Heroine Complex (17 page)

I shoved at the drawer again, but that only jostled the condoms further. More of them fell to the floor, their bright wrappers sparkling luridly in the morning light.

“Lucy, I do not want—”

“Evie—oh. Hello, Lucy.”

My head jerked away from the condom avalanche to see Nate lurking in the doorway, his expression turning uncertain when he spotted the two of us crammed together in bed. My heart gave an annoying little hop. And
dammit, this time there was no “Eternal Flame” to blame it on.

“Did you want something?” I said, sounding more standoffish than I intended. I wondered if he noticed the half-open drawer of condoms. Or the ones on the floor.

“Yes . . . no. I mean yes.” He raked a nervous hand through his hair and stepped more fully into the room. I fiddled with my comforter, running the fuzzy edge along my thumb. Lucy's eyes darted from me to Nate and back again.

“Well, I should get going,” she sang out, her voice suddenly way too loud. “I have to, uh, do some things!” She winked at me and slid out of bed. I gave her an “oh, come
on
” look, but she just skipped out the door.

Leaving me alone with Nate. Which, if I'd had to pick, was at the very bottom of my List of Desirable Situations.

I wondered if Lucy suspected anything. She had taken notice of my ruined shirt the night before. I'd hastily explained it away as a fire power-related mishap, which she'd seemed to accept readily enough, what with the sprinklers going off and all.

Maybe she was just so intent on ending my dry spell that any heterosexual man who so much as entered my bedroom was a winning prospect. And Nate was even more of a prospect since she was always trying to get me to notice his hotness.

Well, I guess I'd finally noticed last night. I'd noticed
a lot
.

I blew out a long breath and pulled the comforter around me in a makeshift cocoon.

“The company doing remodeling work on Cake My Day just sent something over,” Nate said. His nervousness had vanished and now I couldn't quite read his expression. I wondered if being alone with me was at the bottom of
his
List of Desirable Situations.

Dammit, Lucy.

“They found it embedded in one of the mixing bowls,” Nate continued, crossing the room. He sat down next to me and deposited a smooth, round stone in the palm of my hand. I scrutinized it. It was one of his supernatural gibberish stones, but this one had two clear words etched into it:

You need

“Flip it over,” Nate prompted. I did. On the back there was a single number:

3

“Wow,” I said, my tone continuing on its not-entirely-intentional standoffish bent. “Real, actual words.”

Nate frowned at my lack of reverence. The frown made me relax. A frown put us back in comfortable territory.

“If you ever paid attention, you'd know many of the portal stones have real, actual words on them,” he grumbled. “But this is the first case where they seem to be arranged as a directive—a command. The question is: a command from whom?”

“Or for whom,” I murmured, turning the stone over in my hand.

“What do you mean?” Nate said, still frowning at me. I frowned back, exasperated.

“It's just as valid a question,” I said. “Correct me if I'm wrong—and I'm sure you will—but our little demon friends are usually pretty haphazard. There's no rhyme or reason to where and when they attack and they don't seem organized enough to have a leader. If a directive is being issued, that says there's now someone worth issuing directives
to
. Which could possibly be a bit of data to log for our still-amorphous ‘demons changing and evolving' theory.”

I gave him a challenging look, expecting him to contradict me. But his frown dissipated.

“That's true,” he said. “Hmm. Interesting.”

He took the stone back from me and studied it, brow
furrowed. As he stroked his thumb contemplatively over the stone's surface, I couldn't help but flash back to him stroking . . . other things the night before. A flush crept up the back of my neck.

And we were back to that damn closet tryst highlights reel.

I shifted uncomfortably and pulled my comforter-cocoon more tightly around my body, banishing any and all images from the night before from my mind.

Of course, then he had to go and ruin it.

“Evie? I wanted to talk to you . . .”

Oh, no.

He set the stone on the bed, reached over, and brushed a hand against my shoulder. The briefest of physical contact, but his touch seemed to burn its way through my comforter, leaving an indelible mark on my skin. He dropped his hand in his lap, as if he wasn't sure what to do with it.

“. . . about last night.”

Nooooooo
.

