by Lina Jubilee
Vim had been an exception. I got all swept up in his rhetoric, his vision for the future… And look how that turned out. A life constantly on the run. A life full of little meaning, other than busting things up.
I had an epiphany one day after waking up in his van for the umpteenth time, shivering in the cold. As much as I loved him, I wanted more from life. I wanted to do more. I could do more. I moved back home to wary parents who never fully knew what I’d been up to during my year or so on the run, took out some loans to attend community college, studied my ass off, graduated early, and then got the scholarship to grad school. Vim clearly couldn’t move on and accept that.
Yet I clearly couldn’t fully move on, either.
She was right, though. I had no business dragging other men into this mess until I was sure I was over Vim.
But frankly, one-night stands aside, I had no desire to date again after losing Clive. It had seemed like maybe he could be the one to help me move on… If there could ever be one for me.
And it was over now. Because I couldn’t bring myself to erase Vim’s memories of me once and for all.
“I don’t want Vim to forget me,” I say not for the first time, but quietly, hesitatingly. Sighing, I flip through pictures on my tablet and find one of Clive and me getting ice cream last weekend. Turned out he’d never tried banana soft serve before. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing. And I suppose now he was as good as a banana soft-serve virgin once more since I erased that memory.
My fingers hover over the screen, over that wickedly broad smile of his, the way my freckle-dotted face lit up as I leaned against his broad chest. We were happy in the short time we were together.
Maybe now that it’s too late, I realize that I didn’t want him to forget me, either.
Camille shoves the sucker back into her mouth and devotes both hands to typing, the stick bobbing up and down between her lips. After a couple of minutes, she pulls it out and tosses it in the trash can crammed between my desk and the loveseat with a loud clunk. “You ever going to explain everything you got up to as ‘Mutiny’ to me?”
“It’s bad enough you know as much as you do.” I sit as straight as a rod, all business, flicking away the image of Clive and turning back to my reading. After a minute, I say more. “I appreciate you keeping it secret.” I’d never been tempted to wipe her memory. She was too good of a friend, and she kept her mouth shut about what went down between my exes and me. “But it’s nothing huge. We were a bunch of misguided kids.”
“Sure. Just like any misguided kid with a penchant for destruction.” Camille slams her laptop shut and tosses it on the seat next to her. “I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to keep this up. Next time, your misguided ex is going to be dangling your date from a construction crane and maybe you won’t get there in time to save the poor guy.”
“He hasn’t dangled anyone from a construction crane.”
“Whatever. The point is—heaven forbid I bring it up again, I already know it won’t do any good—if you’re so insistent you’re not going to memory-wipe Vim, are you ready to stop dating?”
“Do one-night stands count?”
“I don’t know! I’m not the one with a supervillain stalker! Anything could set him off.”
“Shh,” I tell her. It’s the weekend, and anyone who’s not studying is typically out, so the dorm is a little too quiet for comfort. Even 106 is gone, no music echoing down the halls.
Camille snatches up a throw pillow, cradling it against her stomach. “I don’t remember that question on the roommate questionnaire. Do you want to room with a smoker? No. Do you prefer someone who likes to study? Yes. Do you want to room with a Natch who happens to have a complicated history with one of the city’s biggest Natch criminals?”
I sit down beside her, nudging her shoulder with mine. “A Natch doesn’t always know which Typicals will be cool with them. It’s not exactly something I like bringing up if I don’t have to.”
Vim’s arms around me, drawing me closer, a light sparkling in his bewitching brown irises. His white flames are burning “Natch Hater” and a few more choice words in the broken display window of a bakery that turned away a Natch couple looking for a wedding cake. Torynt’s shouting somewhere inside the shop as he sends tables and chairs flying with the vortex of wind flowing from his hand. The blond, tanned surfer-like dude is one of Vim’s only friends and when he’s not off causing chaos solo, he’s one-third of our little group.
The most boisterous third of our little group.
