Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  “Ladies”—the fortress nods—“is there a problem?”

  My eyes round. Um, yes, yes there is. There’s a pulsating, itchy hive forming at my side, and the sensation that my tongue has turned itself inside out, and the goiter on my neck. I touch it, oh wait, that’s my carotid. Good, because I can’t handle…

  Irina grips my hand firmly and gives me a tight smile before responding. “As a matter of fact, there is”—her eyes drop to the label on the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt—“Lucien, and I believe you’re the only one who can help us.” Her barely detectable accent makes a sudden grand appearance. Just as it always does when she feels it’ll work to her advantage.

  And if following her lead means looking seventeen and terrified, then I’m doing awesome. I try to relax my shoulders and appear indifferent.

  “Is that so?” the bouncer replies. His brows do a subtle lift, intrigue overruling his skepticism.

  “Da.” Irina passes him the card. “You see, Grant Walker was expecting us over thirty minutes ago. And”—she bites her lip in dismay—“well, you know how he gets before a show.”

  “Huh. He gave this to you, did he?” The bouncer holds the card up to the light, presumably studying the signature. “Looks legit.” He hands it back, giving us another once-over; Irina and I are so opposite and mismatched we somehow go together. “Tell me…”

  “Irina,” she supplies.

  His white teeth gleam in the shadows. “Irina, just how many piercings do you have?”

  “A lot.”

  “Anywhere interesting?”

  This is the moment I know she has him. He is a fly in her web. She steps closer, wrapping him snug in her silken spider thread. Her mouth rises seductively at one corner. “I never pierce and tell.”

  Lucien chuckles. “Go on, then.” He nods toward the door. “Don’t wanna be more late. And, hey…hey!”

  Our heads cautiously swivel back. Iri’s squeezing my hand and I’ve forsaken breathing all together.

  “Be careful in there.” He says to me, “That goes for you, too, school teacher. Better guard those apples.”

  Anger steamrolls my short-lived relief. “And just what the hell do you mean b—”

  “We will!” Irina nearly jerks my arm clean from its socket. “You’re going to blow this,” she warns.

  “Mudak!” I hiss with a hostile glare.

  Lucien cocks his head as Irina springs into damage control. “Uh, yes, mudak is our special way of saying…‘thank you’ in Russian. Let’s go, dorogaya.”

  Her brow rises a fraction higher once we’ve distanced ourselves from the bouncer.

  I huff. “Don’t even start. That was totally justified.”

  “Mudak? After a year of being exposed to my Russian, you’ve only managed to learn swear words?” Irina clucks her tongue. “I’d be disappointed if I weren’t so damn proud.”

  The door opens. Thumping music echoes down the tunnel-like entryway. I peer uncertainly up to Irina.

  “After you,” she says. “Let the hunt begin.”

  Pendants float from the high ceiling in a staggering display of emerald lights. The lounge adjacent to the bar has a bohemian hodgepodge of sofas and overstuffed chairs, sectioned off by thick velvet curtains. For now, the stage is empty, and the DJ spins trip-hop and off-the-grid electronica that makes me feel drunk despite being stone-cold sober.

  Irina’s chatting up a couple of guys near the crowded dance floor. Bodies bounce and move to the relentless rhythm. I point to the bar and she lifts her chin in acknowledgment.

  Operation Soul Mate has been in full swing for almost an hour. Irina and I have split up to check out the club under the guise of “research” for a cutting-edge book on astrology I’m writing. Part of why I picked tonight’s outfit—contrary to Iri’s naughty-librarian jab—is that it has a literary air. We have a totally plausible excuse for approaching complete strangers to ask their astrological sign and date of birth. Not that I really need to ask. My skills are finely honed. I can often pinpoint a person’s sun sign with alarming accuracy—based purely on observation.

  Take the trendy cute guy standing next to me. His posture oozes confidence, and when he speaks, his buddies hang on every word. And there are a lot of words. But they’re thrilling tales of white-water rafting and skydiving. The guy might as well be wearing a pair of ram horns. But I asked his birthday anyway. You can imagine my nonsurprise when he turned out to be Aries.

  I haven’t been wrong yet.

