"Hey, Hansen. How's things?" she asked.
Daly scooted over to make room for me. "Yeah, man, how's tricks?"
"I'm raking it in," I said, taking the seat. Maybe my smile was a little smug, because Daly made an O with his lips, and Rhonda giggled across the table. "What's up?" I directed at Nessa.
Yeah, not awkward at all. Jesus.
"Hoped you'd be here tonight," she said.
Oh shit. I waved for the cute bartender. The fucker winked at me as he scurried across the room with a full tray of shots for some lucky table.
No, just bring 'em over here, man. Gonna need those myself.
Nessa went on. "Wanted to talk to you about the other night—and I think you know what I mean."
I feigned placid interest.
She said, "I know Sam told you. He tells you every—"
"Told him what?" Sam appeared, like the devil who'd heard his name, and shoved me closer to Daly so he could swing in beside me. He passed around his hellos and hung his jacket on the side of the booth.
Nessa clammed up, thank god, and a few minutes later, she dragged Rhonda away with her.
Sam went around to the other side of the table and pulled me with him. If this confused Daly, he gave no indication. "The hell did you do to that girl?"
"She thinks I got a bad shock from that jukebox and it melted my brain," Sam said. "Why else would I break up with her?"
Daly wrinkled up his nose. "She is kinda vain."
"Yeah, well, hot people can get away with it." I kicked Sam under the table when I said it. If he wasn't giving me a chance to apologize, I was at least going to try and flatter him into letting me touch him again. It was agony not to be able to say anything, and the bastard knew it.
"Your brain was melted before I ever met you, anyhow," Daly said. He looked up and—
Trent. He came to the end of the table, looked each of us in the eye in turn, and slipped into the seat Sam and I had just vacated.
Sam slouched, trying to look nonchalant. Everyone else probably thought he really was, but I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. "Where you been, man?"
"Around. How about you?" There was something in Trent's eyes—a pale blue that reminded me vaguely of Sam's electrical current—that I didn't like when he fixed on us. It faded when he turned to Daly, but not enough to let me forget.
I exchanged a glance with Sam, former agony forgotten.
Trent had figured us out somehow. Any hopeful doubts fled, and I knew. He knew.
And still no bartender. God. Dammit.
Small talk passed, the disturbing look in Trent's eye remained level when he fixed it on us, and Daly remained oblivious and started ranting about the kids' team he was coaching. This went on for several minutes until Trent finally, visibly, made a decision. He leaned forward, fixed on me, and said, "I know what you are."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Sam raised an eyebrow. He sat up and forward. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. And I'm gonna tell everyone," Trent said.
Sam replied, "And you think that'd bother us?"
I looked at Sam, my heart in my throat. I mean, he had a point—no one would care, but only because no one would believe him. Still, with Nessa in the know—or almost in the know—and maybe nursing a grudge against him, now was really not the time to play chicken with the wild-eyed sleeper contingent.
Especially considering the potentially deadly current that liked to leap out of Sam's fingers when he wasn't paying attention.
"The fuck?" Daly had come up to speed by this time and was looking at all three of us like we were speaking Klingon.
Trent ignored him. "It should bother you. What do you think will happen when everyone in town finds out, huh? You ever hear of the Salem witch trials?"
"Uh, Trent—" Daly tried to interrupt again.
Sam said, "This is not the seventeenth century, my friend. No one cares about that shit anymore."
Trent stared. Hell, so did I. It was either an outright, stupid-ass bluff, or—
I had no idea what Sam was talking about. But at least he didn't look like he was about to start arcing. Farthest thing from it, really.
"And personally"—Sam loosened his tie—"I'm a little surprised you do. Never pegged you for a gossip. Or a closeted self-loather."
Trent growled. "The hell are you talking about?"
"Me and Hansen," Sam said, throwing an arm over my shoulder. He planted a huge, wet kiss on my cheek. "There, now everyone can see. So tell 'em, tough guy. Announce that there are homos in the bar. Hell, I'll stand up on the table and do it myself if it'll make you feel better. See who gives a fuck."