“Will you look at my redecorating skills?” Torynt lets out a little cry like he’s at the peak of a roller coaster, about to soar down. “Nothing like a little destruction to fight a little bigotry.”
“We’re changing the world,” whispers Vim, his throaty voice low and revving up my motor. “One Typical-scum bakery at a time.”
His hands on my ass, his lips on mine, first quick, then slow, sending tingles straight to my spine. “Let’s light up the stars together, baby,” he says.
He’s changing my world, that’s for sure. He’s showing me I don’t have to play by the rules…
“Fair,” says Camille, snapping me out of the memory of how naïve I once was. “But anyone who’s not cool with Natches in general is an asshole.” She nudges me back. “It’s just the supervillain part…”
“He’s not a supervillain,” I say quietly. “Not really.”
“All right then,” she says. “I’ll drop it.” Her gaze flickers to the alarm clock above my desk. “Say, why don’t we stop working for the day? It’s getting to be dinner time. Let’s go out.”
I groan. “I have so much to do this weekend.”
“So do I, but it’s Saturday. It can wait.” Camille grins wickedly. “Let’s go to Moonslicer.”
Moonslicer is the hippest nightclub near our small college town. It’s a bit of a drive, but the Natch vibe of the place makes it a lot of fun. You never know what kind of powers you’ll see on display. The only rules are no fighting and no busting up the place—but otherwise, anything goes. Lots of Typicals flock there, too, looking for some fun—of a number of varieties.
I jump to my feet. It’s been ages since I’ve gone there. “Fine, but let’s save some money and eat here first.”
One flavorless order of French toast from the cafeteria later, we’re back in the dorm room, dressed to the nines—Camille in a hot pink curve-hugging number, me in a vibrant red blouse and black pencil miniskirt. I’ve been through enough with Vim the past few months to know that heels are never that great an idea. I settle for sleek black sandals.
After another forty minutes, we thank the driver of our ride share and exit in front of Moonslicer to find a long line, the pulsating beat and the bluish glow spilling out from the open doorway enticing everyone to wait to see if they’ll be let in by the stern-looking bouncer. His hair is so silver and shiny—it takes me a second to realize it’s metal. I’ve seen this guy before.
I tug on Camille’s elbow. “We should get back.”
Camille looks at me as if my head just rolled off. “No way! Don’t let a little line intimidate you!”
She speaks louder than I’d like her to, and all eyes are soon on us—including Metal Scalp’s.
“Mutiny!” he hollers, unhooking the velvet rope blocking the long line from entry. His head tilts just slightly to indicate he wants us to go through, but he may as well be waving a sparkling flag.
“Did he just call you ‘Mutiny’?” Camille asks. “So he knew you back in the day, huh?”
“Sort of,” I admit. “I came here once or twice with Vim.” And I don’t want this guy telling Vim I’m here. But it’s too late now.
“Joey,” Metal Scalp says more firmly. “Come on. You know I can’t just let you stand out here and catch your death.” There’s something ominous in the way he says that, a slight lowering to his already baritone voice.
People in line are whispering now, probably angry we get to cut.
It turns into a scowl the moment we’re inside.
“Hey, don’t be mad about VIP treatment,” says Camille, her voice getting louder with each word as we head closer and closer to the speakers around the dance floor. She fluffs her hair a bit as she takes the room in. “Oh, I haven’t been here in ages—not since I was an undergrad. I was dating a Natch boy who—ohmygod, this is my song!”
She turns to me and tries to drag me after her. “Come on!”
I slip out of her grip and frown. “No, I don’t dance—”
“What?” she says, either not hearing me or pretending not to.
“I’m getting a drink!” I shout. “Want anything?”
Camille shakes her head, already caught up in the beat, so I offer her an encouraging smile, ducking as quickly as I can between two vibrating bodies and making my way to the bar. The spiky-haired woman behind the counter is busy, so I just take up a spot by the wall at the curved end of the bar top. The bartender has a line of spikes down her pale pink back. That’s pretty rare—a Natch ability that leaves a visible marker. No wonder all eyes are drawn to the low-cut purple dress that leaves the line of spikes exposed. That and the fact that she has legs that just won’t quit.
