum and leaving him even wetter. His left hand went white-knuckled on the

bar; his right sped up, readjusting so as not to interrupt the workings of my open

mouth. He swallowed a groan.

All of it fed the electrical fire inside me, increased it to a fever pitch, made me

almost as desperate to let go with a static charge as I was to grab my own cock and go at

it. I reached for it, pushing frantically at my open pants and then the elastic of my shorts

until I had it out.

“Oh fuck yeah,” he whispered.

I looked up to find he’d readjusted his stance to see all the way down to my hand

on my dick.

I held myself there, knowing that if I started too hard, I’d make a mess of his work

pants before I could help it. So I contented myself with just touching it, toying with the

wave of pleasure from the contact, the way it tried to swell further, until my vision

swam.

He went tense, dribbling again, and I licked it off. Not long now. Part of me

wanted to be perverse, for him to keep pumping that gorgeous cock in my face and not

let me have it.

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But part of me just wanted to feel him in me. So I opened my mouth for him and

let out a deep breath.

He pushed in. I closed my eyes and stretched my lips around him, my erection

giving a thrill that defied my brain. His hips angled forward deliberately, then again in

a shorter and more erratic movement. I let my throat relax, took him, grabbed his ass to

align his soft, building rhythm with mine, his fingers combing through my hair gently. I

wasn’t sure what I was doing with myself; I focused on going down on him, wanting to

make the most of the moment, reveling in that sweet, careful caress.

His fingers tightened in my hair. He pushed forward into my mouth and shot off

with a little “Ah fffffffuck…” that was more a sigh than anything else.

With him still filling my mouth up, the taste of his sex ruling my world, I

reapplied attention to my now aching cock. I swallowed, and he moaned softly, his

stomach curving over my head like a fucking cathedral ceiling, his hand brushing my

cheek, then my chin, as the other continued to play with my hair.

Just as the first almost-there wave hit me, he pulled out of my mouth and reached

down to draw me up to standing.

I let myself go with equal parts reluctance and gratefulness, meeting his mouth

with a kiss still heavy with the taste of him. It was wide open and wet and a desperate

mess, tongues and spit and everything else that made a blowjob good going into it on

both ends. I pressed my dick into his thigh and rubbed it in, thrilling myself on him.

He closed the kiss off and took my face in both hands, holding me just inches from

him so our eyes were locked. “Oh, Jamie,” he whispered like a little sigh, eyelids still

heavy but eyes betraying something other than smoking-hot sex, of a sudden. “Did you

miss me too?”

“So much, baby.” I leaned forward, and he allowed me another kiss, though he

still held me with both hands. I angled my hips for another rush and clung to his waist

with both hands, afraid he’d push me away at any moment, though I couldn’t have said

why. “I’m so sorry.”

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“You don’t have to be sorry.” This time he kissed me and held me tight against

him. For a few seconds it was almost delicate, his tongue darting into my mouth and

out again, but then his lips crushed into mine bruisingly hard. When he finally closed it

off, he said, “You’re amazing.”

Before I could respond, he was on his knees, back still to the wall, going down on

me with even more than his usual zeal and thoroughness. It was about ten seconds

before the tight, skillful ecstasy of his hot mouth brought my orgasm on, whether I was

ready for it or not. I came down his throat, wanting to swear and scream and tell every

fucking person in the city that he was incredible.

The electricity that had been crackling inside me all afternoon amped so hard, the

light over the mirror flickered off, then back on, buzzing. For my field to reach all the

way over there and come close to frying shit… Well, I’m sure I would’ve been more

appalled at the uncharacteristic slipup if I hadn’t been so goddamn dizzy with

satisfaction.

When he finished and stood, I leaned into him, breathing hard, and he did the

same. We kissed, but briefly. We just stood, my arms around his neck, his around my

waist, de-pantsed and crookedly undershirted and a little bit sticky.

In the family bathroom at a faux-Irish pub. I smiled into his neck.

“I shouldn’t get so angry,” he whispered after we’d caught our breath, the sweet

sound sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No, you were right, baby.” I kissed his neck, thinking we were a sappy mess and

not really giving a shit. I pulled back to rest my forehead against his. “Can I see you

tonight?”

“Come over. Stay.” His cock moved, pressed between us tight, swelling again.

And then someone knocked on the door, naturally.

* * * *

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Mom called a few times during the week but was too busy to meet up—nothing

new, but all things considered, it caused me some anxiety. Having Kellan at least partly

in the know helped, though. He suggested that I allow him to amuse me until the

weekend came and she had time for more than a rushed phone call.

Twist my arm, huh?

When Friday night rolled around and I got a demanding text from Derrick

insisting that I introduce him to this wondercock that was keeping me from going out

lately, Kellan grinned and said, “Why not?” So we got dressed up—which still meant

jeans for Kellan but with the addition of a fitted button-down that inspired me to make

us very late getting downtown.

Derrick was instantly smitten. If I’m kind of a stereotype, Derrick is a cartoon. He

lavished affection on Kellan, who responded with a lot of throat-clearing and flushing

but seemed to take it in the spirit it was meant. We met up with Mike at the next bar

and by one had moved on to one of our favorite pickup places, the Cave, which had

little tables semisecluded by hanging curtains on circular chandelier-type racks. The

four of us leaned our heads over our drinks and laughed it up until Mike saw someone

he knew (read: a likely prospect) and ditched us. At which point Kellan announced a

need to take a piss, and Derrick suddenly needed one too.

So I sat guardian of the drinks, sinking into the plush pseudo-Persian

surroundings and suggestive throbbing of cheesy euro-techno. Don’t get me wrong—I

consider electronic music my thing, but there was music meant to listen to, and there

was music meant to dry hump to, and very few musicians had the skills of Massive

Attack to provide a two-in-one. I was minding my own business, sipping my Jack and

Coke, when a familiar face (and body) suddenly peeked around the curtain.

“Jamie. Thought that was you.”

Oh shit. Tall, dark, and handsome, curly brown hair, and a faint something about

the eyes that spoke of bad (read: good) intent.

Dubious Provenance Guy.

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I was torn between laughing and feeling like a complete twat. “Hey. Long time,

man. How you been?”

He tucked into Mike’s seat. “Good. So, don’t panic. I’m not here to ask why you

never called.”

His big grin relieved me somewhat. I said, “It’s a long story, actually, but—”

Derrick suddenly appeared and threw himself into his seat, and Kellan, with a sort

of bemused/amused look on his face, wasn’t far behind. Derrick, God bless him, never

forgot a name that went with a hot face. He said, “Farley!” and sidled up to the new

addition.

Farley, right. I knew it was something, er, like that.

“Hey, uh—”

“Derrick. And this is Kellan.”

Farley eyed him across the table as Kellan slipped in next to me. There was no

way for us to share the little bench without our arms touching, and the easy way Kellan

leaned into my shoulder must’ve told him everything. Farley gave me a look. “Oh. I get

it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the long story, short.”

Derrick, God bless him again, took Farley’s arm. “Dance with me, big man.”

“Nice to see you,” I said as he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet.

Kellan waved, the look shifting decidedly more toward amusement now. When

they were gone, he said, “Shit, that’s the only one tonight? I expected four or five, at

least.”

“You always make me feel like such a disappointment.”

“Right.” He smirked and leaned back. “Hot shit, though. I’m feeling kinda proud

of myself right now.”

“Speaking of, did Derrick check out your dick?”

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“Oh yeah. Didn’t even pretend. Looked up in the mirror and the bastard was

winking at me.”

I was on him in an instant, kissing and running my fingers through his hair. He

smiled into it, but when I started moving one hand up his thigh toward his crotch, he

stopped and laughed. “Jesus, what is it with you and public places?”

“Baby, it’s almost two a.m. Anyone here who is lonely or sober enough to notice

will thank us.”

“You’ve got to be the dirtiest mind I’ve ever met, James.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll get down under this table and prove you right.”

“I ever tell you you’re fucking amazing?”

I shut him up with another kiss, and we spent the last hour of the evening

alternately making out, feeling each other up, and finishing off our drinks. Happy as

could fucking be.

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Chapter Eight

“You’re not coming?”

“No. I’m going down to Kellan’s parents’.”

“Everyone will expect you to be there, honey,” Mom explained in her best patient

voice.

I snorted. “Everyone who?”

“Just…everyone. All the families.”

“They see me all the time. Kellan’s mom invited me. The Fourth of July is their big

family event.”

Now she paused. “I see.”

“Can I take you out to lunch or something?”

“After the Fourth. Things are so busy—”

“Dinner? Breakfast?”

“It’s okay, honey. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. We’ll meet at

Tommy’s the weekend after.”

“This is important.”

Silence, the longest three seconds of silence ever. Then, “Is it serious?”

No, I’m just being invited to key family functions and electing to spend time with him

instead of you on holidays. Not fucking serious at all, Mother. “Yes.”

Yet more silence. “It’s okay. I dated too. We’ll talk about it later.”

That odd sense of despair I’d felt in Little Italy returned, that same thought that it

didn’t matter. Whether I was dating a man or a woman, it would never matter. It was

irrelevant.

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So I swallowed hard and said, “I’ll see you at Tommy’s, then.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Next week I’ll cancel my—”

“I’m busy next week.”

Another pause, but shorter. “I love you, Jamie.”

“Yeah. Love you too.”

Part of me was sort of relieved. At least she wasn’t rejecting me for being queer. It

should be irrelevant. It shouldn’t matter who I was fucking, not to my mother.

But most of me was gutted. Because in this case, it did matter and was

unquestionably relevant. Her pretending it didn’t and wasn’t hurt like hell.

I wondered how long she’d known and never said anything.

I wondered how long I’d have let us go on with this convenient lie, if not for

Kellan.

And I was glad she didn’t have time to let me take her to lunch, after all. Though I

guess it could’ve been worse.

She could’ve asked me about Mae.

* * * *

Kellan had compiled a playlist that was half electronic dancey stuff, half paddy

rock, and his ancient Chevy pickup blared it on the way down to Medina that Fourth of

July. The windows were open, my feet were up on the dash, and I was singing Gorillaz

to the flat Ohio countryside. Kellan alternately winced and laughed at my off-key

efforts but enjoyed the performance all the same.

About halfway through, I turned it down and asked, “So, how’d you tell your

parents?”

Partly because I wanted to be prepared, partly just because I was curious,

considering the spectacular failure I was experiencing with my own tiny family just

then.

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“I’m probably not the best example.”

“Okay, now I really want to know.”

“Well, my dad asked me if I’d met any new girls, and, I mean, everyone knew; he

was just being a douche. Like he could guilt me into being straight.” He shrugged. “So I

said, ‘You know damn well I’m gay.’”

“Only you, Kellan.”

He grinned.

“Like, where? When?”

“Freshman year in college. About three days before Christmas.”

“Ouch.”

“At least I waited until after dinner. Tara and Ryan thanked me for that later.”

“They were still living at home?”

“Yeah, this is Ryan’s first year out. Tara was a senior in high school.”

“So what happened?”

“Mom cried.” He looked a little uncomfortable there. “Dad told me to get my

sorry sodomite ass out of his house. Erin was in for Christmas, and she said if he kicked

me out, he was kicking her out, and he said all right, fuck all y’all, as it were. Tara tried

to come with us; Ryan kind of went into a coma. Maura and Finn both called me the

next day freaking out. Ken was the only one who didn’t have anything to say, but he

doesn’t give a shit.”

I consider myself pretty good with names, but without faces to match, the Sheas

were mind-boggling. “Wait, so what’s the order again?”

“Maura, Kennedy, Finn, Erin, me, Tara, Ryan.”

“Is this going to be on the quiz?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet, man.”

But I still couldn’t get over it. “So he seriously kicked you out?”

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He shrugged. “I was already out anyhow, and he wasn’t paying for school. But he

didn’t speak to me for a few years.”

I stared. “Years?”

“Two. I kind of expected it, just felt bad for my mom. The whole thing really

embarrassed her.” Another quick glance. “Not me, but Dad being a dick. She dragged

him to Father Tom to get it sorted out in the end, she got so pissed off.”

“Heavy, man.” A little pause for contemplation. Then I asked, “So, what would

you have done differently?”

“I would’ve said it sooner.” No hesitation in his reply, and he said it with a smile.

“Okay, I’m going to tell you something serious, so don’t be a cock.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

He chewed on his bottom lip, but the smile didn’t quite fade. “I cried that night.

Wasn’t sad—it was just such a fucking relief.”

If he hadn’t been driving, I would’ve been on him so fast. Holy shit.

“But don’t worry; we’re cool now. It won’t be—well, it’ll be weird, but not that

weird.”

“He just said he was sorry, and you forgave him? Just like that?”

“Fuck no, he never said he was sorry.” He laughed. “And I definitely never said I

forgave him. No, my mother begged me to come home for Thanksgiving, he

acknowledged my presence, and after a few hours, I acknowledged his. A few hours

after that, he offered me a drink. We sat up all night knocking back a bottle of Powers

and singing old songs; we got sloppy and sentimental about the old days—mine and

his. And now here we are, father and son.”

“You just…moved on?”

“Pretty much. He’s a mean old cunt, but that just shows I got it honestly.”

I sat back in my seat, eyebrows up to my hair. “This is gonna be educational.”

“Still time to back out.”

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“Not enough money in the world to buy me off, Kellan.”

A pause, and then he asked, “What do you think your dad would’ve done?”

“I wonder about it sometimes,” I admitted. “I like to think he would’ve shrugged

and kept eating his steak or whatever. My grandma always said he was really laid-back.

Everyone does. He must’ve been, to deal with Mom.”

“Uh, and to be a fucking neurosurgeon.”

“That too. But mostly Mom.”

* * * *

He rolled the truck up a dirt-and-grass drive and parked it beside an old

farmhouse, the kind that’s obviously been standing there for a few hundred years and

had a lot of work done to keep it upright in the meantime. A giant barn sat at the end of

the drive, and in the distance behind it, a few acres of open field. The nearest house was

about three hundred yards to the left, and a huge pond, complete with a ramshackle-

looking boathouse and a well-repaired minidock, sat on what looked like the property

line, half on the Shea side, half on the other side.

I was about to comment about it being badass, but a chorus of small, piercing

voices started announcing, “Uncle Kelly!”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Shut up.” He laughed and waved at the kids, who raced toward us in an

amoeboid mass.

“So, how many nieces and nephews?”

“Eight. So far.” The smallest of his admirers—a beautiful dark-haired girl of about

three—reached us. He swept her up and spun her around, and she wrapped her little

arms and legs around him. “How’s my girl?”

“Good!”

He turned toward me. “Jamie, this is Maggie.”

I held out my hand. “And who does she belong to?”

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“Erin. Mags, meet Jamie.”

She took two of my fingers in a chubby little hand and approximated a grownup

shake. “Hi, Jamie.”

By that time, the older children had reached us, and Kellan put down the little kid

and began distributing hugs and hellos, starting with a blond preteen girl who seemed

to be the leader of the adorable rabble.

“Guys, listen up,” he said. “This is Jamie. Feel free to introduce yourselves. He

doesn’t bite.” He turned back to me, where I leaned against the car to watch this

fascinating ritual. “But they do. Especially Gerry.” He ruffled the hair of the one kid he

hadn’t hugged yet, one of three boys sporting bare, muddy knees.

The kid laughed and hugged him, and his two buddies marched up to me,

announced themselves as Matt and Delany, and took turns shaking my hand.

We were accosted by two stragglers, a pair of little girls, one shy, one decked out

in designer wear, but eventually our path was clear to the grownup types. They

lounged around a smoking brick barbecue, everyone with a beer in hand or very

nearby.

There were…a lot of them.

“You about to turn back yet?” he asked

“Oh hell no.”

“Good, because we hit the point of no return the second my mother laid eyes on

you.” Dimple in full force, he took the last few strides toward a small, round woman

with the exact same dimple in her left cheek. He wrapped her up and kissed her. “Hey,

Ma. This is Jamie.”

Mrs. Shea let her son go and pulled me into her arms, going up on her toes to lay a

quick peck on my cheek. “Jamie, so glad you could come.”

There were about twenty pairs of eyes on me right then, and it was nice to know at

least one of them was friendly. “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Shea.”

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“Our pleasure.” She pulled back and did that patting-the-side-of-my-face thing.

“Make yourself at home; the Lord knows we don’t stand on ceremony.”

Kellan had been shaking the hand of a lanky middle-aged man with dark, familiar

eyes and a perpetual downturn to his mouth. When Mrs. Shea released me, Kellan said,

“Dad, Jamie.”

I hoped my deep breath didn’t show. The man had a personality a mile wide; I felt

it in that first look—not confrontational, not even judgmental, just in charge. Kellan’s

tale of facing his father over a dinner table and saying something as audacious as “You

know damn well I’m gay” reached a new level of coolness.

He took my hand and shook it firmly, and I said, “Mr. Shea,” like I was about to

try to sell him software.

I was glad I wasn’t, that was for damn sure. Though fucking his son wasn’t a

whole lot better, now I thought about it.

“What, Mags?” Kellan turned to the little girl pulling at his pant leg.

Mr. Shea released my hand and said, “Good to meet you, son. Where is it you’re

from?”

I don’t know why, but it surprised me. “Cleveland. Shaker Heights.”

“Knew some folks up there. Who are your people?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what this question meant, but the best I could do was, “Our

name’s Monday.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “What do your parents do?”

“My dad was a doctor, and my mom just retired from Cuyahoga Power.”

“You’re a college man?”

“Yes, sir, Case Western Reserve.” I paused. If this was a business meeting, he

would’ve told me about friends he had who went there, or how he’d heard it was so

wonderful, or maybe asked me if I was an engineer. But instead he just nodded, so I

said, “I work with Kellan at Humphries now, though. He said you were in the mill?”

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He smiled, though it was a little grim. “Thirty-five years. Couldn’t retire soon

enough. Need a beer?”

Relief flooded into my limbs, which I hadn’t realized were extraordinarily stiff

until that moment. “Love one, thanks. Just point me in the right direction.”

“That’s what grandkids are for. Mags.” He waved his hand at the little girl

chattering up at Kellan. “Leave Uncle Kelly be and get Jamie here a beer.”

This tiny fairy of a creature looked up at me, cocked her head, and asked with

extreme seriousness, “Killian’s, Coors, Fox, or Guinness?”