I turned to him, silently ordering my face not to betray me. The way he was looking at me, the way his voice shaped itself around my name—rough and husky, just like the night before—made me want to come apart. But the last few days basically amounted to a series of random outbursts, impulse control problems, and emotional vomit. And now that we had possible demon evolution issues, I couldn't add this to the list. I just couldn't. I needed to have a firm handle on
something
.

“What do you want to talk about?” I said, my voice as steady as I could make it. “The fact that we were both bored and horny?”

Disbelief passed over his face. “That's your explanation? We were
horny
?”

My index finger poked out of my comforter-cocoon, jabbing into his chest. What was it about this man that constantly gave me the urge to
point
?

“Well,” I said. “Weren't we?”

He glowered at me. We faced off as if frozen in place, neither of us willing to budge. After a moment of heated silence, I caught a bit of movement in his face, a faint twitch of the lips.

“Are you
laughing
at me?” I snarled, retracting my pointy finger. “This is not funny. And shouldn't we be trying to figure out this whole demon . . . thing?” I flapped my hand at the stone. “Don't you think that's more important than our debatable levels of horniness? Like, possibly panic-worthy?”

“Yes.” His face sobered. “You're correct. Laughing in the midst of discussing this situation is inappropriate. But I can't really explain any of my behavior around you. You make me . . .”

“What? I make you
what
? You don't have some technobabble-y science term for it?”

“I do,” he retorted. “‘Completely insane.'”

His voice was resigned and puzzled with a hint of warmth, making that last bit sound more like an endearment than an insult. I squelched the heat rising in my cheeks.

“Guys?” Lucy ducked back into the room. “Um, sorry to interrupt, but we've got an emergency going on.”

“A bigger emergency than a possible demon evolution?” I said.

“Yes. Well . . . sort of. It's Aveda.” She hesitated, as if she couldn't quite believe what she needed to say next. “She's missing.”

I'D NEVER RACED
up a moving escalator before.

But there's a first time for everything. And boy, had these last few days brought me a lot of firsts.

We'd spent an hour trying to track Aveda down, only to receive a phone call from the security department of the San Francisco Mall. She'd been detained there, she was in some kind of trouble, and could we come by immediately?

As soon as we burst through the massive glass doors of the mall, Nate, Lucy, and I were off, clattering up the impossible-looking loop-de-loop of moving stairs that curved through all eight levels of the shopping mecca. It took the otherwise run-of-the-mill mall into sci-fi territory, a futuristic cityscape out of
Metropolis
.

“Superhero security detail coming through!” Lucy barked, leading the charge through the sea of shoppers clogging the escalator. “Move aside, please!”

“They really wouldn't tell you over the phone why Aveda's been detained by Nordstrom security?” I said, mouthing “sorry!” as I pushed past a pair of women weighed down by what appeared to be several metric tons of shopping bags. One of them gave me a dirty look.

“They wouldn't tell me anything,” Lucy said. “Which is why we need to get to her as soon as possible.”

Adrenaline thrummed through my system as we
shoved our way through the mass of bodies. The crowd reminded me of the Whistles crowd, thick and sweaty, but the momentum of the escalator gave me an extra lift, propelling me forward. We finally landed on the fourth floor of Nordstrom, a wonderland of heels, wedges, and boots arranged on marble platforms and spotlighted from above. A cloud of flowery perfume seemed to coat the air, and a gleaming grand piano sat near the top of the escalator, positioned on a bit of plush red carpet. Even though the lid was closed and the actual player appeared to be off duty, the mere presence of the piano gave the store that extra little bit of luxury.

“Security office is that way,” Lucy said, pointing toward the back.

I decided not to ask how she knew that.

As we marched purposefully through the shoes, I spied a pair of all-too-familiar figures.

“Shit,” I muttered, my adrenaline levels ratcheting upward.

Maisy Kane and Shasta were loitering outside the security office like a pair of overdressed vultures. Maisy was doing a yellow thing today: honey-colored sundress and sandals with plastic daisies on the toes. Another daisy was tucked behind her ear, as if to create the illusion that she found it growing on the street and whimsically plucked it from its urban prison. Her hair was now dyed golden blond.

Had Aveda been spotted here, doing whatever it was that had landed her in the security office?

Did Maisy have some kind of exclusive “scoop” on the incident?

Could this situation get any worse?