I burst out laughing. It was part sheer relief and part, just, wow. Wow, he was fucking awesome. "Oh god." I tried to catch my breath. Daly was in pretty much the same state across from him, laughing his ass off. "Sam, I love you."
"I know." He grabbed me and kissed me full on the mouth. I mean, really kissed me. His tongue tangled up with mine, tasting like spearmint and spit, and he even put a hand on my cheek for good measure. I melted fast, my blood pumping hard enough that I felt the color returning to my face. When he pulled back, he said, quietly, "But you still owe me from this morning."
"Glad to hear it," I managed.
"Fuckin' A."
Daly waved his hands like he was batting away an irritating bug. "This is getting a little gross with the PDA. What the fuck, you guys—when did this happen?"
Trent was frozen stiff, staring pink-faced at us groping each other in the booth.
Sam shrugged, looking straight at him across the table while he answered Daly. "Last week."
Thoughtful now, Daly said, "You know, I'm kind of surprised it didn't happen sooner, now I think about it."
But Trent was getting pinker and pinker. Red, actually. He slammed a hand on the table, making Daly's beer jump. "Nessa knows too."
Sam said, "Leave her alone, Trent, that's my advice. She thinks you're a prick, and I should've listened to her."
"You're fucked," Trent said, apparently trying to be ominous. He made with the big huffy exit.
"Thought I was supposed to be the queen," I said.
Daly and Sam lost it again.
*~*~*
Even after we finally got our drinks, the whole thing didn't sit right. Why, when Nessa was so obviously uncertain, did Trent seem to actually know what he was talking about? The way he'd looked right through me and said, "I know what you are…"
It was possible that he'd run into another awakened. People got discovered—like my uncle and, well, us. And some people didn't follow the rules and got themselves found out on purpose. Some of the badass ones acted like superheroes. You could get away with being a firefighter or going into law enforcement or intelligence if you were really good, but it was still risky.
And some of them acted like, well, villains. They never thought they were villains; the bad guys are always trying to do right by someone. Even if it's only themselves.
It was a real nightmare for the rest of us awakened either way, and again, part of the reason we didn't have any formal organization, any lists of names and addresses. Information was power, and the less we had to give the sleeper majority, the safer we were.
But being in the minority meant we were never safe, not really. And Trent was a big old ball of the ignorance and fear that was the biggest threat to our comfortable anonymity.
On the way home, Sam grabbed my hand. He'd left his car at the apartment as usual before coming to the Pits, so we were wandering through the darkened little town, ignoring the clumps of oblivious college kids and young families. We were on the edge of the business district—all of two blocks of head shops, art galleries, and all-night breakfast places—anyhow, so there wasn't much of a crowd to speak of.
"Thought I still owed you," I said.
"Yeah, but that's no reason to torture myself."
I smirked.
He grinned. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
"Well, I'm
sorry for saying all that stupid shit this morning. I was just being an idiot. I've never been with someone so out of my league, or who I'm actually…." afraid of losing. I shook the thought out of my brain. "My point is, I'm not actually concerned about you abandoning me for a woman. I just didn't want to admit that I have…"
His grin got even bigger, and after a second, he finally supplied, "Self-esteem issues? In spite of being a total fucking know-it-all?"
"I deserve that," I grumbled and laced my fingers tighter around his. "When did you get to know me better than you know you?"
"Forever ago." He lifted our hands and kissed my knuckles.
"Stop or I'll swoon." I sounded ironic, but was fully aware he'd know I wasn't. More seriously, though, "I won't do it again."
"I know," he said easily. He rubbed my hand against his cheek thoughtfully. "Interesting how your go-to was to act all biphobic, though. Wonder if that's some internalized homophobia, or—"
"Ugh, shut up and kiss me, already."