That dissolved most of the remaining mystery around Kellan right there. I

laughed. That said, I was not entirely comfortable with the idea of a three-year-old

getting me a beer. “Tough decision. How about you show me where it is, and I’ll take

what’s on top?”

She pursed her lips but relented.

Kellan went with me. “Sorry. Dad doesn’t know how else to treat you, so he treats

you like he would one of my sisters’ boyfriends. The third degree, making sure you’re a

nice boy, all that.”

“That what that was?”

“Yeah. Nice work, though.”

“Hey, I got nothing to fear. I am a nice boy.”

“Right.” He bumped his shoulder into mine and grinned so brightly, I had to look

away, lest I be forced to make out with him in the middle of a Shea family picnic.

* * * *

A flag football game took about an hour to get organized, during which Kellan

distributed more hugs, one for each sibling, and I was introduced all around. I found

myself sitting between Tara’s boyfriend—a bewildered college boy who started every

sentence with “uh…”—and Erin, who was holding the youngest of the Shea rugrats,

baby Bernadette.

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It was sweltering, as all Independence Days ought to be, so there were O’Shea

crests on display everywhere. Tara had her shirt tucked up into her bra, showing hers

was a tramp stamp, and all the brothers had their shirts off but Kennedy, the oldest,

whose stocky frame supported a slight beer belly. The guy didn’t strike me as

particularly vain, but the one just younger than him, Finn, did. Tall and fit like Kellan

but with high cheekbones and bright blue eyes to contrast with the dark hair, Finn

clearly—and mistakenly—considered himself the good-looking one. Ryan, the

otherwise soft-spoken baby of the family, started the game by throwing his sweaty shirt

at Finn’s head and pulling a Charles Atlas pose. He pointed downward to his own

tattoo with both thumbs, causing the kids to send up a cheer, and they were all off.

“I should’ve waited till I had my girls before getting mine,” Erin confided. She

was petite, with a sweet, round face like their mother. The pretty baby in her arms

sucked on a pacifier. “Pregnancy is hell on tattoos.”

“So I hear,” I said.

“Kelly said Morgan likes you better than him.”

I laughed. “I think he gets jealous sometimes.”

“Of you or Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Erin!” Kellan waved at us as he trotted down the field after the ball. “Get out

here, you chickenshit. And bring Jamie!”

She stuck out her tongue.

Though normally I would’ve been all about it, it didn’t seem like the best way to

familiarize myself with the boyfriend’s family, if you know what I mean. I said, “No,

thanks. I need to get to know someone before I start grabbing flags out of their pants.”

She snorted, and the college kid on the other side of me showed signs of life and

laughed. Erin said, “How you feel about babies?”

“Great. Got a goddaughter that exact size, even.”

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I found myself with a bundle of little girl in my arms that fast. Erin said, “I need to

go show these boys who’s boss. If Kyle ever comes back, you can dump Bernie on him.”

“We’re good,” I assured her.

The baby took one of my fingers in a death grip as if to prove the point. Kellan

rolled his eyes at me. I shrugged, displaying my beautiful excuse for sitting there,

watching him run around shirtless.

Tough life.

Erin stomped onto the field, announcing, “Right, I’m in, but if anyone squashes

my boobs, I swear to Jesus Christ Almighty, you’ll lose a limb. I’m nursing, people.”

College Boy said, “Uh, guess they’re all like that, huh?”

“Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

“For real, man.”

* * * *

Following this game—which had no discernible winner as far as anyone knew—

we were stuffed full of Carolina Gold-style brisket and even more beer.

Everyone talked all at once, yet everyone seemed to actually understand what was

going on all the time too. There was a kind of Venn diagram to it, where there were

maybe four separate conversations at any given time between children, adults, and

elders, and then there were spots where we were all magically discussing the same

thing without having veered off topic.

I say we, but I mostly just listened for once in my life. Every one of Kellan’s

siblings made it a point to ask me my opinion or draw me in, so it wasn’t that I felt like

an outsider. Just, there were so many of them. And they talked so much, about

everything. Personal lives to politics, nothing was sacred except Jesus, Mary, and God,

and they got their names thrown around a lot too. It wasn’t scary, just a little

overwhelming. And fucking fascinating.

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Eventually Kellan pulled me away on the pretext of a walking tour. When we

were wandering by the pond, listening to the splashing of the little-boy clique, he said,

“You okay?”

“Great, yeah.”

“You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m not usually surrounded by people who like each other this much.”

He gave me a sideways look, then took a big gulp of his beer. He had replaced his

shirt before eating, much to my disappointment but probably for the best, in the

circumstances.

A sudden fear gripped me. “Shit, I don’t seem like I’m sulking, do I?”

“No, you’ve been smiling the whole time. Just didn’t know if it was fake or not.”

“You can’t tell when my smile is fake?”

“Well, yeah, most of the time.” He paused. “But you’re easy to misread.”

“I’m, like, the shallowest person in the world. How is that even possible?”

Another sideways look. “That’s your story, huh?”

I laughed. I almost asked him if he thought I was harboring some horrible dark

secret. Then stopped. Because I was.

And here he was, laying his entire life out in front of me, inviting me into it.

“This is what sincere looks like,” I said, taking his hand. “For future reference.”

He accepted this with a smile, and we continued our walk in silence. Once we

neared the barn again, we were hailed by a picnic table full of beer bottles—or rather,

one of its occupants. Finn sat, listing slightly to one side, across the table from a ruddy-

cheeked Kennedy.

“Kelly, Kelly, c’mere!” Finn beckoned.

Kellan raised an eyebrow at me.

I waggled mine in reply, and we took up residence with his brothers. As I tucked

in next to Finn, he asked, “Do you want to get married?”

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Kellan shot me a what the fuck? look. “Finn, we’ve been dating, like, two months.”

“No, I just mean, you know. In general. Do you want to get married someday to

someone.”

Kellan turned the WTF look on his brother. “That sort of depends on the someone,

doesn’t it?”

Ken elbowed him. “Just say yes, Kelly.”

Kellan scrubbed at his face with both hands. “You guys just met Jamie. Could you

please not—”

I interrupted with, “Just say yes, Kelly.”

All three pairs of eyes fixed on me, two in amusement, one in annoyance.

I shrugged and tried to look innocent. “What, like it takes more than two months

to figure that out?”

Kellan flipped me off, but he was still looking at his brother. “Sweet bleeding Jesus

on a stick. Lookit, Finn, just because you had the ugliest divorce ever, it doesn’t mean

no one else should get married.”

Kennedy chuckled. “Just that some of us should’ve thought twice. Not me, but

some of us.”

Finn made a face. “Fuck you, Ken.”

Kellan elbowed Ken. “He’s getting belligerent already. The night is young,

brother.”

“Seriously, Kelly.” Finn leaned forward on the table unsteadily, poking one finger

in Kellan’s direction. “If anyone’s gonna back me up, it should be you.”

“I never back you up. Even if I agree with you, I don’t back you up, just on

principle.” Kennedy clapped Kellan on the back. Kellan asked, “Why the hell would

this time be different?”

Finn rolled his eyes. “’Cause you’re gay, dumbass.”

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Kellan puffed out his cheeks in a sigh. “You are far too fucking stupid to have

lived this long.”

“Fuck you.”

“You just think the only reason people get married is because they get knocked

up.”

Once more, Kennedy the Spectator laughed out loud.

“Fuck you both.” Finn jabbed his finger first at Kennedy, then Kellan. “I mean,

you’re lucky, Kelly.”

“Agreed, for a lot of reasons. Which one were you talking about?”

Kennedy said exactly what I was thinking: “’Cause you can’t put a baby in Jamie.”

In this limited company, I felt confident piping up with, “Could have fun trying,

though.”

Kennedy smacked the table and laughed harder than ever. Kellan made an

exasperated face at me.

But Finn was all drunken seriousness. “No, that’s exactly why he’s lucky. And I

mean, look at this guy. Jamie, you’ll back me up.”

Now there was an extraordinary belief. “You think so, huh?”

“Come on. Dude, you’re like me. I can tell.”

I gave Finn a once-over, trying to figure out how, exactly, I was like him. I had to

mentally step back, stop thinking of him as Kellan’s older brother, and just imagine

meeting him at a party or in the club.

And then it was all clear. He was charming—when sober—quick-tongued,

handsome, and, at least on the surface, confident. I’m not saying I was any of those

things, but I definitely had certain similar qualities that had allowed me to survive my

mother’s society parties and coast through adolescence—and later, nightclubs—with

relative ease and success.

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I also happened to know he had tanked his marriage by cheating on his wife with

her best friend, and several others, and nearly lost shared custody of his daughter

because of it. Which, after meeting him, made perfect sense.

Couldn’t help but notice his designer girlfriend wasn’t in on the conversation

either. Just saying, man.

I said, “If you mean I’m a slut, okay. But I just said that I know Kellan is the

marrying kind. And I’m still dating him. So wouldn’t you infer that I was just his slut?”

Kellan was scrubbing at his face again and grumbling.

Kennedy reached across him and the table to high-five me. “That’s way too

complicated for him right now.”

Kellan asked, “Why are we talking about this, again?”

Kennedy grinned like an evil garden gnome. “’Cause gays don’t need to get

married. That only works for a man and a woman.”

I laughed out loud, watching Kellan’s and Finn’s faces change as he spoke—one

turning red, the other filling with trepidation. This Kennedy was one hell of a wind-up

artist.

I was starting to like him.

Finn said, “That’s not what I mean. I just mean you can spend your life with

someone without—”

Kellan interrupted with, “Shut the fuck up, or I will take you around the back of

the barn and kick your ass again.”

“Fuck you. That was not fair.”

“Because you were stoned? Yeah.” Kellan flattened his hands on the table and

leaned over it, glaring hard at his brother. “Fucking try me, you bigoted prick. I’d love a

rematch.”

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“Dude, I am not a bigot. I defended you to Dad, even.” Finn looked from Kellan to

me, baby blues clouded with confusion. “I think you guys make a great couple.

Seriously.”

Kellan obviously did not see the humor in the situation, and Kennedy looked like

he was about to start winding them up again, so I cut in before someone could get

murdered. In as light and conversational a tone as I could, I said, “Oh, no, I get it. It’s

cool if we live together forever; we just don’t deserve the rights and privileges granted

to other, legally recognized families.”

Finn blinked at me, his mouth working open and closed.

“Like, if we live together forever and I die, it’s totally cool if all the stuff and our

house gets bogarted by my mother, leaving Kellan totally fucked and destitute, right?

And if I lose my job and get some degenerative disease, it’s awesome if Kellan’s

insurance doesn’t have to cover me. Oh, or if he loses his job and I end up supporting us,

we should definitely not be allowed to declare him my dependent on a tax return.

Because one of us doesn’t have a magical, civil-rights-granting vagina.”

“One per relationship!” Kennedy was howling.

“Exactly. Anyhow, us queers just want to fuck everything in sight.” I smacked

Finn on the shoulder companionably. “Not suited for marriage like you breeders.”

Kellan was smiling by then, if slowly.

Warmed me up just to see it. And though all my bullshit had just been a

hypothetical constructed to poke holes in Finn and leave him leaking for our

amusement, I actually meant what I was saying. Not just the whole human-rights

thing—I mean, that’s a given. But that I could see it being…you know, us.

Finn looked across the table. “Oh my God. You actually found someone as smart-

ass as you, Kelly.”

“Apparently.”

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Finn’s mouth worked some more, like he was having one last go at coming up

with something to say. And then he did it. “You gotta admit, though, you can’t get

married in the Church.”

Kellan turned pink again, but he was using that scary controlled voice. “No, I

can’t. Because I’ll be in prison for murdering my raging fuck-hole of a brother.”

Finn turned to me. “Jamie—”

I held up my hands. “You’re on your own, man.”

Ken was still rolling. “But we haven’t even talked about children! Kellan, you

gotta have kids. They love you!”

I shook my head. “Damn, you’re good.”

He wasn’t grinning like an evil gnome so much as the devil by then.

Finn looked down into his empty beer bottle, suddenly morose. “I love my

daughter. You guys should have a daughter.”

I said, “We’ll get right on that.”

Kellan seemed to be getting ahold of himself again. He gritted his teeth and said,

“Awesome. Can’t wait.”

Finn opened his mouth once more, but we were all saved by a sweet little-girl

voice shouting, “Uncle Kelly!”

Kellan’s face changed, like he’d forgotten about Finn and Ken, maybe even me,

and he smiled his most honest, wide-open smile. He lifted Maggie into his lap when she

held up her chubby little arms. Her face was pink with sun, and though it was barely

creeping into evening, her eyelids drooped low. He kissed the top of her head. “You’re

tired, sweetheart. You have a nap today?”

Just like that, the grin slipped off my face. One second I was indulging in Ken’s

evil politics for the sake of amusement; the next, my heart was swollen, lodged in my

throat so I could hardly breathe, looking at Kellan.

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“I’m not tired,” Maggie said, though the last word was swallowed by a massive

yawn.

“Okay, you’re not tired.” He kissed her head again. “Tell Uncle Finn he’s an

idiot.”

“Last time you made me say that, Mommy got mad at you.”

“I’ll take the heat.”

Kennedy and Finn both laughed. I think I did too, but my head felt spinny of a

sudden. Too much sun and too little water.

Yet I felt like I needed another beer more than anything else in the world. Maybe

twelve.

I pushed myself up to standing. “Can I get anyone a drink?”

Kellan returned briefly to his exasperated expression, though it resolved back into

the dimple-revealing smile. “God, please, James. Save me.”

Ken waggled his empty. “If you don’t mind.”

“Yeah,” Finn said, still seeming a little dazed, but happy once more. “Yeah,

definitely.”

I managed a “Be right back” and walked away as straight as I could. I didn’t feel

drunk. I didn’t feel tired. So what the hell had that been, that weird, sudden choking

feeling? Like getting the wind knocked out of me or something.

Just before I was out of earshot, Kennedy said, “I like that one, Kelly. Tara’s

boyfriend, though—the hell are we gonna do about that tool?”

* * * *

Just before dark, Maura and the Three Stooges—the inseparable Matt, Delany, and

Gerry—built a crackling bonfire behind the barn, and everyone started gathering there.

This seemed partly an effort to convince the mosquitoes to stay away and partly

because an unnamed something was about to happen. Kellan pulled me down next to

him on a little blanket at the edge of the gathering and put his lips against my ear,

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sending a shiver down my spine. “Sorry about Finn. I’d like to say he’s not normally

like that, but he is.”

“I like him,” I admitted, putting my arm over his shoulders and pulling him close

against my side. Finn and his gorgeous girlfriend—who’d spent most of the afternoon

trying to be helpful to Mrs. Shea and really just irritating her—were looking kind of

snuggly, and Erin leaned against Kyle’s shoulder, so I figured it was all right. “I mean,

he’s easy to pick on, and he doesn’t seem to care we’re doing it.”

He snorted, leaning into me. “Comes with being an arrogant prick, I guess.”

If I ever wondered before where Kellan’s issues with not being one of the “cool

kids” had come from, I had my answers in Finn. Not his fault, not really. Finn was

playing the hand he’d been dealt, and for all his stupidity, he’d insisted on hugging

Kellan and apologizing no less than three times since.

Finn loved his brother. He was just kind of an idiot.

Kellan watched the fire build, teeth clacking absently against the mouth of his beer

bottle. Was he mad at Finn? Did he care that Ken wound them up like that? Or was he

just so used to it all that he didn’t even notice anymore? Was he remembering this same

party, years ago, when he was as young as the stooges and running around in bare feet

screaming and wrestling?

Was he sorry he’d brought me?

Why was I even thinking that? What the fuck was wrong with me today?

“Okay.” Ken held up something like a smallish guitar—no, wait, that was a banjo.

When he had most people’s attention, he said, “Where are we starting?”

“‘Rocky Road to Dublin’!” Finn announced, disentangling himself from the

girlfriend and making his way toward a guitar case. He pulled Tara away from her

college boy and dragged her to the front with him.

I looked at Kellan. “You’re kidding.”

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“Nope. And I apologize in advance for how much this will weird you out, but you

might as well get the full experience.”

And so I did. Several tries at “The Rocky Road to Dublin” ended in chaos and

laughter, but the rest of the impromptu program worked out a little better. The kids ran

around and danced and babbled; the grownups stood and sat in clusters, sucking on

their beers, intermittently singing along and talking among themselves.

Kellan sang under his breath sometimes, often with the harmony. The discovery

that his melting speaking voice translated into a honeyed light baritone shouldn’t have

been so astonishing, but it was. Like his lips on my ear, it sent pleasure bumps racing

down the near side of my body to hear it, feel it on his breath.

Never heard a tone-deaf voice that evening, since I kept my own mouth shut. Too

busy trying not to breathe, not wanting to miss a note.

* * * *

Eventually the party started to break up, leaving just the musicians around the fire

while others went for more food, bug spray, marshmallows, or an evening dip in the

pond. Kellan pulled me inside, past Abby and Siobhan—the two little girls belonging to

Ken and Finn, respectively—playing ancient video games in the living room, then up

the creaking stairs and to a little room at the end of the hall. He flicked the light on,

revealing twin beds and a few out-of-date video-game and comic-book posters.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just need a second of quiet. I love ’em, but…”

I closed the door behind us.

He made his way across the room, looking around as if he hadn’t seen it in a long

time. He gestured to a nearby rack of plastic gold awards and said, “So, these are my

track trophies. And there’s my first Spider-Man poster. Thrilling.”

I flipped the lock. He grinned.

I was on him in a heartbeat, pinning him against the wall next to his high school

memorabilia, my hands in his hair and my mouth opening under his. The usual wet

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thrill raced down my spine, waking up the electricity in me, but it was more this time. I

slipped one of my thighs between his, pressed him tight against the wall, and wanted—

Actually, I didn’t know what I wanted. Maybe just to melt into him once and for

all.

He pressed his hips into me, hummed happily as we closed it off, and lodged two

fingers of each hand into the waist of my jeans on either side, warm against my skin.

When I touched his face, it crackled.

He started. “Jesus, you’re all staticky. You dragging your feet or something?”

I gritted my teeth and got myself under control. This new development where I

forgot myself around him was a pain in the ass. I would’ve been more worried, but

thank God, a little static shock was a mundane enough occurrence that it wouldn’t raise

eyebrows. I wrapped one arm around his neck, smoothing down a few stray hairs that

were standing on end from the charge. Goddamn, that was adorkable. “Dunno. Should

I make a pun about you and me and electricity, or is that too much?”