“Lucy,” I muttered, nodding toward Maisy and Shasta. “Let me and Nate distract them. You slip into the security office and find out what's going on. And then we'll figure out how to get Aveda out of here without causing a scandal.”

“Roger that,” Lucy said.

I sped up, ignoring the hammering of my heart as I planted myself in front of Maisy and Shasta.

“Uh, what's up?” I said.

Terrible opener, but it got them to look at me—and away from the security office while Lucy darted through the door.

“Well, good gosh-dang! Aren't you Aveda Jupiter's escort?” Maisy's eyes immediately diverted from me to Nate, who'd positioned himself behind me, distracting them further. “Goodness, that monkey suit you were wearing at the benefit did not do justice to your physique,” she purred, laying a hand on Nate's arm.

I stiffened, consumed by a stab of . . . something. The closest feeling I could liken it to was the idea that someone was trying to steal my favorite toy.

“We heard tell of an Aveda Jupiter sighting over here,” Maisy continued. She linked her arm through Nate's. “I imagine you've got the inside word on that? You two seemed awfully cozy at the benefit.”

“She's just doing a little shopping,” I said, making my tone firm. “And she'd really like to be left alone while doing so.”

“Shopping, eh?” Shasta examined her zebra-striped nails. “So she has time for that, but can't find a moment to send us that promised statement about the Yamato incident?”

Ugh. I'd completely forgotten about the statement. I tried to catch Shasta's eye, but she was really into her nails.

“I really must have a li'l ol' girl time meet-up with her,” Maisy said, ignoring both me and Shasta. “I know soup dumplings are her favorite, and the most adorable place just opened up down the street from me. Probably the most authentic xiaolongbao I've had outside of Shanghai.”

Oh, brother. There was something deeply ironic about
the fact that so many of the “exotic” food items that had gotten us teased and bullied by our white classmates were now fetishized by white hipsters.

I bit back a retort about 1) how terrible her exaggerated accent was and 2) how there was no way mass-produced dumplings spat out by some trendy place in Maisy's neighborhood were more “authentic” than the ones handmade by Aveda's mother.

“We could go shopping together,” Maisy continued. “I have so many style ideas for her.”

“Aveda doesn't need any ideas,” I blurted out, unable to hold back this time. “She likes her style just the way it is.” And before I could stop myself, I added, “Potential nip slips and all.”

An awkward silence descended as Maisy and Shasta turned to stare at me. And for the first time since I'd known her, Maisy looked uncomfortable.

“Um, yes. Well.” Maisy arranged her features back into their usual carefree expression and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her bright yellow skirt. “I'm sure Aveda would love the cute vintage boutique I just found in the Mission—so much more original than the clothes you get at corporatized chains. I hate those.”

“Which is why you're at the mall,” I said. “And not just any mall, but the biggest, most touristy mall in the city.” I didn't know where all these words were coming from, but I couldn't seem to stop them. There was that unhinging feeling again, loosening my tongue and obliterating my impulse control.

“It can be fun to mix mass fashion with your own unique POV,” Maisy insisted. “I'm sure Aveda would agree with me.”

“I know she wouldn't,” I countered, verbal vomit going into full effect. “And do you know why?”

Maisy shrank away from me and glanced at Nate, as if to say, “Please, sir, protect me!”

“Because,” I said, “if there's one thing Aveda can't
stand, it's overdressed pseudo-hipsters who pretend to be her friends and then threaten to post ‘nip-slip' pictures of her on their stupid, sensationalistic, overhyped blog
things
in order to leech off her hard-earned and actually deserved fame.”

Maisy's mouth formed a perfect O.

“I would never!” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “My posts about her revealing outfit were nothing but flattering. And I didn't even post the photo I had of her actual nipple, ah, revelation.”

“She would never!” echoed Shasta, making an unsuccessful attempt to do her own fluttery hand thing.

“Oh. You so would.” I took a step forward. Maisy dove behind Nate, her grip on his arm tightening. “Aveda has eyes everywhere. We know you were trying to stir up some kind of salacious mean girl bullshit. We
know
.”

To emphasize my point, I did the I-see-you thing where I pointed at my eyes with my index and middle fingers, then pointed at Maisy, then back to me again. It was ridiculous. It was also immensely satisfying.

“Not so mousy today,” Maisy murmured. “When did you decide to grow a backbone, Rude Girl?”

