I offered her a beer, and she accepted. I brought it to her on the couch and sat down at the dining table, but facing her.
She popped it open and took a drink, then stared me down across the room. "Was he cheating on me with you?"
I'm not sure why I didn't expect the question. I figured she'd have heard about us by now, but I hadn't considered that she'd care. Maybe because she'd seen me play with fire and Sam shoot lightning out of his fingers, and I thought that'd take precedence. Call me crazy.
But then I realized she was right: this was actually the first order of business. Because how she reacted to the rest of what we had to say—how she treated us—rightfully hinged on how we'd treated her.
I'd always loved Sam's stand-up-guy thing, but that night I was particularly glad for it. "No. Nothing happened till after you were broken up. I swear. You know he wouldn't."
"You were always in love with him, though."
That…would explain why she was annoyed when he dragged me along with them, I guess. But Jesus, I hadn't even told him that. How did she know?
She sat there, shoulders back, dark eyes blazing, daring me to lie to her.
No wonder Sam had gone for her in the first place. The only real mystery was how he'd fallen out of love with her. She'd always struck me as beautiful, but never really hot, before. Not that I was the leading expert on hot women, but still.
I nodded. "Yeah. Always. But I never expected anything."
She watched me for a long moment, like she was still waiting for me to lie.
Thankfully, Sam came out of the bathroom right about then. He stopped when he saw her there—she'd come in just as he'd gone to take a piss—and looked a little confused.
"Have a seat, Sammy," she said.
He grabbed himself a beer and did just what she said, at the other end of the couch.
"Were you fucking around on me?" she asked.
I understood why she had to ask him too. In fact, I had mad respect for her just then.
A little too much. Now wasn't really the time for jealousy or…whatever. But seeing her owning the situation, knowing that Sam preferred to be owned like that, and watching the weird ease with which he was adapting to this singular situation—I remembered how he'd said she seemed to expect him to take the whole "we're broken up" thing back, and swallowed hard.
"No," he said. "I mean—I thought about…other people, sometimes. But I would never have—"
"I know. Me too," she cut him off. "You were right about us both being over it."
He furrowed his brow.
She said, "I asked Jarrett out the other day."
I very nearly laughed. It occurred to me that maybe she wanted him to take it back just so she could dump him instead.
Okay, yeah. She was hot.
"Oh." He smiled lopsidedly.
"Yeah, we're becoming that bunch of friends," she said.
"The ones that have all fucked each other?" he asked.
"Yep." She took another drink.
That time, I did laugh.
She sat a little straighter. "So, what do you have to tell me?"
Sam and I exchanged a look. I nodded.
He held out his hands in front of him and lit them up, little darts of electric blue racing around and between his fingers.
She watched, eyes wide.
"Hansen does it too, but with heat," Sam said. "He can catch shit on fire. Sometimes put it out, like you saw."
She pulled her gaze off his flickering hands and looked at me.
I nodded. If she wanted me to burn something, I'd be happy to. Hell, you think sleeper guys like burning shit, try me sometime.
But she looked back to Sam and said, "Why didn't you tell me then?"
He let the lightning die. "That's all you have to say?"
"Well, I've known, sort of, for a few weeks now. So it's not exactly a big surprise. Hate to disappoint."
He grinned again. "Fair enough. It's not really something we advertise. My body was sort of freaking out, and that's why the jukebox caught. No one was supposed to see."
She looked at me quickly again, then back to him. "So, it was you."
"Yeah."
"No, I mean, with Trent. We heard it was a freak lightning strike."
Sam went pale.
I said, "That's kind of a long story—"
She pinned me with a dark look. "Sorry, Hansen. You have somewhere else to be tonight?"
*~*~*
"No one's seen him all week," Nessa said, finishing off her third beer. Stories had been told, long, involved explanations given, and somehow, she was still sitting there talking about it rationally. "We heard the story through his little brother. Chad says he's been holed up in his room, supposedly doing a lot better. Behaving more normally, even without drugs. They tried to put him on lithium again, I guess. He declined."
Sam and I exchanged yet another look. We were obviously thinking the same thing: how much of Uncle Kristoff's doctor's report had been genuine psychological disturbance, and how much had been simply the truth no one would believe?
And what was the difference, anyhow? Like I'd told Sam, Trent had choices, regardless.
She stood and collected her purse from the coffee table. "I'd lay low for a while if I were you guys. It'll blow over. Shit always does."
Sam stood to walk her to the door.