  But despite my star savvy, the plan has been…an epic fail. It doesn’t help that the place is crawling with Scorpios, which I’m most certainly not in the market for. And it really doesn’t help that many of my astrological questions have been met with “whatever you want it to be,” some quizzical stares, and one guy proudly claiming he was the cock.

  As in Year of the Rooster.

  As in the Chinese zodiac.

  As in this will be the longest night of my life.

  I’ve been dodging that guy the whole evening. This is one of the few instances where being slightly below average height has worked to my advantage.

  A server dressed in a green sequined shift dress squeezes by, tray in hand. The fairy wings at her back are coated with green glitter. Right, Green Fairy is a nickname for absinthe liqueur. Someone was a marketing genius.

  “Watch it!” a tall redhead snaps when I bump into her.

  “Sorry.” Seems the club has given me a case of sensory ADD.

  The Amazonian laughs, dragging her glassy eyes up and down me. “What are you supposed to be, honey? I didn’t know it was theme night.”

  “Myself,” I answer.

  She giggles before disappearing inside a velvet-draped alcove marked RESERVED. “Ooh!” The redhead’s squeal is followed by male laughter. I don’t stick around to hear the rest.

  Spotting an empty seat at the bar, I carefully pick my way through the people. And wouldn’t you know, just as I reach the stool, someone else slides into it.

  Clearly, this dude didn’t get the memo that it’s my lucky day. I tap his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  He turns. “Yeah?”

  Wow. He’s really cute. Dark eyes and dark hair that’s mussed in a way like he tried but didn’t. Despite my previous declaration of a sexual flatline, I still know a good-looking boy when I see him. And there’s something terribly familiar about him, but I don’t know why.

  “Oh, were you going to sit here?” He stands. “Here, go ahead, you take it.”

  “Really?” I refrain from kissing him in gratitude. “You are an absolute lifesaver! These shoes are killing my feet.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I left my heels at home. I only wear them on very special occasions.” He’s grinning as I clumsily hop up on the barstool. This below-the-knee pencil skirt was much better in theory.

  I blow out a breath, finally settled, and brush back a drooping wave. “So, tonight isn’t special?”

  “It could be,” he replies, his gaze lowering. “Those are a really nice pair by the way.”

  I prickle as I recall the open button of my shirt. I consider tossing my drink on him and then remember I don’t have one.

  He inclines his head toward my feet. “Your shoes, I mean.”

  “Right, yeah, I knew that.”

  “Well, that’s good, because for a second there I thought you were going to slap me. By the way, I’m Seth.”

  “Not the Egyptian deity associated with chaos and destruction, I hope?” I ask.

  “Hardly,” he chuckles, “but my mom might have occasion to disagree.” He motions to a bartender with ambitious sideburns. “Most people just call me plain Seth—no immortal Egyptian reference. How about you?”

  “No. No one calls me Seth.”

  “Witty, adorable”—he ticks off on his fingers—“and wears stylishly painful shoes. If only she had a name.”

  I grin. “Wilamena. Most people just call me Wil…except for my grandmother.”
/>   “What does she call you?”

  I fold my arms and shrug. “Typically, Mena—unless I’m in trouble. Then there’s a sliding scale of names proportionate to the offense.”

  “Wondered if you’d show tonight.” The bartender reappears, setting a glass of amber liquid in front of Seth.

  “Warms my heart to know I’d be missed. Thanks, Nico.” He tilts the glass in a toast.

  “Anything I can get for you, doll?” Sideburns, er, Nico addresses me. His five-o’clock shadow grows more shadowy awaiting my answer.

  “Um, just a ginger ale, please.”

  “You can get whatever you want.” Seth gives me a knowing look. “Nico’ll take care of you.”

  “Ginger ale is fine,” I repeat. My dabbling with drinking has often led to a vomitous end, and tonight, a clear head is essential.

  “Your wish is my command,” Nico replies with a slight bow.

  Seth rolls his eyes. “Mothers, hide your daughters. You should know he’s like that with everyone. The flirting thing’s compulsive.”

  “I’m guessing it makes for better tips.”