Before I could blink, he tugged me into an alley and put my back to the wall. Brick scraped at my shoulder blades through my soft shirt; Sam's thigh slipped between my legs and lifted, pressing into my cock.
I sighed happily and threaded my fingers through his hair. I didn't deserve to get off that easy for being a biphobic douche, but I wasn't gonna complain. Instead I said, "That was so hot, how you handled Trent in there."
"How hot?" He tilted his head and leaned in like he was going to kiss me. He paused, not half an inch from my lips, his breath hot and inviting against me.
I gave an involuntary little whine and rocked my hips against him.
He sighed; his dick started swelling against my leg in earnest; but he didn't give in. The air around us seemed to crackle, and I couldn't tell if it was my imagination or really him.
Damn, he was good. I smiled and whispered, "You almost got an under-the-table hand job. That's how hot."
"Nice." His lips found mine at last, sliding into the perfect position before prying mine open beneath them.
I palmed my way up beneath his shirt, exploring the flat planes and hard lines and soft skin that made up those remarkable abs. Yeah, nice didn't even begin to cover it. I lost myself for long minutes in his mouth, unthinking, happy, forgetful. Only the pinch of his teeth in my lip now and then, the soft sound of a kiss closing off, the press of his hips into mine.
Eventually he said, "We should take this home. Or I'm gonna go down on you in this alley."
"Hot," I said. Then, "How's the lightning?"
He let his head rest against mine and backed his hips up slightly. Took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm down for the walk home. "Fucked up my iPhone today. 'S okay, I needed a new one anyhow. It's just…hard to be on all the time, you know? Easy to remember when I'm close to people, but when I'm on my own, eh. Just need practice."
"Anything else we can do?"
A new voice intruded on our conversation. "Go to hell."
I guessed that was supposed to be clever. Sam backed up farther, and I pushed off the wall. We turned to face Trent, who stood at the end of the alley, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Yeah, I was scared. There was this weird little knot of panic quivering down deep in my belly, for sure. But it was almost like I'd expected this exact thing to happen—like known he wasn't finished, no matter how lost I'd been in Sam's mouth.
Assholes never gave up that easily, did they?
I said, "Are you stalking us?"
He leaned forward, like an underfed dog at the end of his chain. "Couple of freaks made me look like a real douche today."
"Yeah, you didn't need us freaks for that," Sam said.
I was proud of him—the word didn't make him flinch at all.
Trent came closer, but he was obviously holding himself back. "I'm just giving you a warning, is all. I know what you did. You get the fuck out of this town, away from my family, or—"
"Or what?" I asked, surprising myself. It was weird—the fear had taken over back there at the bar. But now I realized it hadn't been about what I thought. It had been about Sam and his lightning.
He'd been okay, though. He'd been great. And out here, what difference did it make? The nearest bystanders were all the way down the block, and anyhow, what was going to happen? Was Sam going to blast a tree? I half hoped he would, since there was no point hiding it now. Maybe it'd put the fear of god into this ass-clown.
"What can you do to us, man?" I asked. "Everyone will just call you a nut job."
Trent's eyes narrowed, his hands unclenching just to fist up again.
Sam stepped to the end of the alley to meet him. "Ness won't back you up."
"She saw it," he snarled. "If I tell her what I know, she will. Believe me."
"All she wants is the truth," Sam said to me as I rolled up next to him. "If we tell her, she'll be cool."
"Wake the fuck up, MacLeod. You think she's going to protect her ex and the arsonist queer he ditched her for?"
Sam's full lips thinned into a white line, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. "Watch your fucking mouth."
"Keep it together," I said. Then I stepped up between them. "Trent, go home. You're not going to start a fight, so just forget it."
"I know what you did, Marks. I saw you. You think you scare me, prick?"
I met those shocking eyes of his without flinching, thinking of Sam fuming behind me. I wasn't sure what Trent thought he'd seen me do, but it was hard to give a shit. I'd seen Trent act like this before, but never without some kind of reason. He wasn't exactly the king of proportionate response, but there was usually some threat to one of his friends, some reason he felt the need to confront a person. This…I didn't get this. "Yeah, I do. I think you know you should be scared, too. So go and tell everyone you meet, but just go."
