Table of Contents
Equilibrium
Book Details
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Superpowered Love will continue in Riot Boy
About the Author
EQUILIBRIUM
SUPERPOWERED LOVE – BOOK ONE
KATEY HAWTHORNE
Hansen has been hot for Sam since they first bonded over their secret superpowers—literally hot, since Hansen can produce fire from thin air. But Sam is always covered in girls, so Hansen keeps his feelings deeply buried and settles for being Sam's best friend.
Then Sam's electrical powers go haywire in public, and in the fallout a mutual attraction is forced to the surface—but bisexuality is new to Sam, and Hansen is afraid to admit he's in love. And in the midst of trying to figure out themselves and each other, they have to face—and survive—the unfriendly witness to Sam's explosion.
Equilibrium
Superpowered Love 1
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 Melanie Odhner
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 August 2018
First Edition published August 2011 by Loose ID
Copyright © 2018 by Katey Hawthorne
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781684313297
Print ISBN 9781684313587
For Tara, with more love than I can fit on the page.
CHAPTER ONE
I first met Sam when I caught him trying to blow up a toaster in the cafeteria. Well, he wasn't trying, but he almost did it anyhow. Not the kind of guy I normally would've spoken to—standing there at seven a.m. in shin guards and knee socks with one of those beat-up "Property of Falls State University" T-shirts hugging broad shoulders. The kind of guy I would've looked at long and hard when he had his back turned, sure, but not spoken to.
But I saw that unmistakable blue light spark at his fingertips, heard him sputter, "Dammit!" And then the toaster he'd been wrangling started smoking, sending the smell of burning plastic up to the negligent cafeteria gods.
He flushed hard under that mess of shiny strawberry-blond hair. I would've felt bad for him even if he weren't hot, but it didn't hurt, not gonna lie. "It happens," I said, attention back on my cinnamon toast preparation. "I melted the coffeepot once when I was having a shitty morning."
I felt him look at me, but he didn't say anything. When I finally looked up to see if he was pissed, he was just staring at me, openmouthed and wide-eyed.
It was a good look for him.
"You…?" he finally said. Or almost said, I guess.
"Yeah, but you electric types get it worse when it comes to appliances. Can be a real motherfucker, huh?"
"Oh my god. You mean…?" He looked around, like he was afraid someone was listening, but the place was nearly empty that early in the morning. Just some nerds like me with eight a.m. classes and no social life to keep them up at night, and a few hard drinkers who hadn't been to bed yet.
"Uh, they have no idea what we're talking about," I said. And if they did, well, then odds were they were awakened too.
"How do you—I mean…?"
I was starting to think the guy was a few bricks shy. Then again, it would've been unfair if he was smart and hot. Hard not to focus on his mouth, the way it was still hanging open like that, all straight white teeth and sensitive-looking lips that probably tasted like strawberries.
I shifted, leaning against the counter, and forced myself to focus. "I just watched you fry a toaster. They"—I nodded at the lethargic breakfast kids—"wouldn't know, but to someone who's awakened, it's pretty obvious."
He fluttered his pale eyelashes. "I have no idea what that means. I mean, I think I do, but—"
It took that long for me to realize what was going on with him. So he wasn't the stupid one. I was. Great. "You don't know any others?"
He shook his head. "I just thought something was wrong with me."
"Holy shit, man. How long?"
"Like, five years or something."
Ouch. "What about your parents?"
"I'm adopted."
I snapped my mouth shut.
"It's cool, man. No big deal. Well, except, you know."
"Yeah. I guess so."
He held out one hand. "Sam MacLeod."
I shook it. "Hansen Marks."
"Can we, like, talk or something? I mean, I have to go to practice, or I'm benched for the next game, but after?"
By winter finals, I'd fallen ass over teakettle for him. Two years later, we were roommates.
*~*~*
We were both poor as hell after graduation. I started my econ MS, and since he had no idea what he wanted to be when he grew up, he joined a local consulting firm taking advantage of suburban tax incentives. After a few months he could've afforded his own place, but the idea of living alone seemed to horrify him.
I wasn't complaining. Well, not when he wore clothes.
"Sammy, put some pants on." I didn't even look up from the book and I still caught the flash of way too much skin as he wandered across the living room and into the open kitchen.
Of course, his reaction was to stick a hand down the front of his shorts and adjust something. "Pants are overrated. Are we out of milk?" He pulled open the fridge and shoved his head in. By then he was mostly hidden from view by the counter, thankfully.
I leaned an elbow on the dining room table, covered in books and papers and other things that were driving me batshit that day. "The hell would I know?"
"Yeah, yeah." His head reappeared, shaggy hair rumpled from his pillow, eyes bleary with sleep. He had apparently found what he wanted—nasty-ass whole milk, though I'd finally convinced him to spring for the non-BGH kind, at least—and started chugging it out of the carton.
I rolled my eyes and focused on the book again. Game theory. Roughly 1/1000th as interesting as half-naked Sam.
