Nobody's Hero

by Katey Hawthorne

  Table of Contents

  Nobody's Hero

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Nobody's Hero: The Mixed Tape

  About the Author

  Nobody's Hero

  SUPERPOWERED LOVE – BOOK THREE

  KATEY HAWTHORNE

  Jamie Monday lives in two different worlds. With his family, he's the golden child of awakened superpowered society. He's meant to do great things and pass on his powers—with the appropriate girl, hand-picked by his mother. He's already failed at the first, so he can't bring himself to tell her the wife and children aren't happening either.

  With his friends, he's the social director and life of the party. He's also an out gay man with an appetite for quick and easy lays. It's tough to have a relationship when you're hiding off-the-charts electrical powers, but Jamie doesn't mind.

  Not until the prickly, paddy rocking, geeky-hot new guy at work shows him what he's been missing. Kellan's singular combination of dirty mouth and pure soul makes Jamie spark right from the beginning. But if he's going to overcome Kelly's defensive front and reach the gentle heart inside, Jamie will first have to come to terms with his own divided lives.

  Nobody's Hero

  By Katey Hawthorne

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Second Edition December 2018

  First Edition published March 2012 by Loose ID

  Copyright © 2018 by Katey Hawthorne

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684314072

  Print ISBN 9781684314256

  Thanks to John and Jen for their support and help bringing these guys to life. Thanks to Raven for getting it. So, so much getting it.

  This one's for the Reillys, who are far weirder and more wonderful than fiction.

  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.

  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."

  "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 was 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."

  "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 shu
t 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.

  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."

  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 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.

  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, 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."

  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.