He smiled, dimple and all, and I got that feeling again, like he’d punched me in

the solar plexus.

It was the music, probably. The effects of that sad, romantic song Tara had

finished with. Fucking Irish and their depressing stories. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off

him, couldn’t keep my hands off him, and maybe I never had been able to, but this was

different. It was like all his pugnacious instincts and that hard outer shell and the

surprising sensitivities and glaring soft spots all made sense, of a sudden, and it was

even better than I’d expected, and I was amazed and stunned and madly in love with

him.

Oh God.

Oh. God.

I shut my eyes tight and kissed him again, as much to keep me from speaking as

because I needed the kiss. He turned his face and went with it, slipping one hand into

my back pocket. When that kiss finished, he said, “You’re sure this isn’t too—”

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“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” I kissed him again, hard, demanding, more than a

little desperate. He put his other arm around me, holding me tight, and gave it right

back. Like he understood, knew exactly what I needed. His long, hard body shifted

between me and the wall, and the whole room seemed to grow hotter around us.

If I didn’t stop soon, it was going to get painful, but I couldn’t. I started to tell

myself maybe there was time for a little something, just to hold us over until we got

home. I slipped my hand between our hips and found his semihard cock, rubbed it

through his jeans, and hummed into his ear.

He gasped. “Holy fuck. Is there anywhere you won’t do it?”

“Nope.” I squeezed gently, felt up over his dickhead, then back down again.

“You?”

“Apparently not.” His hand slipped into the back of my pants, beneath my

underwear, fingers digging hard into my ass.

I disentangled my arm from around his neck and went for his zipper. “It’s okay—I

locked the door. Think you can be quick?”

“I think I’m about to need new underwear. That quick enough?”

I laughed with him, into another kiss, and got his pants undone. I felt him up

through his little white underwear, torturing me as much as him. But they were just so

fucking sexy, I couldn’t help playing with them. He alternately panted and kissed me—

rather, invaded my mouth and owned it as he was tugging my pants down in the back,

working his way around my busy hands to get at my button. When I felt a wet spot

soaking through the cotton at his dickhead, I rubbed at it with my thumb.

He moaned into my ear, almost like a whisper, and his whole body went tense.

So did mine, goose bumps all over me, and I had to wrestle the electricity down

again. Just, to know that I made him feel like that, that I made him that happy, that he

wanted me that bad…

Oh my God, I fucking love you.

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Footsteps pounded on the ground below the open window, followed by a

chattering of little voices.

He went tense again but not in a good way. “Fuck. Maybe we should…”

There was no way anyone could interrupt, technically speaking. But frankly, the

very fact of minipeople in any proximity kind of cut the moment off, if you know what I

mean.

I suddenly felt a pang for Sarah and Clark. No wonder he was so damn cranky

sometimes.

“Wait.” He pulled his hand out of my pants. “Maybe they’ll go away.”

I kissed his neck. “You say that like you know they won’t.”

He laughed helplessly. And sure enough, within seconds the little mob began

shouting, “Uncle Kelly!”

I chuckled and peeled myself off him. His head fell back against the wall. “Ah,

fuck.”

I laughed and kissed him again, but close-lipped. This time, his little hum was

regretful.

“Uncle Kelly, you’re gonna miss the fireworks!”

“I’ll live with it,” he mumbled.

I made sure he was safely tucked away and zipped him back up; the pain of it was

somewhat alleviated by the hilarity of his expression.

He adjusted his package, but it was already going back down, at least. “Well, it’s

still the most action I ever got in this room.”

“So far. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll pick up where I left off later. Promise.”

He shot me a look that said I was not helping with the package situation, but

before he could protest out loud, there came at least three voices in unison from outside

the house: “Un-cle Kel-ly!”

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“Coming! Jesus Christ, hang on a second!” he yelled toward the window. He

rolled his eyes and started for the door.

“But Kellan…”

He looked back at me.

“Let’s wait a few years on that daughter thing, after all.”

He smirked and unlocked the door.

* * * *

It was pitch black outside, and the rugrats went sprinting for the fireworks setup

as soon as they were sure Uncle Kelly wasn’t going to miss anything. They were waved

back by the marginally more mature types trying to figure it out, and Kellan and I

rolled up behind Ryan, Tara, College Boy, Finn, and Designer Girlfriend.

Ryan said, “The fuck have you two been?”

Kellan replied, “Dirtying up your clean sheets.”

Ryan mock-punched him in the shoulder. “Get your shit pushed in on your own

bed.”

Everyone laughed, even Kellan as he grabbed his little brother, leveraging his

height advantage to catch him in a headlock. “What was that?”

“You heard me!” Ryan, who was built like a little linebacker but couldn’t quite

overcome the angle, swatted at him, laughing. “Fuck, Kelly, get off me!”

“Yeah, come up here and say that.”

“If you give me a noogie, I swear to Christ—” Ryan tried twisting out of the lock,

and by that time, the rest of us had backed away, pointing and mocking as suited our

personalities.

I asked no one in particular, “They always like this?”

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Chapter Nine

By the time we got back to his place, it was all either of us could do to shower off

the bug spray and sweat and smoky smell and fall into bed. I was out before I hit the

pillow, and he couldn’t have been far behind. When I next opened my eyes, it was still

dark, just the barest hint of misty light through the blinds indicating it was nearer to

morning than evening. One of Kellan’s arms was thrown over my middle, and his

breath was hot on the back of my neck. A lazy morning erection made me consider

rolling over and checking for signs of life, but heavy eyelids suggested I save it for an

hour or two.

I stretched as subtly as possible so as not to wake him. His fingers spread against

my stomach, palm flattening just above my shorts, and pulled me closer. I wriggled into

the perfect position, aligning my ass with the inward curve of his hips to find his cock at

full attention.

The sweet surprise of it woke me more fully. I wriggled against him deliberately

that time.

A small, sleepy growl built in his throat, and he kissed the back of my neck, arm

tightening around me. He readjusted so he could slip his bottom arm under my neck,

threading his hand over my shoulder and down to rest against my chest. The other

traveled from my belly to my side, under my shorts, and palmed the curve of my ass in

drowsy appreciation.

My cock, not so lazy anymore, pushed at my shorts, pulled tight with his hand

down the back of them. I rolled my hips again, and his left hand squeezed my ass. The

fingers of the right traced through the hair on my chest until they found my hardening

nipple, then toyed with it. For a long, quiet moment that was all there was in the world,

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his hands all over me and his front pressed tight against my back, making me ache and

spark for him.

He snaked his hips against me, his dick pressing hot and fat through underwear,

and hummed deep in his throat. “Jesus. Thought I was dreaming.”

“Of me?”

“Fuck yeah.” He laughed, a sweet, rough sound. It vibrated into my back. “Think

about something enough, and it creeps into your dreams.”

It hit me even deeper than usual, struck some string pulled tight in my chest and

made it vibrate with electricity. Then it rushed through me, so every part of me he’d

ever kissed or touched or used to get me off hurt for him.

I tore off my shorts, and he did the same. Then we came back together in a similar

position, this time with his erection just where I liked it in the split of my ass. I closed

my eyes and let him play with me some more, running his hands up and down me all

over again, kissing and biting at my neck, then sucking, applying his hot tongue here

and there.

I should do something interesting. Crawl on top of him or ask him to tell me what

to do or say something dirty or bring in some prop or—

He edged lower, kissing at the nape of my neck, and I adjusted to match. I parted

my legs and rearranged myself so his cock was between them, pressed tight against my

asshole at the base, then heavy and hot against my inner thigh. I arched my back, the

exact angle I’d use if I expected to get fucked.

The change in position must’ve made him happy; he growled into my neck again

and nipped at it, pulling me into him, almost on top of him. The hand on my ass moved

between my thighs, pried them apart until my left leg was halfway wrapped around

him. Again he rocked his hips, his cock hitting all the sweet spots. I moved with him

like he was inside me and glanced down to see his erection standing hard just beneath

mine, inches from rubbing up against it. He was thicker, paler, pinker, so fucking hot; I

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angled downward so they touched. The sight sent another jolt through me. I gasped,

unable to parse the wash of sensory information.

As if he felt it, he wrapped his strong, hot hand around me, stroked me from base

to head, then back again, rolling his hips against me so his dick rubbed at my thigh

again.

I shuddered. He’d only just touched it, but it was all I could do to stop myself

from—

“Ah, Jamie.” He sighed into my ear. “I want you so fucking bad.”

The only reason I didn’t blow it right there was that he let me go. I swallowed a

groan, too hot to understand what his sudden readjustments could mean. He sat up and

pushed me down onto my stomach, allowing me time to adjust, then nudged my legs

apart until I took the initiative and spread them. I looked over my shoulder to see him

lowering onto his stomach, then burying his face in the split of my ass.

He played at first, tracing up and down with his tongue, but not as long as usual.

He began circling my hole within seconds, and the warm, wet sensation traveled from

the base of my spine into my cock, causing it to leak between my belly and the sheets,

up and up until it felt like there was nothing but light in my brain. I edged my legs

farther apart, naturally lifting the angle of my backside for him. He ran one hand up the

back of my thigh, that static-electric gentle touch of his pausing just at the top, then

continuing upward, admiring.

I was so goddamn hot, I couldn’t stop it. I rolled with the waves of feeling his

tongue set off in the deepest parts of me. My dick thrilled, pressed into the bed, and

then I rocked back against his tongue. He pushed it into me, barely—just fucking barely

stretching me, setting off yet another chain reaction that ended with me fucking the bed

again.

“More?” he asked.

And I said, “Mmm.”

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His tongue slipped downward, leaving me dripping, and his fingers replaced it.

He licked at my taint, pushing up and in hard with his tongue, and pressed two fingers

into my hole to open it. I angled upward, rubbed my dick off, moaned. He worked his

slick fingers into me carefully, and I relaxed into the pull of it, the sweet sensation of

being slowly filled. Then he crooked them just right, setting off a sudden electrical chain

reaction deep down inside me that ended in my fingers, toes, cock, head.

I grabbed at the sheets and moaned even more loudly, thanking God there were

no lights on for me to fuck up, because I had zero control. He found the rhythm he’d

had before, this time rubbing me into a frenzy from deep inside as his hand moved

faster, more surely. He hit the spot a little harder each time as I angled up sharp to beg

for it, fucking the bed on my way back down. His tongue never stopped, rewetting,

teasing, amping it up from the outside, a vicious circle of pleasure, until I wasn’t sure

what he was doing anymore, only that he was stretching and owning and lighting me

the fuck up, and it was so wet between my legs, and he was licking me, feeling me,

taking me, and I wanted him, wanted it, wanted him to love me—“Mmm, fuck.”

It washed over me hard and fast. I came, blind and gasping into the sheets, wet

and sticky against my stomach, between my legs, everywhere I wanted it. He slowed,

rocked his fingers a little bit inside me and made me shudder again, then waited for me

to relax. He crawled to his knees, his free hand feeling me up.

I turned my head sideways to gulp air once I could breathe again. He was just

staring at his hand on my ass cheek, squeezing now and then, his mouth open and

breathing hard. When I sighed, he slipped his fingers out of me and grabbed the other

cheek too.

The whole athletic little bubble-butt thing has served me well, but I’ve never been

quite so goddamn proud of it as that appreciative look of Kellan’s could make me. I

rocked again, inviting. Another aftershock took me, and I shivered under his hands. He

slid them up my back, moving forward on his knees until they were pressed tight to my

parted thighs.

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I arched my back hard.

That time, he lowered himself, fitted his front into my back—the tops of his thighs

against the insides of mine; his cock, heavy with his pulse, into my slippery-wet ass

crack; his belly to my back; his lips to my neck. He held himself up with an arm on

either side. They shook, but I knew it wasn’t because it was a difficult position.

Again I rolled my hips, deliberately using his own spit and gratifying fascination

with my backside to get him off.

“Ah, Christ—” The rest of what he said was lost to another growl—not so much

sleepy now as just plain hot.

I kept moving, at first slow and careful, until he matched me, nipping at my neck

and shoulders and driving me into the mattress. My spent cock stirred beneath me. The

spit between us grew sticky as it dried, so the thrill of him rubbing up on me became

rough, tinted with the barest hint of the pain I wanted so bad I could taste it. Satisfied,

but with that sensation of emptiness from having him in me, from wanting more, that

was so goddamn hot.

He shifted his weight to one hand and used the other to turn my face to the side.

He curled downward, and I angled up for a rough, openmouthed kiss. When he broke

it off, I bucked back into him hard.

He gasped and grabbed his cock between us with his free hand. Still pressed into

my ass, he jerked it a few times, then came in a rush that must’ve lasted goddamn near

ten seconds and left me a hot mess.

When he finished, he collapsed slightly off to the side but still halfway into his

own sex sprayed across my ass. He put an arm around me and pried me from the bed,

ignoring the stickiness beneath my belly and pulling my front against his. He buried his

face in my neck and held me tight about the waist.

I kissed him and toyed with his hair, head still spinning. Wondering how

something so simple could be so good, so satisfying, so promising. Thinking over and

over and over, I love you, I love you, I love you. Shocking myself with the ease with which

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I articulated it in my mind, the comfort it gave me to just roll it around inside me, like it

was a thought that belonged, that always had.

I’d never had it for anyone else. And, as I now understand is common in these

situations but found remarkable then, hoped desperately that I never would.

* * * *

While he fed the cranky cats the next afternoon, I went out for burritos. We ate

them at his dining-room table, laughing over stories from the day before, both of us in

rare moods. After a brief moment of silence when we happened to be stuffing our faces

at the same time, I finally said, “Weird question, because it’s always, um, pretty

spectacular, but this morning was—I mean, it seemed kind of…extra spectacular.”

I’d had fun at his parents’, no doubt about it. But the reason I was so high that

morning was that, yeah, okay, I was in love. But I also hadn’t been able to stop thinking

about the sex. I kept thinking I should’ve done something to make it more interesting.

Quickies were one thing, but when you were going at it with the intent to drive

someone crazy, it just seemed like it’d be better that way. But it hadn’t been anything all

that different, and we’d just kind of…

Done it. And holy shit, my mind was still blown. I was at once satisfied and

hornier than ever, sitting beside him at the table right then. It was like that first couple

of weeks times a hundred. If I had my way, I’d push him back into bed, lock the door

behind us, and keep him there till we dropped dead.

“Definitely.” He swallowed a mouthful and grinned. “I wanted to say that, but

then…”

“It’s like you’re saying the other times weren’t good by comparison. But that’s

not—”

“Yeah. No, I know. It was freaky good.” Then the grin slipped off his face, and he

paused. “Do you ever think I’m being childish?”

“Um, just to be clear, are we still having the same conversation, or did it just…?”

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“Yeah. About the sex.”

“In that case, no. This, um, will sound even weirder, but I”— love it; I love you; I

love you for it—“like it.”

He made a face and took another bite.

“I’m serious. I’ve never believed in anything in my life, and sometimes I wish I

did. I respect it. I respect you.”

“So it’s tolerable. You’re sure.”

“You’re not listening. It’s actually one of the things I really, really like about you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You like that I won’t fuck you.”

I laughed. “Call me crazy.”

His eyebrows remained aloft; he continued eating.

I knew he’d let it drop there, but I wasn’t going to repeat my earlier mistakes. This

was important to him, and if I let him play it down, it’d slip through the cracks.

Unacceptable. “Okay, for example: you know I’m a slut. Is that tolerable?”

“You know goddamn well I think it’s hot.”

“See what I mean?”

“Oh. Huh. I…” His forehead creased. “It’s not the same.”

I shrugged. “Close enough to make my point. I mean, what kind of douche bag

dates a guy who has a policy and spends the whole time trying to get him to break the

policy? That’s like dating a vegetarian and trying to force-feed them meat. Who does

that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Actually, no, I wouldn’t.” I made a sympathetic face because, yeah, we’ve all

been there. People like me, more than we’re willing to admit, even to ourselves. “The

last guy?”

He shrugged one shoulder and kept eating.

This set off an alarm in my head. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

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“No. I mean, I don’t care.” He looked up at me and wrinkled his nose. “Just, you

really want to hear about my ex?”

“It’s one thing to talk about them perpetually on the first date”—been there too,

ugh—“but come on.”

He snorted. “Yeah. Dominic was kind of fucked. I mean, who isn’t?”

“How long did you date?”

“Over a year. He got a little impatient. You start to feel…you know. Like you’re

the crazy one. We’re adults; adults have sex. I mean, I obviously don’t think dick-in-ass

is the only sex, but I mean all kinds of sex. I don’t know.”

I knew his body language well enough to realize that if he was uncomfortable, it

wasn’t with me. Seeing as this could be necessary knowledge, I pressed onward. “So

you didn’t really want to?”

“I wanted to. No one had to twist my arm. But I knew I shouldn’t, and I did it

anyhow. Wasn’t scarring or anything. Just, like, normal.”

I made a face. As if the first time could ever be called normal. “But you were sorry,

is the point.”

“Yeah. And he wanted more. Beginning of the end.” He leaned back in his chair,

shrugging again. “Don’t get me wrong—I needed to have the experience. Taught me

not to do anything if I’m even slightly iffy on it.”

I smiled. “Wow, the shit you do with me, what the hell makes you iffy?” Not that

we actually did anything freaky. For all my willingness to try anything once, I wasn’t

precisely a freak.

Whatever the hell that means, right?

He smiled back. “Haven’t found anything yet.”

“I’m not trying hard enough.”

“By all means, James, keep trying.”

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“Yes, sir.” I threw my leg over his and scooted nearer—though this would make it

difficult to finish our food without bumping elbows, and I was still starving. Didn’t

care. “Seriously, though, don’t be paranoid. For one, we’re having a metric ass ton of

sex. I’m one demanding little fucker, but let’s just say I never feel neglected. You take

good care of me, baby.”

He actually flushed when he laughed that time.

Seriously. Adorkable. How the fuck could anyone trade that away? For anything?

“And yes, I want your dick. But another cool thing about your policy there is that it’s

extremely fucking sexy just knowing that to even be with me, you must really, really

like me.”

The smile went adorably sideways. “That’s some ego you got on you.”

“Baby, that’s not all I got. Won’t try to fuck you, though. Scout’s honor.”