  “You’d guess right.” Seth takes a drink and squints. “So, Wil, I have to ask…are you here with someone?”

  “My friend Irina, why?”

  His face is pensive. “Because that guy’s been checking you out since you sat down.”

  “Really? Where?” I crane my neck.

  “Other side of the bar. Oh, uh…looks like he’s gone now.”

  Nico returns with my drink, eyes lighting on something behind me.

  When I reach for my purse, Seth stills my hand. “Don’t worry, I—”

  “It’s on the house,” Nico cuts in, giving Seth a funny look.

  “Figures,” Seth mutters, setting his jaw.

  “What figures?” I ask. But before Seth can answer, my purse starts vibrating along the bar. “Oh, um…that’s probably my friend.” Unsnapping the clutch, I struggle to liberate my cell from the inside pocket. I’ve crammed in so much, it’s a minor miracle I was able to close it the first time.

  Seth chuckles. “Can I get you a crowbar or something?”

  I grin with a touch of embarrassment. “Maybe. This is what happens when you downsize your purse but not the number of—” Suddenly I catch Iri bobbing up and down and wildly waving her arms. I drop my bulging purse back on the bar. “Seth, can you wait here just a minute?”

  He sees Irina impatiently bouncing around as if she’s composed of ninety percent rubber. “Sure.”

  I squeeze my way through the crowd, rushing over to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her red lips curl, the telltale huntress gleam is in her eyes. “Did you get my text?”

  “No, I couldn’t get to my—”

  “Never mind.” Irina grabs my shoulders, swiveling me slightly to the left. “What do you think of him? Hot, yeah?”

  “Of who?” The strobe light flickers on a cluster of guys.

  “Him!” She points to the tallest, Hulkiest figure in the group.

  I make a face. “I think I would not date someone who wears a Charlie Brown T-shirt. He’s Sagittarius?”

  Irina expels a breath. “Not for you. For me! And it’s not a Charlie Brown T-shirt.”

  “This is your emergency? Need I remind you of the mission at hand? Jeez, Iri, focus, would you?” I don’t wait to hear her line of defense.

  Returning to my barstool Seth asks, “Everything good?”

  “Yeah.” I wave my hand. “False alarm.”

  Seth tosses back the rest of his drink, pushing away from the bar. “Listen, Wil, I’m sorry. Something just popped up I gotta take care of, but I hope I see you again. That is, if you’re in the market for chaos.” He winks.

  Well, when he puts it like that…

  “Wait, Seth.” I catch his arm. He stares where my hand rests. I quickly let go. “B-before you leave, can I ask you a question? It’s important.” I bite my lip. I’ve asked the question an absurd number of times and now I’m nervous? I should just make an educated guess and be done with this.

  His demeanor warms. “Ask me anything. No promises I’ll answer.”

  “Okay…what’s your sign?” I blurt.

  Seth starts to grin, blocking the full smile with his hand. “That has got to be the lamest line ever. And I’m here a lot, so I’ve heard ’em all.”

  I hold my chin high. “I’m serious.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” His grin falters. “Uh, I dunno.” He pulls out his cell and taps at the screen. Guys rarely know their sign, so I assume he’s looking it up. Which is my mistake. I should’ve just asked for his birth date. But after a few moments, he answers. “Sagittarius.”

  A shock wave ripples through my body. Of course.

  Seth leans close enough for me to smell a faint hint of his cologne. “But if what you really want to know is whether or not I’m interested…the answer’s definitely yes.”

  Yes. The word holds the heat of his exhalation in my ear. More than the yes, I cling to the other word.

  Sagittarius.

  My preordained match.

  I smile. Everything is coming together.

  “You must get tired of that,” says a familiar voice. “Every Tom, Dick, and Seth hitting on you when you least expect it.” Grant wedges into the space Seth left moments ago. “Glad you got the card,” he adds, “and that you’re conscious.”

  “Oh, hey!” I brighten. My breath catches. Must be a by-product of the napkin. The napkin with the hastily scribbled digits Seth has given me. I fold the napkin and cram it in my clutch.

  As the lights from the dance floor pan Grant’s face, I realize another reason his smile warms me. It’s the ever-so-slight overlap of his two front teeth. Why I’d find snuggling teeth endearing is a mystery, but I do. It’s possible I’m smiling back like an idiot.