It had become apparent about twenty-four hours after agreeing to this roommate situation that it was a little bit stupid, but I was hoping for inoculation. Eventually his hotness would get old, and I'd get over it. It wasn't like I was in love with him, just in lust; he was a good roommate and a better friend. He only got on my nerves when I needed to concentrate and he needed to be naked.
Happened more than you'd think, though.
He came around the counter, still toting the milk, and sat across the table from me. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of his white boxer-briefs—the really short and tight ones, naturally. Goddammit, that was at least half a morning wood in there.
"Could you at least wear boxers?" I asked, miserable.
He smirked and had at the milk again. "Prude."
I let my gaze drop to his broad chest, the trail of pale hair that led down to his belly. I couldn't see farther down than that, but it was enough. The party in my pants had begun.
Bastard.
I took a sip of my coffee to avoid the sight of him, but it was cold. I made a face. "I am not a prude. I'm just not as in touch with nature."
"You're vegan. That's like being a nudist already."
"How do you figure?" I stuck my finger into the coffee and turned on the heat. For thermal types, whether we swing to hot
or cold, it's just about generating and manipulating electromagnetic fields to affect how fast the molecules in something vibrate—thermal energy being a subset of kinetics. There's this long, involved explanation about photons and EMFs, but scientists don't even get it all, and it changes every three years or so. I just know that if I get caught on IR camera, it'll be obvious I'm doing something Not Quite Human.
But yeah, more vibrations equals more heat, which is what I do. Makes for a mess when it gets out of hand, but I can't use it on anything big enough to, say, end the world. Lucky for the world.
"Go with me on this." But then his face went serious. "Man, I jacked up my keyboard last night."
Now he had my attention properly; I hardly had to fight to keep my eyes on his. Coffee was warmed up anyhow. "What happened?"
"Well, I went to watch some porn after Nessa fell asleep."
There were so many things wrong with that sentence, I didn't even know where to start. "Skip to the jacking part." I flushed. "I mean, uh—"
He giggled and set the milk down. "Lucky I never did get to that, because I was just typing some shit, and it started sparking. Shit, good thing you put the Faraday cage around the tower." His shoulders slumped. "Second time it's happened this week. I fucked up the microwave too."
Explained why my tofu scramble breakfast burrito had been a wash. "That's what happened?"
He looked up at me through his bangs. "Yeah. Sorry."
Electric types are wired differently, but we all have that little organ buried in our torsos that can generate EMF well beyond that of a normal human being's. I've been known to make a TV go a little wonky now and then. Just, thermals don't have the power to fry things like that—we tend to melt or freeze, depending.
"Want me to call my mom?" I asked.
He bit his lip some more.
Of course I stared, fascinated. My whole thing with loving his mouth hadn't gotten any better since that first meeting, and he was constantly doing shit like that. Drove me nuts.
I sighed. "Yes or no?"
He winced, and I realized I sounded like an impatient schoolteacher.
Ah fuck. "I didn't—"
He went back to chewing his lip.
I tried again. "You know I understand."
He gave a tight head shake. "No, you don't. You turn it on and off whenever you want. Everything works exactly how you want it to, exactly when you want it to. It's like—like there's something broken in me."
"You're not broken," I rushed to say. "Everyone's different. Some people get another power spurt in their twenties. It's normal. Plus, I've been trained for it my whole—"
"That's exactly what I'm talking about." He sat up straight, looked me in the eye. "I'm not an idiot, Hansen. Don't talk to me like I'm five."
"Sam, come on." I fought an urge to crumple under his gaze. Why couldn't I think of anything better, more reassuring to say? Why did I have to suck so hard at being a friend?
But before I could drop too far down that rabbit hole of self-loathing and shame, another figure appeared in the hall. Nessa stood in the bathrobe Sam never used, her long dark hair a mess, gorgeous thing that she was. "Hey, guys, can I get a shower?"
Sam waved her off, in a full-on sulk.
I said, "Let me in there real quick. I gotta go soon."
Sam shot me a wounded look and went back to his milk.
I got up to hit the bathroom. When I passed Vanessa, she said, "Everyone's going to the Pits tonight. You coming?"
She didn't sound annoyed. I still got the feeling she was annoyed, though I never let Sam drag me along if it was going to be just the two of them. And yes, he tried, especially when she threatened him with Let's Discuss Our Relationship Night. I said, "If I'm invited."
She smiled a sleepy morning smile, and I guessed she'd meant it.
I ducked into the bathroom. When I came out, Sam was back in his room with the door shut, and Nessa was waiting with a towel in her hands.
Coffee was cold again too.
*~*~*
I almost didn't go to the Pits that night, but it was two-dollar Honeyed Fox draughts, and one of the bartenders was a cute college guy who clearly swung my way, so what the hell. The place was crushed, as usual, but I wove my way to the back and found Nessa and Sam shoved into a booth with some of the old soccer team—the ones who hadn't left Marietta Falls after graduation.
Sam grinned when he saw me, and I suddenly felt like shit all over again. He waved and scooted closer to Vanessa, making room. I slid in next to him, said my hellos, and shared his beer until my favorite bartender came.