“What’ll it be—oh, you.” The bartender wears her yellow hair in a bun piled at the side of her head that juts out in harsh, spiky strands. I forget her name, but I recognize her. And the way those brown eyes used to light up whenever Vim turned her way, her lips curling into a scowl when his back was turned and she caught my eye instead. A scowl much like the one she has plastered on now.
“An appletini,” I say, not even fully in the mood to drink it.
She grunts and makes her way back down the line, taking as long as she can to make the drink. That’s fine. I’m too busy being assaulted with a flutter of nausea. I don’t know why I thought coming here would be different now. It’s not like this was a frequent stop Vim and Torynt and I made, but I suppose any place in this town I visited with them is tainted. Those two are attention-seekers, that’s for sure.
If it weren’t for the good scholarship I was offered by my school—and let’s be honest, a lot of things are cheaper here, considering the otherworldly Nelian elf invaders tore the place up pretty consistently a few years back—I wouldn’t have stuck around. I’m going to get licensed anywhere but here once I’m finished. See if Vim’s badboy reach extends beyond this two-bit town.
And why does the thought of him giving up on me once and for all make my heart grow cold? Grow up already, Jo. Your dream of becoming a lawyer and helping people is more important than any single boyfriend.
Especially one who never seemed to graduate beyond busting up shops.
Future lawyers and lawbreakers just don’t mix. Even if the lawbreaker is sexy and amazing and so much of what you always wanted…
“$8.50.” With a whap, my martini glass appears in view, spiky blue nails curled around the stem. The bartender crosses her arms and sneers. I rummage around in my purse and pay up. From the grunt that escapes past those thin lips, I get the feeling she doesn’t like the fifty-cent tip. The thought actually sends a grin to my face as I take a slow, careful sip of the sweet drink.
“Mutiny! As I live and breathe.”
There goes the smile.
Clearing my throat, I turn to find the man with the familiar face slipping onto the stool beside me.
“Torynt.” My eyes flutter as I take him in, the single sip of martini almost returning right back up my throat. He’s only somewhat recognizable.
The wisecracking former sometimes-cohort of Vim has changed. His sandy-blond hair is shaggy now, his skin a bit tanner, complementing the whole hunky beach-bum look. He’s filled out—still on the leaner side, but the biceps and six-pack bulging through his skin-tight navy crewneck are hard to miss. His brown eyes sparkle even in the neon light of the club as he grins, revealing a row of shiny white teeth, his chin, cheeks, and lips peppered with a pale five o’clock shadow. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He slides his shot glass onto the counter.
I don’t miss the slight, measured dip of his gaze over my body. Shaking my head, I go back to cradling my drink, more interested in staring down into the pale green liquid than imbibing any of it. The heat of all the grinding bodies behind me is really hitting me just now, and as I take a deep breath to ease the rapid, unexpected thumping of my heart, the musk of beechwood assaults my nose, the scent suddenly far too tantalizing.
What’s in this drink?
“What have you been up to? I saw Vim a month back and he said you’d gone soft.” Torynt nudges my elbow on the bar top with his own. “Didn’t know you were ever hard. I thought that was Vim in your presence.”
I groan. Maybe Torynt hasn’t changed much, after all.
“I hear you stuck it out solo for a bit,” I say, purposely gazing over his head to search for my Typical dormmate. I see Camille’s black hair swinging wildly near the DJ as a hunky, pale, bald Natch shoots little sparks out of his fingertips and shimmies up close to her. “And now you’re a Renegade?”
Torynt never struck me as much of a team player—not for more than a few busting-up-businesses missions at least. The Renegades are a pretty famous group who are fighting hard for better Natch treatment as a whole by Typicals—though their methods of fighting aren’t exactly universally applauded. Some people do argue Renegades are doing a lot of good these days, but it’s crystal clear what side of the law they fall on: the side I’m not. How they get away with that is another complicated story, but suffice to say, they operate outside of the law and the law looks the other way.