  What is my deal?

  I stare up at the hanging green lights, hoping to divine some conversational brilliance. He watches me and it’s unsettling. “This place is incredible!” Not brilliance. Okay, move on. “Uh, so thanks for the ticket. You really didn’t have to.”

  He shrugs off the gratitude. “I’m just glad you’re in one piece. How are you feeling?” Tiny wrinkles crowd the center of his forehead.

  “Good, good. Really good.” I take a drink of ginger ale.

  “Any more emphasis on the word ‘good’ and I’m taking you back to the hospital.”

  I grin. “Oh, you know, residual bruise on my knee but no permanent damage. How’d you fare? When I came around, there was nothing but distorted recollections and your note on a business card.”

  “Yikes, you make it sound so skeevy.” Grant pushes up his sleeve, revealing little black tattoos that wrap around his forearm. Music notes? His other arm is bare, save for a distressed-leather cuff at his wrist. “Guess I didn’t think your next of kin would take kindly to the person responsible for almost killing you. But I’m fine. Most of my bruises were to my ego. What?” He eyes the amused twist of my mouth. “You think it was lost on me that it was my idea to save you in the first place? If I hadn’t intervened with—”

  “Then I wouldn’t be here right now. And we might never have met. Everything happens for a reason—cosmic forces and whatnot. Right?” I swirl the ice around my glass.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, the small wrinkles have once again taken up residence between his brows. He flags Nico for a drink before resting his gaze back on me.

  I lean forward, drawing the straw to my mouth. It’s the intensity, the deliberateness in the way he watches me that’s so unsettling. My pulse is doing that funny fluttering again. The heat in the pit of my stomach migrates to my cheeks. I swallow. “So, um, are you from the area?”

  “Born and raised, east side. But don’t hold it against me.”

  “I wouldn’t.” Though between the tattoos, nondesigner clothes, and imperfect teeth, I wouldn’t have pegged him an eastsider either. Irina claims eastsider blood runs green from all
their money, and that the sticks up their asses are actually dinosaur bones they convert into oil. She reasons this is how they stay rich. But loathing a group of people because of financial plentitude isn’t Irina’s style. Actually, I’m not sure why she hates them.

  “Then you must go to Hartford,” I say.

  “Went,” Grant corrects, resting his forearms on the bar. “Just graduated.” There he goes again, studying me in that way he does that makes me fidget. And I’m not a fidgeter. “What about you?”

  “I, whew, it’s warm in here.” I press my hands, chilled by the glass, to the sides of my face. “I’m from here, too. Being a Carlisle means I practically sprouted from the soil. I live over in the historic district and go to—”

  “Alexander?”

  I smile. “Yep.”

  Grant rubs his hand along his jaw. “Do I even want to ask how old you are?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  He braces himself. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Seventeen.” I add, “And four months! Those four months are important, Grant. It means I’m practically halfway to eighteen, so why not just round—”

  “All right, all right,” he sighs, “but do me a solid. Don’t mention this to anyone else—house rules—last thing I want is to see you get blacklisted. Got it?”

  “Don’t worry, no one ever thinks I’m under…” My eyes catch on a determined face in the crowd. It can’t be. “Oh, for the love of Venus!” I slink from my stool and hunker beneath the bar. If this were truly my lucky day, the earth would indulge me by shifting its fault lines. Just crack open and swallow the problem.

  “Wil?” Grant ducks his head under the bar. “Hey, I said I promise not to turn you in.” He pauses. “Or is this disappearing act part of your Unusual Girl mystique?”

  “Rooster!” I hiss.

  “Ah, right, so it’s the latter.”

  My hands curl around the edge of the bar as I slowly peer over the top. Sure enough, there’s Year of the Cock, working his way toward me. He’s momentarily derailed by one of the green fairies. I drop down again, inwardly cursing.

  “I’m gonna venture there’s an excellent reason why you’re down here crouched in the fetal position. I’ll be above sea level when you’re ready to explain.” He’s choking back a grin. “Man, I can’t wait to hear this one.”