I still thought of Sam's crowd by position, mostly because that's how he'd introduced them back in the day. Trent was a stopper, known for playing up and aggressive and racking up slide-tackling-from-behind-red cards. His mean rep wasn't limited to the field; he was always looking around like he expected someone to try to get past him. He'd once singlehandedly stared down an entire opposing defense who wanted to beat the shit out of Sam over what they saw as an unfair call that earned him a penalty kick—and goal. Thus, Trent earned my eternal gratitude. One of those guys you're glad is on your side, as he watched out for his own.
Daly played midfield, center to Sam's outside, and the two of them used to give each other mad service. Together they collected more goals than most strikers. He had the easiest laugh of anyone I'd ever met and always looked half asleep, which was weird because he could run like the devil. I tended to think of him as the leader of Sam's little friend group, just because he'd been the team captain. Also, he had kind of a Captain Kirk vibe.
The last one was a striker called Jarrett, who was a nice enough guy, but more interestingly to me, was the prettiest guy in town. His father had been a college basketball star until he'd hurt himself somehow, and his mother was a Spanish supermodel. He had his mother's cheekbones and his father's build.
I wasn't into him or anything, but eye candy is eye candy.
Vanessa and Trent got up to play darts. The rest of us ordered food and settled in to heckle. Vanessa didn't make it easy, though, with the expert way she lofted them, just these perfect arcs in the air like she'd been born to hustle unsuspecting boys in bars. (Dammit, why did she have to be so awesome?) Trent didn't put on a bad show either, though. The guy had focus. He narrowed his eyes and flung with perfect wrist action, which worked out great for the first few rounds.
By the time things got intense with the game, we had our food. Sam distracted everyone by squirting ketchup all over his arm as he attempted to drown his fries. He knocked over what was left of his beer trying to clean it up. This apparently broke Trent's focus, because he shot Sam a dirty look just before throwing the worst dart of the night—it was closer to hitting the cute server than the actual target. He grumbled under his breath as he threw another, only slightly better. His face darkened, as if a storm cloud had settled over his head. Daly and I looked at each other, like, okay, temper tantrum incoming. Sam was still too busy trying to clean himself up—and failing—to notice.
Nessa, however, broke the tension of the moment by suddenly and expertly dabbing, then going up on her toes ala Michael Jackson.
Trent, along with everyone else except the hopelessly confused Sam, burst out laughing.
Sam took the opportunity accidentally hit me with the mustard. I sighed at him. "Dude."
"Sorry." He rubbed at his face with one hand, fucking up his hair and leaving a ketchup trail across his left cheek.
I felt bad about this morning all over again. "You've got some crap on you." I gestured at his face.
"Huh?" He swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. It only helped a little.
"Want me to spit-clean you?" Nessa smirked.
Sam glared. I handed him a new napkin.
"Serves you right," Trent said, still wearing the smile Vanessa had eked out of him.
I silently posited that Trent was the one Nessa should be dating. They were both a mess, but at least Trent responded to her ministrations.
Before Nessa could completely kick Trent's ass, Sam dragged me to the jukebox. I thought he just wanted my advice—the guy didn't own anything but Johnny Cash and techno, and no, I can't explain that combination to this day—but when we got to the box, he put an arm over my shoulders and said into my ear, "Sorry about this morning."
I stood hunched under his arm awkwardly for a second before I finally put mine around him in return, behind his back and bent at the elbow, so my hand was on his near shoulder. He loved soft T-shirts, which didn't do much to save me from feeling the smooth, tight motion of his delt when he adjusted his stance. "My fault," I said. "Game theory paper's making me into an even bigger prick than usual."
"Pfft. I'm just a little stressed."
"I called Mom. She says she'll come down Monday night."
He squeezed me and turned his eyes on the flashing jukebox, but he wasn't looking at it so much as through it. "Shit, if it weren't for you guys—"
"Forget it. You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just—Like, you ever date someone for a while, and then realize you don't like them the way you thought you did?"
Whoa. Missed a left turn at Albuquerque there, buddy. "Uh…"
"Like, Nessa's great. But I don't know. Not much there now that the hormones have burned out on it." He let go of me and started pushing buttons on the box, flipping the pages of CDs on the inside one after the other.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Sam?"
He snorted. "She's hot, but whatever. And she's definitely not interested anymore, but girls never care about that shit. She thinks she knows me"—he rolled his eyes—"so we have some connection."
"So, connection, but no sex. You're in the friend zone…with your girlfriend?" Not that the friend zone was a real thing. Still, served the bastard right. I bit my lip before I could say anything else. Took a step away while I was at it.
He sighed. "But what I'm saying is that I don't even care. This morning, she—"
A bright blue flash cut him off. His fingers were lit up, clothed in tiny leaping strings of white-hot lightning. It raced to his fingertips all at once and arced to the jukebox, like he was shooting it on purpose, like he'd practiced and refined it to an art form.
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