Nobody's Hero

by Katey Hawthorne

  "You ever been in love before, Jamie?"

  My eyebrows went up. Not exactly a Billy kind of question. "Um, no."

  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.

  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.

  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."

  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?"

  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 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.

  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.

  "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 long enough to say, "Shut up and get naked, Jamie."

  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 goosebumps 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.

  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 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.