He snorted and returned to eating but after a few bites said, “I’d do it, though.

Wouldn’t think twice.”

I didn’t know what to say. I watched his eyes, but he only stared at the table.

“I think about it all the time. This morning.” He took a deep breath, paused again.

“I just kept thinking that I’d—I’d do anything you asked. And I don’t think I’d regret it,

honestly.” Another pause, in which I tried to come up with something brilliant and

reassuring to say but was dragged down by the weight of my own surprise, by the

weight of this sweet, this trusting confession. He started to go on, “But I want it to be—”

“I wouldn’t even ask, Kelly. I get it. And I love that about you.” I flushed hard,

cursing myself for letting the L-word pop out like that, even in what was possibly a

more acceptable application. I still managed to choke out, “I mean it.”

He leaned over and kissed me quickly. Within seconds, we were back to eating

and talking like it had been nothing, just another conversation, just another morning

after.

And maybe it was, for him.

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* * * *

My unwillingness to tell him how I felt had nothing to do with the newness of the

emotion, nothing to do with self-esteem or the fear of it being unreciprocated. I was

reasonably sure that he didn’t consider himself in love with me, in fact. He liked me, he

wanted me, he was comfortable and happy with me, but he’d expressed on multiple

occasions a certain dissatisfaction with what he knew of me. Pieces were missing, but in

his usual Kellan way, he would never ask me for them. I now understood that it wasn’t

a function of his occasional shyness but a kind of quiet belief that anything given ought

to be given freely.

Which was precisely why I’d never ask him to fuck me, even knowing, as I now

did, that he would.

I’d always known he wouldn’t accept less than the whole truth. Even if he

suspected he’d fallen for me, his rational mind would hold it at bay. It might show

when we screwed, but he’d talk it down anytime his brain was in control. There was

nothing I could do, short of introducing him not only to my mother but also to the

electricity that coursed through the pair of us like human power lines.

And that, I couldn’t do.

It wasn’t about me. All it took was one fuck-up, one lovesick puppy, one

overzealous crusader to fuck it up for everyone. It had happened before—hell, I could

remember specific occurrences—and the cleanup was always hell on the community.

There were entire sleeper conspiracy societies dedicated to breaking us down, even

vigilante witch-hunters who’d got a burr up their ass, usually with good reason, and

taken to murdering anyone they even suspected of being able to manipulate energy.

Everything from devotional cults to supervillains could spring up and mess with us, all

of it painful and frightening for the quiet ones—the regular awakened, like us.

Well, okay, so my particular circle of awakened society is not that regular in some

ways. But we’re not superheroes either. We just want to live, goddammit.

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I had never known anyone as trustworthy as Kellan. I could tell him someday; I’d

always been sure. But a few months was not a reasonable amount of time, no matter

how I looked at it.

Until I could show him everything, Kellan would never love me. And I would

never put him in the position of hearing “I love you” and being unable to honestly say

it back. I’d been there enough times myself to know it was just as hard on the person

biting their tongue as the person desperate to hear the reply, just in a different way. I

loved him too much to do that to him for the sake of my selfish confession.

Hell, if I did, he’d probably bawl me out for my trouble.

But I would make it work. And the first step would be sitting my mother down

and forcing her to join the real world.

Because, yes, it was serious. It was very fucking serious.

* * * *

Our usual table at Tommy’s was tucked into the back, and it was busy enough no

one would’ve been paying attention anyhow. I looked her in the eye and said, “I’ve

been a dick lately.”

She smiled. “And your language hasn’t improved.”

“I’m sorry. For all of it. But we really have to talk about this.”

“Yes, we do.” No hint of reluctance, of fear, of anything but faint concern etched

into lines at the corners of her eyes. “And I’m sorry for putting it off. I hope you

understand. I wanted to collect my thoughts.”

Part of me didn’t want to know what that meant. All of me knew it didn’t matter.

No more dancing around, no more faking it. Not with her. “You asked me if it was

serious. And it is. I love him.”

She smiled, but sadly. “I…thought you preferred…”

“Prefer isn’t the word, Mom.” I tried to sound as gentle as possible. “Actually, it’s

considered insulting.”

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“But some young people go through a phase.”

I snorted. “You remember how you used to take me over to the Reynoldses’ all the

time?”

The apparent change in topic confused her, but she went along with it. “Yes. Ellen

and I were just talking about it.”

“You two would be down in the kitchen with martinis, talking about your

projects, and you’d send us all off to play. Except Ginger and Tommy could never find

me and Anthony.” I smiled at the ancient memory. “I’m sure you told yourselves we

thought we were too cool for the little kids.”

She arched her eyebrows.

“We were usually in the closet playing seven minutes in heaven—except we

changed it to a half hour in heaven, at least.” I laughed. “What was I, fourteen when

they moved away? God, it was the end of the world.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember.”

“We still laugh about it. We talk a couple times a month. He lives in Minneapolis

with his partner of five years and a bull mastiff.”

“Ellen mentioned it.”

I was sure she had, probably right alongside her mentions of Tommy’s spectacular

marriage to another cold manipulator from a rich Canton family and their gaggle of

perfect children, or Ginger’s burgeoning career as a rocket scientist. But I stuck to the

point. “I’m telling you this because that’s a long ‘phase.’ I was, like, eleven or twelve the

first time I kissed Anthony Reynolds. I didn’t even know what sex was, really. I just

liked him so much.” I looked at her, looked right into her sharp, penetrating eyes,

begging her to understand. “I wanted him to like me back more than anything in the

world.”

She nodded, and then there was a long pause. “I wouldn’t ask you to stop seeing

this boy.”

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“I want you to tell me you understand.”

“I do. I dated too. I even thought I was in love a few times. But, honey, he’s a

sleeper.”

I nodded.

“You know that never works.”

“It does sometimes. If they’re extraordinary. And he is.”

“Everyone goes into a relationship thinking it’s the one, or they wouldn’t do it at

all. But even your father and I—we were very young.”

Um.

But before I could ask the obvious questions, she went on with, “But you can

never be close to him if he doesn’t know; and if he finds out you hid that much of

yourself from him for years, he’ll resent you.”

My heart froze. My blood slowed.

“It’s a breach of trust, Jamie. You can’t build a relationship on lies. That’s why it

never works.”

I gripped the edge of the table, trying to swallow the nonexistent chunk of ice that

seemed lodged in my throat.

Kellan would understand. He might be angry at first—okay, he would be—but he

was smart. When I explained everything, at long last…

He…

Breach of trust.

“I don’t begrudge you your romances, honey. Get them out while you can.” She

covered my hand with her fine French-manicured one, fragile and warm. “But we don’t

just marry our own because we want to pass on our finest. We marry our own because

they’re the only ones we can ever really be with. The only ones who can ever

understand. As you get older, that will come to mean more and more to you.”

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I closed my eyes, still trying to swallow. Or maybe just swallowing the urge to

lightning the hell out of the world right about then, seeing as my blood was starting to

crackle.

No. It was insane. It was old-fashioned. It was impossible.

“Don’t break your heart for something that can never be.”

I laughed, but it was one of those ugly, helpless ones.

“What if you spend years with him before it ends? What if Mae’s moved on?”

I opened my eyes. “What?”

“She’s a beautiful girl—”

I pulled my hand back. “Are you even listening?”

“Honey, it seems silly to you now, but—”

“I don’t care how beautiful she is. I’m queer.”

The tables in closest proximity to us hushed. And I didn’t give a shit. She leaned

forward, lowering her voice. “And I was in love with a sleeper when I married your

father.”

“Lucky for you he only lasted five years, then.” Even as I said it, I hated myself for

it. I couldn’t imagine where the hell it had come from or how it had come out. My eyes

stung, all anger and shame, and I made to stand.

She grabbed my hand again, holding me in my seat. “It was the smartest thing I

ever did. We talked about it after you were born. We went into it blind, but we came

out of it with you. And we loved each other for it.”

I pulled my hand back just as the server brought our food. I looked up at her and

said, “Can you box mine up?” She left Mom’s spinach pie and threaded back through

the crowd.

“Jamie—”

“No. Stop.” I waited, stared her down hard. To my surprise, she sat back in her

seat, taking a deep breath. “I can’t tell if you’re genuinely confused about what queer

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means, or if you’re doing this on purpose, but either way, let me make this clear: I can’t

date women. It is not something I chose, and it is not something I have control over.” I

lowered my voice again. “And even if I could change it, I wouldn’t. Because I. Love.

Dick.”

She sighed. “Really, Jamie.”

“Really, Mom. The poor woman who got conned into being my wife would have

the most unsatisfying marriage in the world. I’m sure we’d be great friends, but

anytime she wanted to get laid, she’d have to accost the pool boy.”

“Jamie—”

“No. A marriage of convenience would be out of the question even if I was

straight. But being gay makes it impossible. I am not a goddamn Kentucky Derby winner

you can breed to the highest bidder.”

She pressed her lips together, paling where her lipstick had worn off on the straw.

“What if he was awakened?” I asked.

She thought. Then, “I couldn’t object. But he’s not, honey. And Mae—”

“I love you, Mom. But don’t call me until you get over this.”

On my way out, I ran into the server. I accepted my box and, for the first time

since I’d gotten a paying job, left my mother with the check.

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Chapter Ten

Before I even left the parking garage, I tapped out a reply to Mae’s e-mail from

almost two months ago on my phone, finally:

Mae,

I know you’re busy, but things are getting ridiculous over here. I’m sure we feel the same

way and can help each other. Please give me a call.

Monday

I probably shouldn’t have in that agitated emotional state, but I was desperate.

And hey, at least I held it together enough not to come out and say, “I wouldn’t marry

you even if there were no more men left on earth,” if only because I was pretty sure being an

asshole wasn’t going to get me any mercy. It was last ditch, and even as I sent it, I knew

she’d never respond. She was free. She was out of it. Why the hell should she bother

herself about my unraveling life?

It would at least keep Mom from pressing this fucking exasperating Mae issue if

Mae would just stand with me and say no. Mom clinging to a childish pipe dream with

her crony Margaret was blinding her shit.

But it wasn’t all that was blinding her; that much was crystal, at that point. The

Mae obsession was a tiny symptom of a much, much bigger sickness. And even

thinking about it made me spark inside, so much that it physically hurt to keep it in.

I swung around to the liquor store after that, prepared to go to any and all lengths

to distract myself from the bullshit she’d spewed on me. And it was bullshit, end of

story. Sure, there would be a sort of…readjustment period. Kellan was big on trust. And

okay, he was going to be royally pissed when he found out. But if he loved me…

Except, he couldn’t love me. Not if he didn’t know me. And—

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No. Not thinking. Not letting her do that to me, sabotage me, make me feel like

shit for being myself.

That wasn’t fair, though. She’d never tried to make me feel bad about anything.

Even this, yes, she was trying to convince me, clinging to this idea even in the face of all

evidence that it was impossible, ridiculous even. When was the last time someone had

told her no, let alone about something she truly believed in?

It’d be fine. And we would be fine.

And I needed a drink. And Kellan. Now.

I grabbed a bottle of Powers and a few interesting extras and showed up at his

door feeling like hell.

He opened the door, looked me over, and said, “Guess you had your talk.”

“Yeah.”

He stepped back and gestured for me to come in. “I assume it was not a success.”

“Probably as good as it was going to get.” I put my bags on the counter and

started pulling things out. “Goddamn, that woman can change a subject.”

“Wow, she pulled avoidance?”

“It’s a WASP thing.” Speaking of which, I really, really didn’t want to talk about it

right then. I tucked my uneaten sandwich into the fridge, then pulled my secret weapon

out of the bag: amaretto-flavored alcoholic whipped cream. “But it’s done, and I have

good news too. Look what I found.”

He eyed it, one eyebrow cocked. “The hell is that for?”

“You are so unimaginative.”

He smirked.

“But don’t you worry your pretty little head.” I leaned forward and planted a

quick kiss on him. “That’s what I’m here for: to be the brains.”

“What’s that make me?”

I set the can down on the counter and kissed him again. “The cock.”

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“I’ve been called worse by nicer people.” He grabbed it and started toward the

couch, ostensibly reading the back copy.

“Where you going with that?”

He threw himself down on the couch, still reading. “C’mere. I’ll show you how

imaginative I can be.”

Yes. Yes, this was just what I needed. Exactly what I needed. Another of Kellan’s

finer qualities: his willingness to be diverted—at least for a while.

And, in turn, to divert me.

I followed him to the couch and crawled up into his lap just how he liked, leaning

forward with my hands on his shoulders, ass up, and kissed him to distract his

attention from the can. “I know you can, baby.” Another kiss, and this time he took

over, biting at my bottom lip and breathing deeply.

I did too, the warm, clean scent of him, the faint spearmint taste of his favorite

gum, sinking into the feeling of his hard thighs between mine. I closed it off again and

continued with, “But you know I like to surprise you.” Another kiss, and I put my

hands at the hem of my shirt, pulling it up slowly and breaking the kiss only when I

absolutely had to in order to get the thing off. I threw it on the coffee table and tugged

at his.

He set the can down to help.

I grabbed for it, hopped off him, and wandered around the couch, pretending to

read the back of the can like he had.

He groaned. “Oh, you prick.”

I pretended to ignore him, making my way toward the kitchen again.

I heard him vault over the back of the couch. “That’s cheating.”

I kept my back turned as I popped the cap off. “What’s that saying about love and

war?” I tilted my head back and shot some cream into my mouth. It was stronger than

I’d expected, like a frothy shot of vodka with just the faintest almond flavor. I

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swallowed unhurriedly, though I felt him stalking me just feet away. “Mmm, it’s good

too.”

He attacked, wrapping me up in his arms; happily, he had continued taking his

shirt off after I’d abandoned him. I doubled over as if to protect the can, my protests

drowned out by laughter as he wrestled me to the ground. He pinned me on my back,

straddling my hips and holding my wrists over my head, his lips inches from mine,

grinning.

I smirked and let go the can.

He snatched it up, using one hand to pin my arms to the floor, and put it out of

reach near his left knee. Then he leaned back over, positioned himself just above me

again, settled his ass down right on my crotch, and said, “Aw, lookit you, all defeated.”

I arched my back, rubbing my swelling cock against the inside of his thigh. “Unh, I

dunno, Kelly. Feels like winning to me.”

He shifted his hips, increasing the pressure. Boy had a future as a lap-dancer if the

whole code-monkey thing didn’t work out. He took a deep breath of me, put his lips

not half an inch from mine, so I could feel them move. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. Fool me

once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Guess no one ever taught you: best

way to get something you want is just to ask for it.”

“Kellan?”

“Yes?”

I arched again, sighing, mouth just open enough to let him get the right idea.

“May I please, please have some?”

He bit back a smile.

I stuck out my lower lip. “Pretty please? Sugar on top?”

“See, who could say no to that?” He rearranged me so I could sit up, then put his

ass to the floor.

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I scooted forward between his legs and threw mine over his thighs. I ran my

fingers down the trail of dark hair that led from his chest, down his belly to the little

wrinkles sitting up created just above the low waist of his jeans. I eyed his erection,

obscenely filling out the denim, and strangled a manic urge to get it out and get it in me

right then.

By the time I raised my eyes again, he had the lid off. He squirted a decent-sized

dollop of fluff onto two fingers and then held it out to me.

Always just what I fucking needed.

I took him by the wrist and guided his fingers into my mouth. I closed my lips,

sucked the cream slowly, running my tongue first along the bottom, over his knuckles

up to the fingertips, then turned his hand over and licked my way up the inside.

He smiled, openmouthed, and licked his lips almost as if he didn’t even realize.

I tickled the inside of his wrist, then sucked his fingers in as far as they’d go, until

I felt them pressing at the back of my throat.

He gasped. “Jesus.”

I sucked as I pulled his fingers out of my mouth, dragged my teeth carefully over

the fingertips, and finally kissed them. “More, please?”

His dark eyes had that look, the one that told me he was far gone and open to

suggestion. He moved to oblige me, and this time I licked it off his fingers all at once,

then leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. I opened up and pushed at least half of

the sweet-sharp confection into his mouth with my tongue.

He moaned, swallowing and pulling me closer until I was in his lap properly, his

mouth working its usual magic against mine but tasting like vodka and dessert.

I shifted us around until I had him pinned against the back of the couch, still on

the floor. Whipped cream can forgotten on its side, the tables fully turned, I pulled back

and said, “Sweet, huh?”

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He ran his sticky hand up my side, two fingers of the clean one tucked into the

front of my jeans. “Uh-huh.”

I laughed and kissed him again, feeling him up, sinking into his skin, breathing

him until nothing else existed. But silence made the thoughts come again, if boiled

down to their simplest, most instinctive form: I love you, I love you, I love you, please,

please, please don’t hate me.

I had to shut it up. “Kellan?”

“Hmm?” He kissed at my neck, sucking here and there.

I shivered. “Now can I have what I really want?”

“Huh?”

“You, baby.” I reached between us, undoing his fly one-handed, then slipping my

fingers into his pants. “You’re so much sweeter than that.” Another kiss, and I licked at

the roof of his mouth to illustrate my plans for the immediate future. “I’ll suck your

cock all night just for a taste of it.”

He held my face to his with both hands and kissed me so hard it hurt. Hurt good,

that is. I rubbed him through his underwear—not because I needed him any hotter or

readier, but just because I couldn’t stop touching him once I started. But I wanted him

naked, now, so I had to sit up eventually, which meant our mouths had to part. He

licked the tiniest remnant of cream from just beside his mouth, laughing in surprise at

finding it there.

I grinned. “Ever taste it before?”

“My…?”

“Yeah.” I got off him and tugged his pants down around his ankles. “Yours.”

He kicked them off. “Just when I kiss you. After, uh…”

My pants were already unbuttoned—he’d been busy. I pulled them off. “Want

to?”

He stared, openmouthed.

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I practically tore off his underwear and pinned him against the back of the couch

again, this time sinking lower and lower myself, leaving a trail of kisses from the center

arm of his tattoo down his belly, till I was crouched between his legs. I went straight for

his cock, sure to build up a lot of spit and let it leak out, using my hand to work the

thick shaft while I pulled up, shoving him as far into my throat as I could when I went

down. I got him wet fast and rubbed some of the spit down lower, working it over his

balls with my free hand, slipping down behind them to stroke his taint. His legs spread

wide, his head sinking down the back of the couch, one elbow propping him up, one

hand tickling my scalp, ruffling my hair with that shiver-inducing gentleness.