“It doesn't matter,” I growled. It was a pretty good growl. “What matters is this: you need to leave Aveda alone and stop posting all your snarky bullshit about her appearance. Enough with the tearing down other women and encouraging everyone else to look at them through a male gaze-centric lens. Just . . . enough. And keep your grabby hands off her
escort
.”

I jerked my head at Nate. Maisy retracted her claws from his arm so fast her hair daisy fell to the floor. She slunk off, Shasta trailing behind her.

“Man,” I heard her mutter. “What a gosh-dang cun—”

“Was that necessary? Telling them off like that?”

I turned back around to see Nate gazing at me, his expression amused.

“What?” I said. “I got rid of them, didn't I? Plus I'm
protecting Aveda and her image. Maisy's posts totally encourage the fans to make even shittier comments than usual. I know how damaging that can be; I wrote a paper on superheroines and male gaze-centrism in grad school.”

“And the bit about the ‘grabby hands'?”

“I could tell Maisy was making you uncomfortable.” My lips started to twitch and I tried to school them into a more stern expression. “I can't have her disrespecting you in Nordstrom, of all places.”

His lips were twitching, too. “I do have a frequent shopper card.”

I gaped at him. “C-card?”

He shrugged. “They have an excellent selection of black T-shirts.”

“You're serious?”

He finally allowed the smile to overtake his face. “I'm
always
serious.”

I lost our stand-off and laughed. He joined me with his own harsh burst of a chuckle. It was such an odd sound, but it gave me a frisson of pleasure, my heart doing that hoppy thing in my chest.

“Guys? Where'd the Evil Overlord and her minion slink off to?”

We turned to find Lucy emerging from the security office.

“We got them to leave,” I said. “Is Aveda okay?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “But I need you to remember what you said earlier about getting her out of here without causing a scandal. Save the fire for later, okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just . . . don't get mad at them right now.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.
“Them?”

“What were you thinking?” I halted my furious pacing and glared at the two figures seated in front of me. “Scratch that—you obviously weren't.”

“Any more faux-Mom clichés to bestow before we get out of here?”

“Beatrice Constance Tanaka,” I spat out, well aware that this did nothing to diminish my Mom-like aura. “You do not get to talk right now.”

I resumed my pacing. Pacing in the Nordstrom security office was frustrating business. There wasn't a lot of walk room in the small, gray cube. And I kept worrying about accidentally pacing into one of the giant TV screens or other pieces of complicated-looking equipment used to monitor the store. An hour ago one of these screens had captured Bea and Aveda trying to exit the mall with a pile of expensive scarves and cardigans they hadn't bothered to pay for.

“You told me to comfort her,” Bea said accusingly. I could practically feel the teenage hate-rays coming off her, but I willed myself not to step back. “The bunny vids went only so far. She was sick of being cooped up, so I thought we could have some fun. Not that you'd know anything about that.”

“And I assumed once the security guards learned my true identity, they'd simply let us go,” Aveda interjected. “It was supposed to be a little adventure.”

“An adventure in shoplifting?” I retorted.

Aveda crossed her arms over her chest. “I was tired of reading about Aveda 2.0 being so much better than the real thing,” she said. “We were initially just going to go shopping, but when Beatrice suggested perhaps we should up the fun factor by doing something a bit naughty . . . well. I was just so
bored
—”

“I dared her,” Bea interrupted. “I dared her to see if she could get away with it.”

“And Aveda Jupiter does not back down from a dare,” Aveda said.

“A
dare
?” I said, incredulous. Frustration and anger boiled inside of me, a potent stew threatening to rise up. Heat ghosted across my palm.

Not now,
I thought at the fire.
This is not the time, okay?

“I don't see what the big deal is,” Bea said. “We dressed her up all incognito. So no one would recognize her.”

Aveda was outfitted in a way I could only describe as bag lady meets teen runaway: crocheted hippie-dippy crop top, oversize jeans that concealed her cast, and a flashy sequined belt that had likely come directly from Bea's closet. The ensemble was topped off with a floppy-brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses that took up a full third of her face. Her crutches were propped up against the wall next to her.

I tried another stern glare, as if the sheer power of my angry eyeballs would force them to apologize. Instead they just stared back, matching pouts in place.

My frustration flared again. My palm heated again.