I stayed put, watching and wanting not to be jealous. I didn't get it—totally not like me. Damn, when they were dating I'd been less stressed by it, and now they were obviously not interested in each other. Just that there were so many things we didn't have sorted out between us, and—
God. If I started refusing sex so we could talk about our feelings, I was going to throw myself off a fucking bridge.
"Look, Ness, I know I already said it, but I really am sorry for what a dick I was that day," Sam said. "You deserve a lot better."
"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have said what I said either. We were pissed off. We're all grown-ups here, right?" She looked at me over the couch.
I smiled as best I could.
He opened the door for her.
She went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, then said something too quiet for me to hear.
He smiled and put a hand on the small of her back as she stepped out, then closed the door behind her.
"That…went well," he said.
I was still clenching my jaw but managed to say through my teeth, "Guess you were right about her."
He threw himself at the couch and stretched out. "Fuck, I'm beat."
I stood and made for the kitchen, trying to calm myself down. I was just tired, that was all. Tired and bratty, and there was no good reason to take it out on poor Sam.
"Where you going?" he asked.
I looked over my shoulder just before stepping onto the linoleum. He lay sprawled on the cushions, his T-shirt all jacked up so the bottom of his flat stomach was bared, his hip bones sinking into the worn-out waist of his jeans like some stupid perfect invitation to admire what was going on below. He held one hand out in my direction, opened and closed it once like a little kid who expected to be handed their favorite toy five minutes ago.
I'm sure I had a reason to be going to the kitchen, but I promptly forgot it. I went to him, took his hand, and let him pull me down onto the couch. He turned sideways, arranging us like spoons with his front against my back, and wrapped his arm tight around my middle. "Put something dumb on, huh?"
I reached out for the clicker and did what he asked. Within five minutes, he was breathing quiet on the back of my head, still holding me tight against him with one arm, fast asleep.
*~*~*
Glass shattered.
I sat up straight at the edge of the couch.
Sam grabbed my arm and seemed to be trying to pull himself up too.
My eyes were adjusted, but there was something wrong with the light—or lack thereof. Some kind of flickering behind the couch. And the smell—
Fuck. Gasoline.
I shot off the couch and swung around it. Sure enough, a beer bottle with a flaming rag stuffed in the top lay rocking on the carpet. Just dumb luck Honeyed Fox still made their bottles strong enough not to explode on impact, or I'd be tugging Sam's ass off a flaming couch.
Fire, I could handle. But gas would make it go faster than I could. I was made to start the fires, not stop them.
Couldn't risk it.
"Get the fuck up, Sam!" I swung back around and dragged him up, but he was awake by then.
"What the hell?"
"Get out, now. Molotov."
"You—"
"I'm coming. Just get the fuck out."
I shoved him down the hall toward the back door. Glass shattered in his bedroom; a clunk sounded.
He said, "Oh shit."
I dug my phone out of my pocket and slapped it into his hands. "Ground yourself, and call 911."
But when I tried to shove him out the door, he wouldn't let me go.
"I can save some of the—"
Something exploded down the hall. As in, our fucking living room went up in flames with an audible bang and whoosh that made my heart stutter. I tried to jerk back in to at least get the one out of his room, but he was stronger. He practically picked me up and dragged me out the door fireman-style.
"It won't kill me," I protested. "I can—"
"Not worth it," he said.
"But your—"
He wasn't even listening. "I will survive without my porn."
"But—"
He let me go—or rather, let me stand up, because he still kept a hold on my wrist. "We have other problems." He put my phone back in my hand. "You call 911. I got this."
I followed his gaze and saw the shadowy figure coming around from the front of the complex. Another rag-topped bottle sloshing with something way too viscous to be beer. A huge metal grill lighter in the other hand.
Trent stepped into the tiny backyard plot. "How you like it, Marks?"
It did occur to me that he was talking nonsense, but there another explosion—this time from Sam's bedroom—and that seemed more important.
Sirens wailed halfway across town; voices clamored nearer than that.
"Call anyhow," Sam said, stepping up to stand beside me. "Relax, Trent. Look, just put it down, and we can talk—"
"Fuck you, freak. I'm not here for you. I'm here for your boyfriend."
I hit the button to dial uncle Kristoff just as he said that. The fire department was already on their way, obviously. Not exactly the kind of town where explosions went unnoticed. Like Sam said, we had other problems.
Sam held out his hands, moving forward, but slowly. "Okay, it's fine. You can talk to Hansen if you—"
"I don't want to talk to him. I want to burn him down. I saw what you did, Marks. I saw what you fucking did."