His cock swelled against my tongue, hotter and fuller, stretching my lips. That

taste, the first hints of salty-musky precum and the smooth, faint sweetness of his

skin… Instead of trying to make it last, I went faster, kept the seal with my lips tight,

and took a long, deep breath out to relax my throat further, take more of it in. His hips

shifted under me as he tightened up under my fingers. In almost a sympathetic

reaction, my cock swelled, wetness seeping into my shorts. I hummed deep in my

throat, both to express my excitement and increase his.

He held his breath, but his legs relaxed so his knees fell farther apart. An instant

later, his dick spasmed hard, shooting a long, warm stream of cum into the back of my

mouth. Some of it slipped down my throat, but I kept at least half, rubbing my tongue

against the head of his cock until the throbbing and spurting slowed, until I felt him

breathing again. Then, carefully, I pulled him out, crawled back into his lap, and kissed

him, at first close-lipped, but then I formed a seal between our mouths and pushed my

tongue into him, covered thickly with his sex. He sighed and shifted beneath me,

brought one hand up to brush my cheek, then flatten against it, fingertips ruffling my

hair.

He swallowed; so did I, sharing it with him completely. When it was all gone, I

said, into his mouth, “See? Sweet, isn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking dirty.”

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“Not iffy yet?”

“Keep trying.”

“That’s the plan.”

For as long as he’d let me.

* * * *

We had a baseball game and a Lizard night, and alcohol and variations on

common sex acts covered the rest of the weekend. But by Tuesday, Clark was asking me

what the hell had me looking so bleak when I thought no one was paying attention.

Wednesday morning, I woke shivering in Kellan’s bed, and he was already awake.

Normally he was up and out, maybe going for a run or cooking breakfast or something

else I would consider ridiculous at that hour. But this time, he was just there. Watching

me.

My brains were extra scrambled from the nightmare. I wanted to wrap him up,

disappear under the sheets with him, and forget. Kelly, all pale and serious and dark-

eyed, looking at me like he’d never seen anything so fascinating.

He asked, “What do you dream about?”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I never know if I should wake you up or not. Sometimes you—it’s not talking,

exactly,” he said, his sweet voice all morning-rough. “You sort of groan. And you go all

tense and…shake.”

I had to keep my eyes shut. “I don’t remember my dreams.”

He was quiet for so long that I finally opened them. He hadn’t moved, just lay

there on his side, his arms crossed in front of him. His mouth pressed into a little line,

and I knew he didn’t believe.

I said, “I mean, I’m sure I have nightmares. Don’t you?”

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“Yeah. Sometimes.” And he withdrew to the bathroom, looking very much like

one of his cats after being thrown off the bed. He didn’t bring it up again, but he didn’t

ask me to go for a drink after work either.

* * * *

I wasn’t about to let another stupid misunderstanding ruin things, though. Shit

was getting way too real for me to even consider it. The next day, I dropped off a latte

for Sarah (mad post-pregnancy PMS, poor woman—she was all about the mood-alterers

at that point), then made my way to straight to Kellan’s cube to give him his favorite

cappuccino.

He accepted it but chewed on his nails like he wanted to say something and

couldn’t.

So I went first. “I’m sorry, Kelly. About the nightmares. I’m just, you know, not

used to talking about them.”

He looked down at his coffee cup, still chewing. “How’d you know I was still

thinking of that?”

“You didn’t call me last night.”

“I don’t always…” He looked up, smiled all lopsided, and pushed his glasses up

his nose. “Okay. Point taken.”

I glanced around, saw the coast was clear, and leaned down over his chair. The

added weight of my arm on the rest made it creak—still had no idea if it’d hold the both

of us, but that groan didn’t bode well. In the circumstances, I figured it’d be best just to

kiss him.

So I did. And he let me, at first, sitting there and turning his face up and slightly to

the side. Kissing back but that was all.

Which just wouldn’t do. I moved closer, put my legs on either side of his knees,

and pushed in on him so his chair creaked again as the back tilted. I parted my lips and

his with them. I licked at the backs of his front teeth playfully.

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That’s about where he gave a little “Mrph” and reached up to touch the side of my

face, ruffle my hair, and started sucking on my tongue.

Now he was prepared to be convinced. When we closed it off, I gave his bottom

lip a nibble, made him sigh, and then put my forehead against his. “I have these client

meetings with Delmonico. Think I’m supposed to be in Boston tomorrow or something.

We can talk on Friday, okay?”

“About the…?”

“Anything you want. Nightmares, stuff with Mom, whatever. I’ve just got a lot on

my mind, is all. Not used to it.”

“So you say.” He smiled, again lopsided. “But I thought about it, and I don’t like

to talk about that shit just after, either. I didn’t want to be pushy.”

“You are the opposite of pushy, baby.” I kissed him again. “We still on for

Saturday with your mom at the farmer’s market?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Loads of time to talk, then.”

“Yeah. Sure. Just—you sure you’re okay? Because you don’t seem okay. And I,

um, worry.”

“I’m always okay.” Except that he was so fucking sweet, it made my heart hurt.

This time I kissed him so hard that I pushed the chair back again, and he reached up

and grabbed my face with both hands. I was so relieved that my little apology had been

not only accepted but that it had him actually owning my mouth in the middle of work,

that I lost myself in it. My knees were so weak that I nearly collapsed into him, and the

fizzling in my belly was extreme.

Until the fizzling turned into a sound over my shoulder, and I broke off the kiss

and looked over my shoulder to see his monitor flickering.

His eyes went wide, and he grabbed for my arm like I could reassure him—or

save his precious code. “Oh, God, please, no.”

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Thank God, the thing righted itself once I got control again, and Kelly sighed in

relief. If he’d lost anything, I would’ve felt even shittier than I already did.

I needed to talk to someone about that, actually, as these little control freak-outs

were getting on my nerves. But first things first.

He smacked me on the ass on my way out of his cube. Isabella was coming back to

hers, so she got a front-row seat for that part, which made her laugh uncontrollably. I

guess I did too, but I was thinking pretty hard.

Friday night.

That gave me precisely three days to come up with a story. Three days to think

about what I would—what I should—do.

Three days to decide if I believed my mother, if I believed everything I’d been

raised to believe.

Or if I believed what my heart screamed every time I saw Kellan.

* * * *

I was just about to head to his place after work on Friday—with no more firm plan

of action than I’d had last weekend after Mom had torn out my heart and shown it to

me at Tommy’s—when I got a call from her.

Her voice was raw and tired, barely recognizable. The first thing she said was,

“I’m sorry about the other day, honey.”

“It’s okay,” I said. It wasn’t, and she’d know it wasn’t. But she’d also know it was

a peace offering. Now, more than I had in what felt like a very long time, I needed…I

just needed my family, I guess.

She shocked the hell out of me by saying, “No, it’s not. You were right.” The slight

quaver in her voice remained.

It made me achy. I wasn’t sure what to say but, “Really. It’s okay.”

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“And I knew it was hurting you. I knew you were being dishonest, and I let you,

thinking that if it was true, you would tell me. I even knew you were suggesting I find a

date because you wanted me to leave you alone.”

“Well—”

“I don’t want a date, Jamie. The truth is, I like being alone. But I did love your

father.”

“You don’t have to dig all this up again. That stuff I said, about it being lucky

that…that he died…” The memory made me sick to my stomach. Something I couldn’t

take back. “God, I’m such a shit. I’m really sorry. I swear, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, honey. You were rightfully angry, and they were just words. Your

father and I—we did what we were supposed to do, and neither of us had a regret in

the end. But you…are not me. And you’re not your father. And we were both angry at

our parents for a long time for that very reason.”

I wondered why the hell she would do this. Call me right here, right now, and just

lay this on me. Why not later, at some more convenient, more appropriate time? Christ,

she hadn’t even asked where I was before she started.

On top of everything, my mother had been replaced with a pod person. Fucking

fabulous.

“I don’t even know what to say,” I admitted. “Just, I’m sorry. For everything.”

“I love you. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

“I know.” A sound then, a massive intake of air.

I’d heard it once before that I could recall. Not even that night after I’d

electrocuted that guy in the alley. Years before, a decade and more. I sat down on the

nearest chair so hard, I jarred my tailbone. “Jesus, Mom. Are you crying?”

“I don’t know…how to…”

“Okay, just hold on. Are you home?”

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“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Honey—”

“I’ll be right there.”

* * * *

I burst through the door into the mahogany-inlaid foyer, halfway expecting to find

her on the ground, staring at the ceiling, clutching at her chest or something. When this

gruesome sight didn’t greet me, I was so relieved that I almost had a heart attack

myself. I staggered into the pristine granite-tiled kitchen to find her at the center island,

sitting on one of the stools, sipping a martini.

But her eyes were red-rimmed. No mistaking it.

I went to her. “What happened?”

“Jamie…”

“You can’t be this upset over some stupid argument with me.”

“No. And yes. I—” She reached up, laid one soft hand against my cheek. “I’m

very, very sorry, honey.”

“You’re freaking me out.” I recognized the absolute contrition in her eyes, though

I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen it before. But then, they were my eyes too. “Tell me what

happened. Please.”

“Mae tried to kill herself last night.”

“In…San Diego?”

She nodded, retracting her hand and applying it to the martini. The soft white

light of the twelve-times-remodeled kitchen highlighted the gentle curves and lines of

her face, etched into my brain in a similar but ageless, possibly even angelic, form.

It’s like, you know your mother’s human. It’s just easy to forget if you’re not

paying attention.

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She said, “I’m fine, honey. I just keep thinking of Margaret and what she must be

going through. She’s gone there now, to see Mae.”

“What did she do?”

“She took some pills. She was afraid to come home because…”

“Because she thought she’d have to marry me.” I tried to think back to that e-mail.

Had I been vague? I’d said something about thinking we felt the same, but I was pretty

sure I’d been, well, terse. As in, definitely not trying to charm. There was no way she

could’ve thought—

“No. Margaret says she was afraid…you didn’t want to marry her.”

The Red Alert siren went off in my brain. Yes, Mae had been a quiet, frightened

child. Yes, she could possibly have reason to believe that I didn’t (or did) want to marry

her (depending on which gossip her mother passed on, depending on which gossip she

chose to believe, and how that gossip spun my spare communications).

But apart from how drastic this all was, add in that her one discussion with me in

the last ten years had been an absolute brush-off on her end, and it did not compute.

Either my e-mail cry for help made her think I hated her and sent her into a suicidal

downward spiral of despair, or someone was lying about something.

So, yes, clearly it was that second thing, because the first… What the fuck?

“If I’d been more honest, if I’d listened to what you’ve tried to tell me for years, it

wouldn’t have happened,” Mom said. “She’s such a sweet girl.”

“I’m practically a stranger,” I said. “How can she—”

“You know how the Haywoods are. It’s everything to them. They’re such

traditionalists, and Mae put it off for so long.”

“She never even called. I practically begged her last week and didn’t get so much

as an e-mail.”

“It was like that in the old days.”

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I sat down hard. “Shit. Should I do something?” Like what? Call her up and say,

“Don’t feel bad, Mae. You can’t help not having a dick”?

It really didn’t feel right. Mae was shy, and Margaret was certifiably insane, but

they couldn’t be this far removed from reality. There was this shadow over it,

something I couldn’t quite see.

“It’s not your problem.” Mom shook her head.

“No, it’s not.”

“I only called because—Honey, it’s Margaret’s fault. She must’ve known how Mae

felt. Am I any better?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

She took another drink. The specific shape of the martini glass made it all too

obvious that her hand was shaking.

“You raised me to be who I am, even if you didn’t want to see it for a while.” I

took her free hand and pressed it, trying to still it. Reminded me so much, too much of

hugging her in this kitchen all those years ago. Fifteen and scared and thinking I’d

almost killed someone. My throat contracted, but I pushed out, “You’ll never come that

close to losing me again.”

She set her drink down and wiped beneath one eye, then the other. There were no

tears, but maybe it was a preemptive strike.

I kissed her cheek, then sat back and pulled at my hair for a few moments, trying

to wrap my head around this. She pushed her martini across the counter to me, and I

took a grateful sip.

She almost smiled. “Help yourself, honey.”

“Thanks.” I stood again and headed right for the liquor selection glowing under

the track lights on the far end of the kitchen. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

* * * *

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I stayed in my old room that night. Kellan was too relieved that I was working

things out with my mother to mind that I ditched him, and said if I needed to bail on

the market, he’d explain things to his mom. I told him I’d pick him up at nine, and we’d

leave as planned.

Mom and I downed martinis and vacillated wildly between argument, affection,

and understanding. She apologized profusely for her handling of my queerness, and I

apologized profusely for keeping it semicloseted. She reminded me I had to be careful

with Kellan, reiterating that it would never work, and I told her it was none of her

business who I was in love with. She told me she only wanted me to avoid a broken

heart; I told her I wasn’t sure I’d have a heart at all without him. And we were back

where we began.

And of course we talked about Mae. The more I expressed my bewilderment,

explained how my attempts at contact had gone nowhere, the more Mom came around

to it. The specifics were too vague, the motivations murky. Maybe thirty years ago,

Mom admitted, but would a person independent enough to live on her own for a

decade all the way across the country, intelligent enough to do postdoctoral work in

nanotechnology, really consider something as idiotic as suicide over another person

she’d not seen since she was a kid, a person she’d shown no interest in either then or

since? It was the plot of a bad movie from the thirties, starring Kellan’s little Lord Jamie

and the duchess of Monday characters.

It was a farce. But to what end?

I explained that much to Kellan on the way to Medina. This may not have been my

best idea ever, as it flipped his switch from “understanding, concerned boyfriend”

mode into “silent but righteous fury” mode without so much as a pit stop in the middle.

We spent a sunny afternoon with his mother, and I used my highest level of

performance to be sure she’d never know my mind was somewhere else entirely. Kellan

was less convinced; he knew very well where my mind was and kept shooting me looks

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behind his mother’s back, his irritation growing more and more obvious in the

straightness of his spine, the set of his jaw, and the aggressive angle of his shoulders.

So I thought it best not to tell him right away when Mom texted me with: Marg

back from SD. Mae’s weak, but ok. Thinks you should visit. Not sure, myself.

But we managed to leave his mother with a smile on her face and an invitation to

do it again in a few weeks. When we piled back into my baby (Mercedes-Benz W126

SEC coupe, by the way. Fuck yeah.) and got on the road, I said, “You’re pissed.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Why did you even come if you were going to be

somewhere else the whole time?”

Once I started the car and got us moving, I said, “I wanted to see your mom. I

don’t think she noticed.”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you about it. I needed to.”

“They’re jerking you the fuck around, Jamie.”

Which was a fair enough cop, really. But even if it was belligerent, I did need his

opinion, needed his outsider’s point of view on the proposition before me. Not to

mention there was no way to hide something that had this much effect on my life from

him, of all people. Even if I wanted to try, which I really, really did not. “The latest is

that Margaret thinks I should pay Mae a visit.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and buried his hands in his face. “Fuck.”

“It could be a way to get to the bottom of this stupid—”

“Why the hell is it your fault if some delusional fucking debutante fixated on you?

She doesn’t even know you.”

“Whatever happened isn’t her fault. It’s her mother’s fault. And my mother’s.”

“So let them fix it.”

“I can help. I should help. Mom was so freaked out last night. I’ve never seen her—

”

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“Jesus, Jamie. I know other rich people. This is not how they do things. Even

actual princes get to pick who they marry these days.” His glare burned right through

me. “Why else would she have done it? Why else does some jack-off pop a bunch of

pills and claim it’s all for the love of a goddamn stranger?”

“That’s what I have to know.”

“What if that’s really why she did it?”

I swallowed hard. I had to consider it; I’d since gone back to my Sent folder and

checked out my last e-mail. In a certain heightened state of panic and madness, it

might’ve been possible to misinterpret what I’d said as an “I need you now” or “I need

to get out of this now because I hate you.” But it would take a seriously unbalanced

mind to think of it as either. I’d been vague not only out of politeness but because I’d

assumed we were in agreement. I had not, however, been alarmist, for fuck’s sake.

Thing was, if this was really happening, if Mae had really put herself in the

hospital, well, she was clearly not so balanced.

I didn’t believe it, but I had to prepare myself for the worst. Therefore, I had to

admit, “Then it’s kind of my fault too. If I’d just come out to my mother sooner, she

would’ve handled it with Margaret.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” His voice went up at the end. He paused, hands

clenching into fists, and visibly gained control of himself. The pitch and volume

lowered substantially when he asked, “Do you actually have no idea how insane this is?

It is bat-shit insane, Jamie. You always fucking let them drag you into their melodrama,

and it’s like watching you submit to emotional blackmail. But this…this is a whole new

level of bat-shit.”

My mind fluttered to come up with the proper terms in which to couch things,

how much I could say, how much I couldn’t. A full silent half-minute later, I felt as if

my head might explode. I stared hard at the abandoned country road stretching out

before me, put my foot down harder on the accelerator, tried to take comfort in the

soothing hum of the engine.

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But it was no good. All I could get out was, “So, are you trying to say I should

never have told you about it?”

I felt the glare again, this time even hotter. “That’s really how you’re going to play

this?”

“Play? Is that what you—”

“Yes, Jamie, play. It’s always a play with you. You pull me just close enough that I

start to think I know you, and then some fucked-up thing happens that shows me

that…that there’s a goddamn glass wall between me and who the fuck you really are.

Then you start the fucking play so I’ll forget it’s there until the next time something

happens.”

“Kellan—”

“I don’t want some dumbfuck excuse.” He turned his glare forward, and I could

see him out of the corner of my eye, twitching, fuming. “You say you have all this

respect for my intelligence—well, act like it. If you go to California, I’ll have to either

assume that you’ve gone completely out of your mind or that you’re not telling me the

whole story.”

I gripped the steering wheel hard, gritting my teeth.

“So if you have a better explanation for why you’re considering this, for why you

even give a shit, you better get it together and tell me.” He was mostly grumbling under

his breath when he said, “The shit I put up with…”

Well, if it was so awful, “Why do you put up with it?”

“I ask God that question every night, James. When he gets back to me, I’ll let you

know.”

Verbal evisceration, as only Kellan could deliver it. Cold settled over me. He

looked out his window, chewing on his fingernails, jaw twitching. I squeezed the

steering wheel and tried not to scream.

