Nobody's Hero

by Katey Hawthorne

"You have a complex."

  "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?"

  He swiveled his chair around and clicked Save. He then typed a pointlessly gigantic but no doubt slightly different file name, clicked again, and closed out SQL. "I say, fuck this noise."

  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."

  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.

  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."

  "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 inc
ense 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 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.

  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. 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.

  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.

  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."

  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, open-mouthed, 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.