“Yeah,” says Torynt. His chest puffs out and he looks awfully proud of himself. “Don’t have time for little games anymore. Too busy saving the world and making it a better place for Natches and all that.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop myself from chuckling. He seems so sure of himself. Not that he ever hasn’t been. But it’s not like his face makes the news all the time. It’s usually the Renegades’ leader or the Nelian king they work with. Torynt? He’s muscle. An enforcer at best.
He slams back half of his shot, then directs a tiny tornado of air into the glass from his fingers, the gently-swirling liquid like one of those soda-bottle tornado experiments.
He seems to have much better control these days than he did back when he’d hit places with Vim and me.
“So I take it from all the theatrics and Vim’s stiff demeanor when pressed that you and he are splitsville,” he says. Torynt heads off the bartender’s approach with a shake of the head, and the light falls out of her eyes as she stares at me and Torynt beside me before stiffly turning her back to us.
Yeah, sure, lady, I get all the good ones. That’s why I’m here single and broke and eager to put a past that might get me kicked out of law school behind me.
“Mutiny?” asks Torynt.
“Can you quit with that? The code name?”
Torynt chuckles, the throaty sound sending a shiver to my toes. “I thought Natch names were a point of pride.”
“Maybe for Natches like you, Jesse.” I know he hates his birth name.
He flinches. “Point taken, Joey. Or how about just ‘Red’?” He grins and clenches his hand into a fist, turning the little hurricane into a splash that spills most of the liquid over the top of his shot glass. “Didn’t know being a Natch was a touchy subject with you.”
“It’s not.” I tuck a strand of my wavy hair behind my ear. “It’s just… I’m working on my law degree. I want to be a lawyer who represents Natches. On the right side of the law.”
Torynt’s nose wrinkles. “The right side of the law didn’t get us very far before the Nelians showed up.”
I shrug. “I want to fight the system from within.”
“Classy.” Torynt lifts his shot glass toward me in a toast, his grin fading as he must have taken in the death glare I aimed his way. �
��I mean it!” Draining what little is left of his shot, he then sets the glass down. “You’ve always been a class act, Jo. Truth be told, I always wondered what a woman like you was doing running around with a couple of dunderheads like Vim and me to begin with.” He nods at me appreciatively, and I imagine my pale, freckled face is flushing from the heat rising up to my cheeks.
I’m about to say something, but my mouth just sticks open agape.
“What?” asks Torynt, looking over his shoulder.
Clive has just shuffled up to the other end of the bar, the bartender lighting back up like a hundred bulbs—metaphorically—at his approach. What is he doing here?
“You know that guy?” Torynt frowns.
“Come with me,” I say, on my feet before I can think twice about it and threading my arm through his. My heart is beating like mad. I shouldn’t care. Clive isn’t going to recognize me—he wouldn’t remember any of Vim’s little game. But I… I don’t want to be around him. Don’t want to remember the time we shared, the way his kisses sent tingles straight down to my core.
We hadn’t even gotten to sleep together.
Fact is, Vim almost always interfered before I got that far with anyone.
Maybe the secret was to just give in to those urges the second they arrived—screw the courtship. I would have done that with Clive, but he’d held back.
But I was never meant to be a settle-down kind of gal anyway.
“Okay.” Torynt scratches his chin. “Might I ask where we’re…?”
I bypass the dance floor and he lets himself get dragged along, staring over his shoulder at the throbbing mass of people.
I take him down the “hall of fun,” as Vim used to call it.
We’re only two steps into the corridor before Torynt slips from my grasp and yanks me to a stop by the shoulders. “You don’t take a man down here on a whim, Joey O’Shea.” His voice, usually light and airy, takes on a throaty, husky tone as he speaks, the muted music reduced to a thumping base in this dark and narrow hallway. “Even if you’re trying to get away from an ex.”