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He was right. I had no counterargument, no possible explanation that could

satisfy—

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he said out of nowhere.

This was not a curse; this was a prayer. I looked out his window, down one of the

little dirt cross streets just past a crumbling red-washed barn, and saw exactly what had

inspired it. One little hatchback and one big old Ford truck, slammed into a twisted pile

of metal. There was a teenage-looking kid just outside the open door of the truck.

I jerked the car off the road, heart in my throat. We were both out of it and

running for the accident without another word. Now it was obvious the truck had been

coming out the open barn door and the car blazing along the little dirt road toward the

highway. It had been T-boned for its trouble, the passenger side bent inward and

completely mangled.

“Oh shit, there’s a kid.” Kellan took off after that announcement, and he got to the

crash about ten yards ahead of me and looked in the backseat. Sure enough, I heard

someone crying in there. Kellan opened the door before I could say anything; a little

boy spilled out. There was a woman strapped into the front seat. She was still.

“Don’t let anyone move!” I shouted.

The teenager who’d oozed out of the truck was hammering at a cell phone and

sobbing.

I ran to his side, asking the most useless question imaginable: “What happened?”

“She’s not moving, man,” he blurted, speech thick with panic. “There’s no signal.

No fucking signal.”

I grabbed him by the shoulders, checked out his eyes. “Are you hurt? Look at me.

Look me in the eye. Are you hurt?”

He held my gaze; when I let him go, he stood straight, shook his head. “No. No,

man. I’m fine. Just—”

“What’s your name?”

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He replied.

“What’s the date?”

“What?”

“The date, tell me the date.”

He did.

“Ears ringing?”

“What? No. What the…?”

I checked my own phone, just in case. He was right: no signal. I pointed down the

road. “See that house?”

He looked past the crunched grill of his souped-up truck. The big old farmhouse

was at least a quarter of a mile down the stretch, but it was the only one in sight.

“Yeah.”

“Go there. Call 911. Now.”

He stood a little straighter, nodded, and took off at a sprint.

The little boy had returned to the backseat but only halfway, choking on sobs, red-

faced. Kellan turned around, panic in his eyes. “Jamie, what the fuck do we…?”

I checked out the woman without moving her. No visible bruises, no bumps, no

blood, but she wasn’t breathing. She was warm, but if there was a pulse, it was

incredibly faint.

I closed my eyes, let my electricity take over in that subtle, unquantifiable way,

and felt for her. The only way to explain it is like…every human being generates an

electromagnetic field, but we awakened have a special organ, one we can control, just

for that purpose. Part of being extra-strong even for an electrical manipulator is that I

can kind of push my field and feel for it in others. And, thanks to training, find spots

where it’s strongest or being generated.

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There was electrical activity in her, but it was about to die. If she went without

oxygen to the brain, it wouldn’t matter so much if we aggravated a spinal injury or not.

Split-second decision. I said, “Help me.”

We got her out and on the ground. I wasn’t even thinking, just started delivering

CPR. Kellan tried to soothe the little boy, who was up on his feet by then, walking back

and forth and moaning. I heard Kelly saying, “Sit down, please, sit down. If your neck

hurts…”

I counted it out, breathed for her, counted it out again. “He almost to the house?”

“Still running,” Kellan said, voice tight. “Please, kid, come here. What’s your

name?”

Middle of fucking nowhere. By the time the teenager called 911, how much of her

would be gone? By the time an ambulance made it…

I paused briefly to feel her carotid—something there, faint, dying again. I reached

out, sensed the electrical impulses in her, but they were weak and fluttering.

A shiver began down low in my spine.

I stamped it out, crushed it with a ten-ton anvil, and said, “Kellan, keep him busy.

Turn him away. You too.”

“What?”

“Please, just do it.”

“But—”

“Now.”

I put both hands on her chest, this time up higher and to her left side, let the

electricity sing through my bones, measuring, careful. So fucking careful. It had been

too long since Dr. Mehlman’s special awakened lecture on defibrillation. Obtain a

shockable rhythm in the heart, then—

I let it go, a single charge, fizzling blue around my hands and into her, deep. She

bucked. I checked, and there was no change. Again, palms against her chest, closed my

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eyes and let it amp, just a notch or two more. One, two, three. She rocked with the fizzle

of electricity; I pulled it in tight, wrapped it up, checked her pulse. One more time. One

more time, don’t think about it; don’t think if this doesn’t work…don’t think, just do, just do—

One, two, three.

She twitched, then gasped, lips grayish pale. Her chest rose, fell.

“Blanket,” I said, putting two fingers against her neck again. The thump of life

was there for sure now. Slow, slightly irregular, but there. “Forgot to bring the kit. It’s in

the trunk.”

Footsteps behind me, Kellan saying, “No. No, just stay in the car, Andy. Stay in

the car, okay? I’m coming right back.” And then he took off like a track star.

The kid—Andy—didn’t listen. He was standing over me in seconds. “She’s not

dead?” he asked through a mess of snot and tears.

“She’s not dead. Your mom have heart problems?”

“Yeah, I think. She takes some pills or something.”

“Right.”

“Mom—”

“Let her be, kid. She’s okay for now.” I sat back on my heels, took her wrist in my

hand, just to convince myself, make sure it was true.

And the world around me blurred.

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Chapter Eleven

At the hospital, Kellan finally said, “Are you going to make me ask?”

My head was numb. My eyes felt swollen, though I hadn’t cried. My lips were

cold. My world was still blurry, like I was looking out from behind a waterfall.

Emotionally, there was too much of everything, and so I registered nothing. “No, sorry.

I—Uh, what did you see?”

He looked at the floor, sinking farther into the seat next to me, careful not to let his

elbow touch mine. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

“As in, you’re going to tell me as little as possible to explain whatever it is I tell

you I think I saw.”

“No. Yes.” I sighed. “Shit, I don’t know.”

He looked at me for what felt like the first time in a long time. “I saw you act like a

human crash cart, that’s what I fucking saw. Your hands were crackling blue, and you

did it with no discernible effort or concern for yourself. Like you’re used to it.”

“Not used to using it like that, no. But, well, that’s why my mother wanted me to

be a doctor.”

The last thread of my grand lie, my entire life, undone. This was not how I

imagined it happening somewhere down the road, when we were happy and secure,

getting married, buying a house, having kids.

But this was how it was, so I told him everything. About the awakened, about our

various powers, about their applications in the real world, about our secrecy, about the

witch-hunters, about the haters, about the irritating superheroes and even worse

supervillains, about the small communities—about ours in particular. I put it on the

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line, and he sat there watching me, listening in silence, stony-faced. Never once moving

but to chew on his nonexistent fingernails and occasionally nod.

And when I finished, he said, “So, this is why you get staticky sometimes. It’s been

right in front of me the whole time.”

“Yeah. I never had trouble with control before, but lately it’s been a little weird.

Nothing big, just lights flickering and stuff.”

He was quiet for a second. And then he said, “Okay.”

My throat hurt, tight from the stress and the talking and the tears that hadn’t

come. “Just…okay?”

“I—” He licked his lips and looked at the floor again. “I want to understand why

you never mentioned this.”

I laughed but not in a funny way. “So, you’re not at all concerned that I can do this

weird-ass thing. Just that I didn’t tell you about it.”

“I’m not saying it’s not, fucking, like, out there. But, Jamie, I believe in God. You

think some lightning I can actually see is going to shut my brain down? Get serious.”

I scrubbed at my hair with one hand, trying to fathom him, finding it impossible.

It was like a goddamn hamster on a wheel up there in my head, running and running

and getting nowhere.

I had really just done that. That had really just happened. The thing that had

horrified me my whole life. The fear that haunted me in my fucking sleep and made me

who I was had come to pass. And I’d walked right through it.

And Kellan had seen it. All of it.

“Well, I mean, obviously we can’t just go around telling people about it. We’re all

raised to keep our mouths shut and never use it where we can be seen. Except, you

know…in emergencies.”

After a short silence, he said, “I understand. And this…is why I don’t know you.”

“It’s the reason you don’t—didn’t know all of me.”

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“That’s what this weird-ass arranged marriage is about too.”

I nodded. “Not all of us do that. It’s just common around here. With especially

powerful families, in particular. I’m kind of off the charts.”

“So you’re the prize stud.”

I didn’t even have the energy to laugh at the concept. I just nodded.

“How long before you would’ve told me?”

Through the haze of fear and confusion, through the swamp of relief and self-

loathing, I could still see perfectly that my mother had been right. No matter what

answer I gave, he would resent me for it.

Maybe I’d always known that and just pretended not to. Just drawn it out so I

could have another day with him.

I’d told Billy the truth that day at the bar: I was a coward. I should’ve done the

right thing after that first fight—I’d known it then, and I saw it now. But I hadn’t loved

Kellan then, or I hadn’t known I loved him, and so I’d put myself before him. And now

it was too late.

I said, “I wanted to.”

“I would’ve fucked off before you told me.”

“I would’ve told you before I let you—”

“No, you wouldn’t. You never tell anyone anything until you have to, and by then

it’s too fucking late.”

There was no argument for this, so I didn’t try. “But you said you understand.

About the secrecy.”

“I want to understand. Rationally. But I’m not feeling particularly fucking rational

right now. I just saw someone I—someone I’m supposed to be really close to shoot

lightning out of his fucking fingers and save a woman’s life. Someone who…who

knows every fucking embarrassing and incriminating detail about my own mental and

emotional state at pretty much all times.” His grip on the arms of his uncomfortable

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waiting-room chair tightened, his knuckles going white. His voice, conversely, lowered

almost to a whisper. “Not to mention my body, my family, and my God. I…am having

a fucking hard time not…not exploding on you.”

Somewhere in the middle of this speech, my heart began to thaw. The pain was

excruciating, like a long-asleep limb waking up, but hotter, deeper. I covered his near

hand with mine, desperate. “Kellan—”

He jerked away. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t fucking confuse me. You always do

that.”

“What?”

“Just—” He leaned away. “Don’t touch me right now.”

My eyes grew hotter. This was it. And though I knew I deserved it, oh God, ouch.

“Kellan, please.”

But the doctor appeared. She stopped just in front of us, brown circles under her

eyes but a smile on her pale lips. “She’s all right, and the little boy has a minor

concussion. The rest of the family might want to meet you, but if you like, you can just

leave your information, and I’ll pass it along.”

I fumbled in my wallet and handed her a card. “Sure.”

She tucked it into her coat pocket. “You boys did a good thing.”

“It was nothing,” I said. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

Kellan just stared, pale and silent.

I kept quiet until we were in the car, but everything in me was burning, crackling

by that time. If he didn’t talk to me soon, there’d be nothing left but ashes. “Should I

take you home?”

“Yes” was all he said.

“Kelly, please talk to me.”

“I can’t. I just need to think. I need to be alone.”

So I bit my lip and did as he asked.

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* * * *

I knew I wouldn’t hear from him anytime soon, so I did the only thing I could,

short of sitting home and getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself: I went to San

Diego.

I found myself on Mae’s doorstep on Saturday evening, wondering what the hell I

was supposed to say to her. The five-hour flight, the rental-car line, and the subsequent

search through unfamiliar neighborhoods hadn’t given me any answers. Neither had

the conversation with my mother on the way. So there I was, standing in a stucco-and-

tejas cul-de-sac in the dry Southern California summer heat, wondering what the fuck

my life had come to.

A large, well-tanned blond man opened the door. His gaze ran up and down me,

but he wasn’t checking me out—unless it was to estimate who’d win in a fair fight. (The

answer: him, since zapping people counts as unfair.) “So, you’re Jamie.”

“Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you…?”

Big blond guy narrowed his eyes.

A small, frail-looking woman appeared by his side, prodding him out of the way.

Only when she said, “Hi, Jamie,” did I realize that the long, curly hair, healthy tan, and

thick glasses hid the pixielike Mae Haywood I’d known as a child.

“Hi, Mae.” I mean, what the hell was I supposed to say?

Big blond guy put an arm around her.

“Okay,” I said, even as I had the thought. “I think whatever is going on here…is

not what I think is going on here.”

He snarled—I mean, really snarled, like a dog. “It’s exactly what—”

Mae gave him a gentle push and sidled out onto the stoop with me. “Shut up,

Dallas. Jamie, let’s go for a walk.”

“Mae—” Dallas (wow, stereotype much, pal?) tried to protest.

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“Shut up,” she repeated. There was enough of her mother’s edginess in it that I

wouldn’t have argued.

Dallas apparently felt the same, though he continued with the glaring. “You make

her cry, and I swear to God, I will break your legs.”

Maybe it was juvenile to roll my eyes, but it was, at least, less juvenile than that

threat. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“She’s not going back there,” he replied nonsensically.

“Good.”

“What?”

As if trying to communicate with a very stupid great ape, I said, “Good. As in

great. Glad to hear it.”

He stared, which I suppose would’ve been satisfying, had I been in a state of mind

to be satisfied by anything at all.

Mae put a hand on my arm. “Coffee?”

“Sweet Jesus, yes.” I turned and followed her out of the cul-de-sac, then walked

side by side with her along a little suburban thoroughfare peopled with smiling early-

evening, skin-baring types.

Nice neighborhood. Lots of palm trees. I always found it hard to believe I hadn’t

left the country, no matter which coast I was on, really. You can take the boy out of the

Midwest, etc.

When Mae declined to speak—which didn’t surprise me, since I still halfway

expected the shy, gobsmacked seventeen-year-old—I said, “Okay, so, let’s start with the

obvious: you’re not still on death’s door.”

“I was never on death’s door. It was a lie.”

That…made so much more sense.

“We just told Mom I took those pills so she’d leave me alone. Cut me loose.”

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I almost wished it didn’t make so much sense, so I could get pissed. “Okay, I get

that you didn’t actually try to kill yourself. Congratulations, by the way.”

“On the lie or on not trying to kill myself?”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

“Yes,” I replied. “But your mom told my mom you did it because you thought I

didn’t want to marry you.”

She stopped walking. “What?”

Wow. Brilliant. Utterly fucking brilliant. “You thought I was coming here to

convince you to marry me?”

She nodded.

“And your mother…?”

“She said I’d change my mind when I saw you again.”

“So, when I sent you that e-mail last week—”

“With everything Mom said about you asking about me all the time, and

how…kinda desperate you sounded, I thought…”

“No. In fact, I was trying to get you to suck it up and deal and help me talk to our

mothers about this stupid shit. And by the way, my mother knew I was coming here

solely to find out what the hell was really going on. We both thought the whole

attempted-suicide story was idiotic.”

“Well, it was. But you got the wrong story. I didn’t know Mom told you guys

that.”

“Fuck, Mae.” I sighed, pulling at my hair. “Just, fuck. This is so fucking…fucked.”

Yet more evidence that Kellan was slowly wearing down my vocabulary. I laughed

again, starting to feel like each time brought me a little closer to madness.

She stared at my feet but seemed to agree, at least.

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“I came here to tell you what I should’ve told you when we were kids, which is

that I would not have then, and would not now, ever consider marrying you.”

Her mouth fell open.

I went on, “And it wasn’t because of you. I mean, even now, the fact that you’re

obviously out of your goddamn mind is just gravy.”

“I am not—”

“You staged a botched suicide attempt to avoid dealing with your mother, Mae.

Not that I blame you, but you’re officially even less stable than I am. But it doesn’t

matter, because I’m gay.”

“Gay.”

Why the hell was this concept suddenly so foreign to everyone? “Yes. Gay. Over

the rainbow. Friend of Dorothy. In the family. Homo, pillow biter, queer as fuck.”

“Oh my God.” She closed her eyes, the blood draining from her face.

“So, yeah. That’s why I kept bugging you about helping me out with our

mothers.” Another thought occurred. “Jesus, is that guy a sleeper?”

“Yes.” She started walking again.

I went with her. “Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit.”

“I’m sorry. I just—”

“Wait. Just…just wait a second. It’s not your fault.” I could hardly believe it was

coming out of my mouth, but it was true. “None of this would’ve happened if I’d just

owned up to taking it in the ass sooner.”

“You said that to your mother?”

I shot her a look that I really, really hoped would make it clear that I considered

her a fucking idiot. “That’s what concerns you here?”

More Kellan influence—more than justified, if you asked me.

She winced. “Oh. We’re so screwed up.”

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“Yes. Yes, we are. Every single one of us.” Another long silence, wherein I

pondered the immensity of our collective fucked-upness. Just as we came up on the

little strip mall that I assumed was our final destination, I said, “You do know Billy

Armin married Lisa Brandt last year, right?”

“Yeah. Lisa used to call him ‘bug eyes’ in school.”

I laughed yet again, and this time I was afraid I’d never stop.

* * * *

And so it transpired that the whole affair was even more farcical than I’d

expected, engineered by one of the very few people to whose faults my mother was

sentimentally blind: her childhood friend, Margaret Haywood. A last-ditch attempt to

cow her absurd daughter into marrying an equally absurd son of a similarly ridiculous

family.

If I looked back three months, I could hardly recognize myself in the imaginary

city of lies and performance I’d made. Now here I was, standing in the rubble of it. But I

wasn’t sorry, for the most part. There was just a single regret that made it impossible to

enjoy, that lone shadow over everything, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

I was completely at Kellan’s mercy, and the odds were grim. It’d come down to

whether or not he could trust me again. Nothing I could say would change how he

already felt. Bring it out, confirm it, maybe. But if it wasn’t there already, I had no hope.

Monday morning, I swung around Isabella’s desk first, clutching a Michael Bublé

CD I’d seen in a shop window and knew she didn’t have. She squealed over it happily,

but her face fell when she got a good look at me. “What’s wrong, dear? You’re not sick

too?”

“Something going around?”

She arched one overpenciled eyebrow. “You haven’t talked to Kellan?”

I swallowed. “I was out of town this weekend.”

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She paused, looking at me like she wanted to ask another question. I don’t know,

maybe she saw it in my eyes, on my face. Maybe she just knew me well enough to see

the truth. But miraculously, mercifully, all she said was, “He’s on sick leave. Must be

serious—he’s out all week.”

My knees nearly gave out. “Oh. Shit.”

“You don’t look so good either.” She stood and came around the partition to feel

my forehead. “No fever, but maybe you should go home. If he’s got something…”

“No. No, I’m good. Thanks, gorgeous.” I staggered back to my desk and put my

head down on it, telling myself it was self-centered to imagine this “sick leave” could be

a way to avoid me.