"Can't believe you're walking around free. You should have to register with the police." He curled his upper lip and took a step closer, so I could smell the beer on his breath. "Go around knocking on doors and telling all your neighbors that you're a fucking menace. That if they don't keep an eye on you, you might burn down their house." Another step, closer now. "See how long it is before someone sneaks into your room at night and—"
I didn't realize my hands were squeezing into fists the whole time he was talking. I didn't realize my face was turning red or that the shit he was spewing was actually getting to me. I didn't realize anything until my fist hit his mouth and sent his head flying backward, lip spurting blood.
Shit, that hurt. Cut my hand on his teeth, and the impact jolted up my arm, vibrating.
Trent reeled, hand flying to his mouth, and I shook my aching fist out, getting ready to do it all over again.
Sam grabbed my other arm and pulled me back. His touch crackled like static.
That forced the sick realization that I'd just made the whole situation a lot more dangerous than it had to be. I turned to him. "Sam, watch your current—"
But he was looking behind me, teeth bared. He let me go and dodged around me. It all happened so fast, just a few seconds, but it stretched out in this awful slow-motion tableau there on the deserted sidewalk. Trent was lunging at me, lip streaming blood, swinging wildly, and Sam was going for him with his right hand pulled back in a fist.
I tried to get between them again, but my second of hesitation to check on Sam left me out of it. They slammed together like the proverbial unstoppable force and immovable object. Someone hit someone else—maybe both of them did—and the air lit up between them, flashing white-blue and jagged like the inside of a storm cloud. The smell of it wrapped all three of us up, pure electricity all over my skin, and I wasn't even touching Sam.
Trent was, though. His body went stiff, then crumpled. He hit the grass, arms and legs twitching for a split second, a burn brown mark on his shirt, right at his navel.
Sam slumped on his feet, rocked forward unsteadily. His eyes closed. He opened his mouth, tried to say something.
I caught him just before he hit the ground, landing under him in a pile. Trying to hold him up, so much dead weight—though god, thank god, he was breathing. A dry sob caught in my throat as I settled him gently on the grass and scrambled to check on Trent, digging frantically for my cell phone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Uncle Kristoff had his arm around Trent's mother, patting her on the back and telling her that her son would be okay. I stood down the hall, head hanging, hugging myself.
Sam was asleep and getting a constant drip of fluids, vitamins, and everything else the electrical freak-out had sucked out of him. But he was okay too.
I kept saying it over and over again to myself, but I wouldn't really believe it until I could talk to him. The whole world felt like some cold slow-motion dream: people's words reached me in little bubbles, took too long to get there, and my arms and legs were heavy and uncooperative. I just stood there and stared.
Eventually, Kristoff came and sat down on the chair that was meant for me. His little nametag glinted in the crappy fluorescent light: Dr. K. Hansen.
"How bad are the burns?" I asked.
I didn't ask how he'd gotten out of cardiology to follow the case up here. I probably didn't want to know. We cleaned up after our own, when things got ugly—we had to. Kristoff of all people knew.
"Minor. If it hadn't started at his stomach, it'd be easy to pass off as a normal lightning strike."
"Did it fuck up his electrical system?"
"There won't be any long-term damage. It was high voltage, but the current was low. Painful but relatively harmless."
I buried my face in my hands. "His brain?"
"There's some amnesia, but that's normal after a lightning strike, and his heart is strong. He's young; he'll heal."
Something swelled in my throat.
"I called your mother," Kristoff said.
I sighed. "She'll freak."
I could hear the smile in his voice. "Bridget hasn't freaked since she was ten years old."
"It was my fault."
He didn't reply.
"I hit him first," I admitted. "He was saying—He said we should have to register with the police. And if people knew about us, they'd come into our houses at night…" I looked up.
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