Even my weekly visit to Will-Sing-for-Food Guy couldn’t raise my spirits. His

couplet for me that day was utterly uninspired. Monday, Monday, smiles so bright/but

when he’s sad, it’s dark as night.

An hour after lunch, I finally gave in and sent Kellan a text. Hope you’re not really

sick. Starting to think I might be, though.

* * * *

The week dragged. I spent a few evenings at Clark’s, where Sarah convinced me

to lay most of the story on them—as much as I could, anyhow. They already knew

about my mother’s weird habits and friends, so they weren’t quite as shocked as Kellan.

Clark even seemed to think the whole Mae snafu was hilarious, though he curbed his

laughter for the sake of my sanity. I went out for drinks again with Billy, who was, of

course, sympathetic and made me feel like a regular hero for my human-defibrillator

stunt.

I still felt strange about that. But good too. I’d done it because I had to. Turned out

that it hadn’t been her first heart attack and might not be her last, but for now, she was

okay. I wasn’t going back to med school; the idea of doing it again made me sick to my

stomach.

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But now I knew I could, if I improbably found myself in a similar situation again.

Nice to know what little training I’d had, not to mention my entire upbringing, hadn’t

been wasted. Nice that I hadn’t had a nightmare since.

Nicer to know that kid still had a mom.

While I had Billy’s attention, I also figured I’d get his professional opinion. “So, is

it weird to start having control issues this close to thirty?”

“Little late for a second spurt, but not unheard of. Jesus, though, if you get any

more power in you…”

I shrugged. “I don’t feel like it’s bigger or anything. Just, sometimes it’s like I

forget myself and things happen. TVs go funny or lights flicker.”

He grinned crookedly over his beer. “Like being a teenager, you mean?”

“Exactly like that, now you mention it.” Like puberty wasn’t bad enough, throw in

raw, untrained superpowers and sometimes it could get a little freaky.

“When does it happen?”

The general pattern was pretty obvious, by then. “Usually just around Kellan.

When things get intense.”

“Intense as in…?”

“Yeah, sex, mostly.” I thought about it hard. I was always a little sparky in bed—

even the thermals had to put the brakes on their hot and cold when they got excited like

that—but the times things had actually gotten out of control were big enough to stick

out in my mind. That time after our first fight, in the pub bathroom, when I was all

desperate. In his parents’ house, when I realized I was in love with him. And that one

time really recently, just kissing him in his cube when I was trying to apologize. Which

forced me to admit, “Not all the time, though. Just when things are kind of emotionally

hardcore and I’m not paying attention, I think.”

“You ever been in love before, Jamie?”

My eyebrows went up. Not exactly a Billy kind of question. “Um, no.”

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He laughed and leaned an elbow on the table. “It’s a chemical reaction in the

brain, man. We’re powerless against it, to some extent, and that’s science talking.” He

lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. “And you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it

was some subconscious desire of yours to let him know. You’re always talking about

how you could tell him if—”

“Not always.”

He raised his eyebrows and stared me down.

And another admission was wrung from me. “God, I’m so pathetic.”

“Love makes fools of us all, Jamie. Any man who pretends that isn’t true is

compensating for something.”

“That, I’m sure of.”

He laughed. “I’m at once repelled and intrigued by that statement.”

I saw my opening to change the subject. “I knew this guy in college…”

But his hack psychoanalyzing stuck with me hard and fast. He was no Dr. Freud,

but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dead right. (Actually, I had to read Freud as an

undergrad—pretty sure that makes him closer to being dead right.) Or that I wasn’t

completely brainless for not having thought of it myself.

Even if I hadn’t known myself to be powerless, I still would’ve been unable to

resist driving past Kellan’s a few times on my way to or from work or just taking the

long way around when I went out for food or to hang out with people. But his truck

was never in its spot, and my phone was deathly silent apart from the usual check-in

calls from Mom and Derrick.

And then, finally, on Friday night, I got a text from him: I’m good. Take care of

yourself. Summer colds are the worst.

A quick shower, a few minutes in front of the mirror, trying in vain to make

myself look as good as possible, a stop at the liquor store, and I was off.

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Chapter Twelve

This time, the decrepit pickup was there. Long before I was near his door, I heard

a bass-heavy 3/4 thumping that would probably convince anyone that the nice, quiet

boy in 2B had an affection for polka. He had the Dreadnoughts cranked.

I rang the bell, heart pounding sickeningly in my throat. The music quieted.

Someone shuffled on the other side of the door.

For a second, I thought he’d ignore me. I thought I’d go home with my tail

between my legs. I wondered if I could make it back down the stairs without puking.

But then he opened the door. Standing there in a wrinkly red T-shirt with a black

spider in the middle of his chest, his jeans dangerously low, glasses just slightly crooked

on his nose, hair looking like it hadn’t seen a brush all week.

I swallowed my heart, opened my mouth.

He eyed the telltale bag in the crook of my arm. “Damn, James.”

“Uh, I figured it’d make the long apology I prepared less boring.”

He worried his lip. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was considering

telling me to go away. Something in him wanted to.

But after the longest three seconds of my life, he took a step back. “Come in.”

I did. As usual, the place was spotless, but it didn’t have that faint incense smell,

sort of stuffy and disused. As I set the bag on the counter, a little ball of fur weaved

between my feet. Wyatt and Virgil watched from the back of the couch but were less

surprised to see me, or just less excited.

I ducked, scooped Morgan up, and scratched his head. “Hey, little guy.” He

purred like a tiny chainsaw.

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Kellan closed and locked the door, then walked around the long way to get behind

the counter, keeping as far from me as possible.

I said, “So, you’re feeling better?”

“Wasn’t sick. I was at Erin’s. Kyle was out of town for work, so I figured she could

use some help with the girls.”

I thought of him sweeping Mags up in his arms.

Thus weakened, I leaned my hip against the counter and put Morgan down on it.

He stayed, demanding more scratches. “But, um, you weren’t just avoiding me?”

He poured two drinks. After a long pause for that, he said, “I wanted to think it

over.”

And it was official. He had actually taken a whole week off work just so he

wouldn’t have to see my face. I didn’t even know how to feel about it. I was already

achy all over. What difference did it make? “And?”

“And…” He came near enough to hand me my drink but was careful not to touch

my hand when I accepted. “You lied to me.”

I swallowed hard again but kept silent. What mattered was what he had to say.

“I get why, but I’m not sure I can get past it, all the same. I sort of had to go all in

on this from the beginning. It was that or nothing and…well.”

Since he was clearly waiting for some kind of response, I said, “I realized, and I

tried to fix it.”

“I know. And it—you know it meant a lot to me. But I don’t know how you can fix

this one.” He sipped on his drink, rolling it around gently.

I thought of from the first night he’d brought me back here to meet the cats. When

we’d ended up naked on the couch, and I’d learned all about his oral fixation.

The gentle way he drank, enjoyed with his mouth. Like the way he kissed.

He looked down into his glass, chewing on his nails. “It wasn’t just some stupid

white lie. It was huge. I can’t make myself stop feeling shitty.”

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Again I nodded, afraid to do or say anything more.

“But…rationally, I know you couldn’t tell me.” After a pause, he looked up

through his eyelashes. He stopped chewing. “And what you can do is amazing.”

My heart surged, just like that. It was that look, that thinly veiled hot one, the one

that said all was not lost. The one that said he wanted me.

I took his free hand and moved nearer, trying to balance caution with my need to

be close, to make him remember me. “I always wanted to show you how good it can

feel too. I—”

He pulled back, eyes darkening. “I don’t know why you think it’s okay to—to

keep doing this. It’s completely fucking, like, manipulative.”

I reeled with that queasy, familiar, verbal-sucker-punch feeling.

“Anytime you don’t like the conversation, you just come up with some new and

inventive way to get me off, and I shut up about it for a few weeks. Do you even realize

you do that?”

“I don’t—”

“You do. You know goddamn well I can’t think straight when you’re around, and

you use it against me. It’s fucking mean of you.”

“But I just hate to see you all pissed off, and so I—” I don’t even know where it

came from, but I knew even as I said it that I’d never spoken truer, never made a

confession that said more about me, as I did with: “It’s the only thing I know how to

do.”

“Bullshit. Complete fucking bullshit.”

I just stared, helpless. Morgan finally hopped off the counter and made himself

scarce, poor guy.

Kellan went on, “You’d make me happy if you’d tell me who the fuck you are.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

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It hung in the air for a long, painful second, the entirety of my self-esteem issues in

a single sentence, making me wish I could sink through his floor and never have to see

him look at me like this ever again.

But at the same time, I loved it. Loved how it reduced me to ashes.

And then he slammed down his drink. “Fuck you, Jamie.” He pushed off the

counter and made as if to walk away.

I didn’t know where he was going—the bathroom, the bedroom, the front door to

escort me out—but I reached out and grabbed his wrist before his second step. “Kelly,

please.”

He jerked out of my grip but planted his feet. “I accepted that you’re

uncomfortable with who you are, even though I didn’t know why or how. I accepted

that you were going to know more about me for a little while and that I was way more

invested in this than you from the beginning—”

“That’s not fair, and it’s not fucking true, ei—”

“Fuck you, and fuck your words.” He jabbed his finger in the air, the other hand

flexing and stretching impotently at his side. “You’re all just words and sex. I see your

soul in there. I know it’s good, and I can’t touch it. You have any idea how goddamn

frustrating you are?”

For a horrible second, I actually thought he expected a reply.

He went on, though it gave me no relief. “Maybe it was too soon for you to

volunteer information, but if you ever come to terms with something—anything—to do

with reality, it better be this: it happened. I see you. So deal with it, or get the fuck out

of my apartment.”

God, it was like it was raining fire, and I loved it. I loved it and—“I love you.”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I remember exactly when it happened too. You just told off Finn and…and Ken

was laughing. And you turned around, and Mags threw herself at you, and you picked

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her up and kissed her and were completely happy again just like that. Something inside

me just cracked. Like—like I finally understood everything about you, and it broke me.

Since that moment, maybe even before, everything I’ve done has been trying to deserve

you. You remember that morning? You remember how good it was?”

He hesitated, jaw flexing. Then just the slightest lift of his chin.

“I wasn’t playing. I just wanted you so bad, and I was too confused to make a

game out of it. You felt it.”

Nothing. He just stood there like a statue, hard and oh-so-nerdy-angry-beautiful.

Watching.

But it was just falling out of me. Something in him still gave a shit; I’d caught that

flash in him, and now I couldn’t stop. “It’s not just words. I changed everything for it.

My whole life, this huge lie I built, it’s all dissolving around me, and it feels so good. I

would’ve gone on forever like that, living these two lives, lying to everyone and myself

until I got too old for it to matter. Some lonely fucking dirty-minded loser with nothing

to show for his life. Kellan, I could be that guy, and I didn’t even know it until that exact

moment when I knew I loved you.”

His shoulders slumped, but his hands were in tight fists. His chest heaved.

It might’ve meant he’d heard me. Or it might’ve meant he was trying not to punch

me in the face. I was wilting, desperate to take a step nearer and cling to him but very,

very aware that that was the worst possible move I could make. “And it’s okay if you

hate me now. You’re the most honest human being I’ve ever known, and I understand if

you can’t trust me again. But you should also know that no matter what happens, I’m

not going to be that guy. Because of you.”

He closed his eyes and sighed.

I waited for a few seconds, tried to remember what I’d already said and what I

hadn’t. Tried to find that one last thing I hadn’t answered, that one last bit that would, if

nothing else, at least tell him that I really, truly loved him.

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Words and sex. That was it. “And if I like to get a little weird in bed, it’s not

because I’m trying to change the subject. Well, okay, I am sometimes, but I can’t help

myself around you. I wanted to fuck you way before I loved you, and it just made it

worse.”

He laughed, a kind of helpless thing. “Jesus, Jamie.”

I hung my head.

He took two steps nearer, then hesitated. His gaze ran down me, then back up.

“What the fuck are you?”

I held up one hand and let it go. Tiny arcs of lightning sprung up between my

fingers, then figure-eighted around and down them.

Eat your heart out, Nicola Tesla.

Kellan watched, the blue glow reflecting off his glasses, in his wide, dark eyes.

“That’s what I am.” I took another step forward, held my hand out to him.

He raised his hand.

I nodded and reached out a little farther, palm up.

He aligned his so it hovered a few inches above mine. And then he lowered it,

little by little, until the charge reached him. I let it leap, sharing the faint, ticklish

sensation with him, letting it bounce off his skin and back to me, then again.

He took my hand, weaving his fingers between mine.

I dulled it to a faint static charge, just enough to make the hair on his arm stand

up, and pulled him closer.

He came, even leaned forward as if considering coming nearer still. “I had a

moment too. I loved you—before, in that stupid adolescent worship way. I knew what

it was.”

For the first time, I let myself smile. As I cut the electricity, my heart felt like it

would burst through my rib cage; the smell of him, his laundry detergent and

aftershave and spearmint gum, warmed my blood.

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“But then I saw it, and everything made sense.” He stepped forward, put his

whole front against me, clinging to my hand, using his other to tilt my face upward. He

put his forehead against mine and took a deep breath. “You even smell electric.”

I closed my eyes, struggling with the instinct to kiss him. Kiss him hard. Never

stop kissing him. Make him love me.

But what I really wanted, really needed, was to know that he already did. “You

love me?”

“You really are Johnny fucking Storm, aren’t you?” He laughed and patted the

side of my face. “Dickhead.”

“Maybe. A little. But…?”

“If I didn’t love you, would I give a shit?”

I leaned into him and put both arms around his neck—not so much because I

meant to but because my knees finally gave out.

He kissed me, slipping his arms around my waist, then tilting his face and parting

his lips, letting me taste him. He closed it off, then did it again, this time deeper and

longer, licking at the backs of my front teeth, sliding a hand into my back pocket.

I wanted to do all the things I usually did. Wanted to angle my hips against him,

rearrange him between my legs, bite at his bottom lip and kiss his neck, encourage and

escalate with every part of my body. But I was still too scared that he’d think I was

using it against him. The next time he closed it off, I said, “Kelly, I swear to you—I’ll

swear on anything you want: I will never, ever lie to you again. I will never hide

anything. Just please, please—”

He kissed me again, this time hard, forcing me backward. He came with me,

closing in like a cat on its prey, his hands suddenly under my shirt, down the back of

my pants, everywhere. He paused for just long enough to say, “Shut up and get naked,

Jamie.”

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So I did, and he had me in the bedroom so fast I hardly knew which way was up. I

had to hold myself up with both hands to keep from slipping off the edge of the bed,

both fists squeezing the sheets tight. Kellan practically swallowed my cock, applying

every inch of his substantial talent for giving head to bringing me to climax as fast and

hard as possible. Curled in on himself between my wide-apart knees, two wet, sticky

fingers inside me, palming my balls, every avenue for perfect pleasure covered and

working in synch to drive me over the edge.

I groaned, rocked my hips, fucked his mouth, fucked myself, felt him swallow, felt

him hum, fought it. Fought it, fought it hard, but his finger-fucking was practiced; he

knew so well where to hit me, how to work me, and the slightest movement amped me

up on him hard. I pushed up and exploded into him, then wriggled down on his

fingers, thrilling while he groaned around my orgasm.

Then, when I’d relaxed just enough, he pulled out. I’d stopped actually coming,

but he usually waited until I relaxed completely to let me go. This time he pulled back

until he just had the head in his mouth, sucked at it gently, sent goose bumps racing

down my legs and up my belly, until my nipples were so hard they ached.

My cock still pounded, but he ignored it, coming at me like a big cat again. It was

all I could do to edge backward and accommodate him. He crawled onto the bed and

over my body until he had me pinned on my back, straddling my thighs and sucking,

biting at my neck. Still orgasm-high, I dug my fingers into his back and arched.

He put one thigh between mine and pushed my legs apart until he fit between

them, still working me over with his mouth, and lowered himself into the perfect

position, the heat of his smooth, swollen cock pressed into the cleft of my hip bone

tight. I let my knees fall wide, wrapping one leg around him so my heel dug into the

small of his back.

I ached for more where he’d been inside me; my dick was spent but pounding.

When I said, “Tell me what you want, Kelly,” I wasn’t looking for dirty talk. I really,

truly didn’t know what to do for him.

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I would’ve done anything. Literally. As in jumping off a bridge anything.

He kissed me, tongue tasting like me and licking the roof of my mouth, then

smiled. “What I want.”

“Really. Anything.”

He kissed me again. “I want to know every inch of you.” He rolled his hips,

sending a surprising thrill through me, causing him to pulse against my belly.

I dug my fingers, my heel into him harder.

“I want to know every thought in your head.” He kissed me again, light and

teasing, then bit at my bottom lip. “I want to get inside you.”

Just a few words. A few sentences.

The hottest fucking few sentences I’d ever heard in my life.

I crushed into him with my mouth, my hips, my fingers. The delicious ache in me

built exponentially. But I said, “You sure?”

“This is what I wanted. How about you?” Still more kissing.

I re-angled things into a more convenient position, my cock already responding

again. “Oh God, please, yes.”

He let up a little, and I reached for the lube on the nightstand somewhere over my

head. A moment of readjustment and preparation, and I went to work on him. He sat

back on his heels as I took him in hand, gasped when I gave him a few experimental

strokes, all slick and ready.

He put a hand on either side of my face, eyes suddenly wide and sincere. Not for

the first time in our relationship, I had the sinking feeling he was about to back out of a

sexual exploit.

But he just said, “You have to tell me how you, uh, want it.”

“Kelly.” I pressed my mouth against his chest, just where the tattoo ended in the

middle, sucked to leave a faint mark. “I want you to put me down on this bed any

which way up and do whatever the fuck you want with me.” Then I sat back and

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flattened my palm to the pink mark I’d left on him, fingers splayed, and let go with a

light electrical charge. It raced out of me, over his skin in a circle.

He gasped and rocked forward, gripping my shoulder for support.

I smiled and said, “If anything else comes up, I’ll let you know.”

He tackled me back to the bed, guided my sticky hand downward to rub the

remaining lube against my asshole, and applied his mouth to anywhere it could reach.

This accomplished, he repositioned just as we had been, front to front. I wrapped both

legs around him this time, angling upward while he held himself up with one arm,

guiding his cock with the other.

I swallowed a groan, not wanting to alarm him when he first worked into me,

stretching hot, sharply painful. I clutched at his shoulder with one hand, his ass with

the other, and urged him forward with my legs. With agonizing slowness, he pushed

farther inside, the fat slickness of him pulling at me, his breath ragged and hot against

my neck. Farther still, and my cock swelled as he hit the spot inside; now, it didn’t

hurt—or it did, but it hurt good. I couldn’t fight it, so I groaned and let one of my legs

fall farther to the side, aching for the final push.

“Oh God.” He paused. “Are you—”

“Come on, baby.” I squeezed his ass and dug my fingernails into his shoulder.

He rocked forward, hit it just right; an electric thrill started at the base of my spine

and took me, multiplied by the sensation of being filled up, stretched out, used up—and

completely fucked.

By him.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it.” I hardly had enough air, but I made myself say it, for his

sake.

And, okay, so he’d get down to it.

It was all he needed. He fell into a rhythm, getting used to it, but with an added

roll to his hips and application of his thighs, his ass, his stomach to the motion that

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rocked me from the inside out. My dick was hard again, pressed tight into his belly, and

I moved my hips under him to get that extra half inch of penetration. He sucked at my

neck intermittently, giving me shivers and goose bumps, adding to the building heat of

him inside me, unrelenting, almost unconsciously gaining speed and intensity.

The first wave of “here it comes” rolled through me too soon, but I wanted it bad

enough that I didn’t care. I angled again, dug my heel into his back.

He readjusted, putting all his weight on one arm, and hooked the other under my

thigh. This bent me up, my knee nearly pressed into my shoulder, my ass angled

upward so he could get in deeper still. He held my leg in position in the crook of his

elbow and used that hand to balance on top of me.

Jesus, he was a quick learner. And the way he moved those hips, that pounding

hard cock inside me, both demanding and pleasing, working me into a frenzy from the

inside. Fuck, it hurt so goddamn good.

The angle must’ve hit something in him too. He pushed into me harder, with a

little double-take when he was all the way inside, then pulled back and started over

with renewed passion. The increased pressure, the extreme sensation, rattled me. Before

I knew what I was doing, I had one hand at his nape, sending a wash of static electricity

down his spine.

He buried his face in my neck, rolling his hips harder and faster still, gasping

something that wasn’t quite intelligible but said it all anyhow. Sweat pooled in the

curve of my hips, slicked our stomachs, and made my fingers slip against his shoulder,

his ass. I licked it, salty and sweet, out of the cup of his collarbone, bit at it and made

him shudder, slamming hard up into me out of rhythm.

I couldn’t have held it back if I wanted to. My cock throbbed, dripping against his

belly; my body began to tighten, and I squeezed with my ass. He moaned and reached

between us with the arm not pinning my leg, wrapped his hand around my dick. I

wound my fingers in his hair, grabbed at his ass, pulled him frantically, harder into me,

and bucked against him all at once as it washed over me. For the second time in—fuck,

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that had to be a new record—I came with some vague exclamation of sublime pleasure

and “fuck yes, harder,” as that was just what I was thinking.

He provided, muttering sweet things about how good I felt and how amazing I

was and how I was the fucking best, as the tide of my orgasm rolled over me, doubled

back, tripled, and after long, perfect seconds, subsided. Then he let go my cock, and the

hard rhythm of his hips slowed.

Normally, this was where I would’ve been out. But Kellan, that incredible,

smooth, thick cock throbbing inside me—I’d wanted it for way too fucking long to let

him go now. I squeezed his ass, gasping, “Keep going, baby. Don’t fucking stop.”

Riding the rising ache and lingering ecstasy, I rocked with him, worked little

groans and sighs out of him as I ran my hands all up and down his back, kissed his

shoulders and neck. It was only moments before his hips jerked forward suddenly. I let

another shock go, this time so it raced all over his back with one hand, down his leg

with the other. I spread myself out and made sure he could get in deep.

He shuddered and came into me hard, gasping. Filled me right the fuck up, wetter

and hotter than my wildest dreams.

I kissed his face, wriggled beneath him as he held me still in that half-bent

position, him pulsing inside me, riding that first instant after, holding on to it.

He let my leg go and collapsed onto my chest. “Oh fuck, Jamie.”

What could I say but, “Mmm-hmm.”

Long seconds passed in which the only sound was that of ragged breathing. When

his dick stopped doing that aftermath pulsing thing inside me, he pulled out, then came

to rest against my chest again. I wrapped him up in both arms—and one leg, still.

Eventually he laughed and said, “The fuck did I wait this long for, anyhow?”

“True love, Princess Buttercup. True love.”

His hand flailed in the air before impacting uselessly with my arm. I think he

meant to tell me to shut up, but all that came out was “Mmm.”

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* * * *

We stayed up all night, drinking and talking and drinking some more. I told him

everything, about my electricity, about my childhood, about the weird little power

freak-outs he was causing, about my issues and my nightmares. He filled in the gaps in

his own life as we went, back and forth. We took breaks for making out, occasionally a

little more, but my whole body ached, and he was kissing like he wanted to kiss, so it

stayed sweet. In a hot way.

Once when he pulled his lips off mine, he asked, “Ah, was it really…okay?”

I wasn’t thinking straight. I just said, “Yes. What?”

“The…thing. Sex. It was all right?”

“No, I expected to come three times in fifteen minutes. Work a little harder next

time, Kelly.”

“I’m serious. You gotta correct my form.”

“I did, you just didn’t know it at the time. It was fucking hot.”

“Well, if you think getting bent up like a pretzel is—”

“So hot.” Another kiss, then I said, “Most poetic sex I ever had too.”

“Poetic?”

“Mmm-hmm, that stuff about wanting me.”

He chuckled. “Can’t believe I said that shit out loud.”

“Hey, Kellan?”

He raised his eyebrows and dropped his gaze, running his eyes all over me and

smiling crookedly. His hair was still fucked-up from the main event, falling into his

eyes or sticking up here and there. “Hey, Jamie.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, you mentioned it.”

“I’ve been not mentioning it for a long time. I got some catching up to do.”

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Epilogue

That was about a year and a half ago.

Last month I had a sales call coming up in DC—big client, so I had to go in person.

We just figured he’d come along and we’d make a trip of it, since neither of us had been

since junior high. He could bring me along for his geek-outs at the museums, and I

could find us the best places to eat, drink, and be merry.

But a few days before we left, we were in bed. I put down the iPad and rolled over

and saw him there, propped up against the headboard, glasses on, shirt off, reading

Sherlock Holmes. And it was just one of those moments where you can’t explain why,

because there’s absolutely nothing extraordinary about the time or place, but you

suddenly realize you love someone so much that it may very well kill you. Like your

heart just swells to this dangerous size, and that’s going to be the end. Death by

sappiness.

I’d thought of asking so many times before. And Washington, DC. One of the few

places in the country it was even possible.

“Hey, Kelly?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the book. “Hmm?”

“How would you feel about…”

“What?”

“Like, while we’re in DC…”

He looked over the top of his glasses. “We can do whatever you want. We got five

days, and it’s not that big.”

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“Make it—” How long would it take, anyhow? Surely you had to be there to apply

for a license, and then you didn’t get it right away, did you? “At least a week.”

Now his eyebrow cocked. “Ah, right. Any particular—”

“Okay, if you don’t want to, I completely understand. But I really…I really think

the time’s right, and I—”

“Deep breath, James. What do you want?” He put down his book.

Deep breath. Then, “Will you marry me?”

His eyes widened.

My heart hammered, and I was already cursing myself for the outburst. The hell

kind of proposal was that? Half-baked middle-of-the-night nonsense spewed like some

fucking teenager asking his dream guy to the prom on a—

“Jesus, Jamie.”

I flushed. “I mean, I know it’s not—”

“Of course I’ll fucking marry you.”

* * * *

We didn’t tell anyone until we came back. For one, that’s Kelly’s idea of a perfect

wedding—it was about us, not anyone else. For another, I didn’t want him to have to go

through shit with his parents. His dad’s always been cool with me, but inviting him to

DC for a slapdash queer wedding at a courthouse would just stress things.

As for my mom, well, I knew she’d understand.

Like I said, it’s been a few weeks since then. It’s seven in the morning, just now.

Kellan can’t sleep past eight. His body wakes him up to go running, and I roll over and

tell him to get me up when he gets home. But now I’m at the desk in the spare room

with Morgan—who’s since grown into his giant white paws—curled up beside the

monitor. I’m typing like a fiend because I haven’t been able to sleep.

Last night, we had a party for our friends and family at the faux-Irish pub. The

“sorry we ran off and got married without getting you drunk first” party—you know

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the one. It was strange to see how the worlds mingled: my mother and our friends (with

the notable absence of Margaret, though Mae called to say congratulations) and the

whole Shea clan.

At some point it took on the character of a proper wedding reception, or maybe an

engagement party or rehearsal dinner or one of those lesser rituals. Everyone was

slamming beers and occasionally getting up to put a song in the digital jukebox and

dance. Finn, never one to miss an opportunity to entertain, told some stories about

Kellan, and Clark stood up and rambled about me, to our embarrassment and the

apparent enjoyment of all present.

After which Kellan suddenly chugged the end of his Guinness and picked up the

one standing by to settle. And then he stood.

He said, loud enough that everyone noticed and stopped what they were doing to

listen, “Okay, so, I made Jamie promise on pain of death that he wouldn’t stand up

tonight and make a speech and embarrass me. That’s what Finn’s for.”

A little cheer went up around Finn, who raised his glass.

Kellan drank to him before going on. “But Jamie forgot to extract the same

promise from me, so, here’s a story for you.”

I tried to catch his eyes, but he only winked and had another sip—no doubt for

fortification. “We were driving somewhere—we’d only been dating a few months—and

I got pissed off at him about something or other.”

“No!” came a cry of mock disbelief from somewhere within the Shea contingent.

Kelly pointed with his glass. “Shut it, Finn.”

“Was Kennedy!”

“Yeah, but Finn was thinking it. So I’m moaning about all the crap I put up with

from him, and he finally just asks, ‘So why do you?’ Instead of going for the obvious

answer—”

Now Sarah interrupted with, “What’s that?”

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Kellan grinned. “Ah, I’ll tell you after the kids go to bed.”

There was a laugh, including some of the older kids who’d been allowed to come

giggling behind their hands.

I raised my eyebrows and smiled but, for the first time in what felt like a long

time, had absolutely no fucking idea what he was thinking.

He went on, “Instead I said possibly the shittiest thing I’ve ever said in a lifetime

of shitty things: ‘James,’ I said, ‘I ask God that question every night. I’ll let you know

when he gets back to me.’”

“Ooh…” went the little crowd, punctuating it with laughs and the odd look of true

surprise from those who were not wise in the ways of Kellan’s mouth.

His smile went sheepish. “So I’m sitting there in this car, fuming like an idiot. And

about five minutes after that, something happens that makes me think about all the

selfless shit he does every day and then never mentions again. Doesn’t matter what it

was; I could give you a hundred examples, but everyone who knows him already has a

couple, I’m sure.”

“Preach it,” Clark said. There was a shout of agreement even I couldn’t avoid. I

looked out, and Derrick and Mike, those crazy bastards, waved their drinks at me. They

were next to my mother. And the smile on her face—that almost did me in.

Misguided fools, yeah. But it’s nice to feel loved, even when it’s embarrassing, I

guess.

Kelly’s shoulders relaxed a little. He shot me another quick look. I pleaded silently

for him to stop. End it there. Come here and kiss me, goddammit, before I feel like any more of a

complete fraud.

“I’m not an easy guy to love.” Kellan waved his beer at more howls from the

Sheas. “No, not now, guys, let me finish. Jamie, on the other hand, inspires instant

devotion. But he’s a listener, not a talker—he’s easy to love but hard to know. You’re

just sure he’s a really good guy, and you’re never going to be sorry you told him all your

hopes and fears within five minutes of seeing his face.

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“The truth is, I was just being a hateful son of a bitch that day in the car. I never

asked God why I put up with him. I thanked God for making him too damn stubborn to

give up on me even when I was hateful. And I still do every night.”

Unh. I mean, just like that, no air in my lungs.

“Anyhow, the point of the story is that I’ve always known he was the best man in

the world, but now seems like a good time to make sure everyone else does too.” And

finally, he turned in my direction and held out his glass. “So, here’s to Jamie Monday.

My fucking hero.”

I remember the speech, probably not word for word, but mostly. Sheer

mortification burned it into my heart and mind. Yet I don’t know what the hell

happened right after. I know there was clapping and cheering and drinking, and I know

I stood up and grabbed him and kissed him hard. But for a few minutes the world

became a complete blur.

And I didn’t feel like a failure. I didn’t feel like a fraud.

He had it all wrong. I never did anything anyone else wouldn’t do. I was possibly

the most selfish and childish of all the people in the room right then.

But it doesn’t matter. Because that’s all I need: to be his fucking hero.

* * * *

Mom dropped us off last night, so we had to behave in the car. The second we got

into the apartment, clothes started flying, and I dragged him into the bedroom and

dislodged a few cats. Then I grabbed him, threw him down on the bed, and crawled on

top of him, straddling his thighs and sinking two fingers of each hand into his sweet

little Jockeys and tugging downward.

He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled me down for a kiss. It’s been almost

two years since that very first kiss in the elevator at Humphries. At the time, I thought

he was incredible. Was so impressed with the way he turned it back on me, kissed me

so thoroughly that my knees went weak and my heart pounded hard.

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But back then, I had no fucking idea what he was capable of.

He arched his back a little, rubbing his swelling dick off on mine, and sucked at

my tongue. He tasted like Guinness; I tasted like Honeyed Fox. I ran my hands up his

chest, over his shoulders. “Mmm, baby. You have the sweetest mouth.”

He laughed and pushed himself up to sitting with one arm, the other hand still

tangled in my hair. This forced me backward, but I kept kissing, nipping at his lower

lip, then kissing again. “You’re the one, and you know it.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that.”

He grabbed my ass with one hand, my waist with the one that had been in my

hair, and flipped us over just like that. I found myself sprawled on my back with him

sinking into me from above, grinning with that fucking gorgeous dimple and all. My

head sank into the pillow; his hips fitted between my thighs, pressing them apart and

up until we found that perfect place. He rocked his hips; I rocked mine back. The

electric thrill is a little easier to control these days, just because I know what to expect in

these situations, but it still amps me hard and fast on him. I sent it fizzling down his

spine a little, made him shiver and buck into me. He buried his face in my neck, his

chest heaving against mine, all hot and delicious. “No. I’m not the only one. But I love

you, Jamie. So fucking much.”

And, of course, I was wet just like that. Rock hard and desperate to tear off those

underpants—and yet, I couldn’t quite escape the question that had been in my mind

ever since his little speech. Even as he tugged at my waistband, I managed to gasp,

“Why’d you say all that tonight?”

I believed that he loved me. I believed that he thought I was perfect—for him.

Kelly would never have settled for less than that. Like I told him ages ago, even just

knowing he liked me enough to be with me was something in itself. And now, Jesus, he

liked me—loved me—enough to marry me.

But he’d gone beyond that. And I honest to God didn’t get how anyone as smart,

as honest as him could talk about me like that.

206

Katey Hawthorne

He paused. Pulled his face out of my neck, let his weight bear down on me, let me

feel him sinking in, hot, real, sweet, sweat. His face was beautiful in what there was of

the moon through the window; his eyes were pure black, deep as they were dark; his

pale skin flushed just a little at the cheeks. As I stared, holding my breath, he traced my

hairline, ruffled my short-cropped bangs. A long, quiet, hot minute, wherein my

electricity began to uncoil down deep in me. My fingers and toes tingled. My skin

tightened, pebbled up.

And then, finally, he said, “Because it’s the truth. And I want everyone to know

it.”

I didn’t even have words, of course—by now I guess you know I hardly ever do. I

had to show him instead, but Kelly’s used to that. Never complains either.

* * * *

I guess that’s why I wanted to write this down—why I couldn’t sleep for thinking

of it. The whole story, from the day I met him to last night’s poetic exhibition. To make

sense of my own luck. To keep me honest. To prove to myself that this isn’t a dream.

And in some distant future, when we’re old and bent and the kids are long gone,

to fill in the cracks in our memories. To laugh over together.

Because even if his speech wasn’t, this story is true. And I want someone, at least,

to know it.

Nobody’s Hero

207

Nobody’s Hero: The Mixed Tape

“Grace Kelly” by Mika (Life in Cartoon Motion)

“Your Pure Soul” by The Charlatans (Who We Touch)

“Feel Good Inc” by Gorillaz (Demon Days)

“If I Should Fall from Grace with God” by The Pogues (If I Should Fall from Grace

with God)

“One Pure Thought” by Hot Chip (Made in the Dark)

“Whiskey Makes Me Crazy” by The Tossers (On a Fine Spring Evening)

“Kids” by MGMT (Oracular Spectacular)

“God Willing” by Dropkick Murphys (The Meanest of Times)

“Black is the Colour” by Sarah Dinan (From the Ashes)

“DARE” by Gorillaz (Demon Days)

“Sleep is for the Weak” by The Dreadnoughts (Polka’s Not Dead)

“Toothache” by The Charlatans (The Charlatans)

“Amazing Grace” by Dropkick Murphys (The Gang’s All Here)

“Touch Too Much” by Hot Chip (Made in the Dark)

“Might Tell You Tonight” by Scissor Sisters (Ta-Dah)

“The Rocky Road to Dublin” by The Tossers (On a Fine Spring Evening)

“Intimacy” by The Charlatans (Who We Touch)

“Atlas Air” by Massive Attack (Heligoland)

“Float” by Flogging Molly (Float)

Nobody’s Hero

209

Katey Hawthorne

Katey Hawthorne is an avid reader and writer of dark fiction and superpowered

romance, even though the only degree she holds is in the history of art. (Or, possibly,

because the only degree she holds is in the history of art.) Originally from the

Appalachian foothills of West Virginia, she currently lives in the D.C. Metro Area. In

her spare time she enjoys comic books, B-movies, loud music, Epiphones, and

Bushmills.

Links to reach Katey:

Main Web site:

http://www.kateyhawthorne.com

Blog:

http://kvtaylor.com

Email:

kate@kateyhawthorne.com

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