So I was just staring at that point, wondering what the fuck he was talking about, when my uncle's voice suddenly said in my ear, groggy and kind of pissed, "Hello?"
"Uh, Kristoff. We've got a sudden and immediate Trent problem over here."
"Wha—"
"I didn't do anything, Trent," I said. "Except punch you in the face, and if you want to punch me back—"
"Fuck punching, and fuck you." Trent's eyes danced, reflecting the flames as madness. "You burned down my house, you punk-ass witch motherfucker. We lost everything. You ever been the poor kid in school, Marks? Have you?"
Sam's hands crackled.
"Ground it," I said. And not because I could hear a couple of neighbors collecting in Mrs. Pendergast's daisies, either. Pretty sure they weren't looking at Sam, all things considered.
"No problem." It sparked and, sure enough, looped down Sam's legs and into the ground.
"Trent, I didn't burn anything down," I said. "You're the one burning shit down."
"I saw you, man. I fucking saw you that night, and no one fucking believed me. They said I was crazy, said they put you in jail, but I swear to god—"
The phone went dead in my hands—hopefully because Kristoff had heard what was up and was getting his old ass over here. "Trent, that wasn't me. Someone screwed you and your family over, and it was someone I might remind you of, but it was. Not. Me."
"Don't you fucking lie." He flicked the lighter.
If I could get close enough, I could handle it. I could put it out, so long as I could get within arm's reach.
Probably.
Only problem was, part of him would go up before I got that far. Or, if he threw it my way, part of Sam.
My hands were already prepared—I'd subconsciously attuned myself to the air around me, warmed up, ready to make a grab—but now I turned it on so I was red-hot, inching forward. I just started talking, saying anything I could think of that might stall him, make him realize who I was. Better yet, who I wasn't. "Trent, I haven't even lived here five years. I came for Falls State. Remember, I'm from Charleston. You said you used to play us in high school. My uncle, he's a doctor at University. You know him."
He flicked the lighter again and this time held it up. Now I could see his face, the way his mouth curled up in a sneer, and his eyes—
The wail of the sirens got nearer, louder. I heard neighbors spilling out of their units, wondering what the hell was going on. Any minute now someone would see us, would come to find out what the noise was about. And Trent would go bug-fuck.
I was the only one he couldn't hurt.
"Wait, Trent. Wait, okay? Look, the cops are coming. I'll come with you, wherever you want. We'll talk about it."
He hesitated, cocked his head, like he was hearing the sirens for the first time. The flame still danced in his hand. Something exploded inside.
I thought, probably a little hysterically, so much for Sam's porn.
"Don't," Sam said behind me.
I turned to see him still crackling, but in a good way. It danced around his hands, obvious in the early-morning dark, held down in front of him so no one behind could see.
"He can't burn me, Sam." Maybe he could, considering the gasoline situation. But, "Gotta get him out of here."
Sam took a step forward, but I turned away. Behind him, someone else called my name. I wanted to tell them to back off, but—
Trent's face lit up like a fucking jack-o'-lantern. The world slowed down as he took the flame away from the blazing rag, pulled his arm back, and lofted the bottle in our direction. A bright orange trail hung behind it for a split second. The thing hurtled on like it had my name written on it, but I could tell right away it was going to go over my head. I reached, used every inch of my crap-ass athletic ability to jump as high as I could, and made to snatch the sloshing bottle out of the air.
I caught the burning rag. My feet hit the ground with a jolt, and the bottle flipped over my head, spilling its acrid chemical guts all over my arm and up my T-shirt, then landing with an empty thunk. The fire leaped after the gas, raced down my arm before I could get a feeling for it.
Someone—a couple of someones—screamed behind me, but I was a little busy to worry about bystanders just then. I crouched on the ground, pulling my fiery arm into my chest. The closer the air was to me, the easier time I'd have controlling it.
My skin changed; the heat actually hurt. Bad, really bad, since pain was a delayed reaction by nature. But I was fast enough, ready enough that I kept from blistering with it.
The air, my shirt, all the little baseballs—particles—started to respond. I closed my eyes and imagined wrapping up all the space around me, all those balls bouncing madly through the air, me, trying to bat them down, slow them. The world spun. I stopped breathing, pushing and squeezing, then smothering it until—
A hand on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. My T-shirt was toast, hanging off one shoulder like a bad eighties parody, and my arm was blazing hot. But it was there.
The bottle was still on the ground beside me, stinking of diesel but utterly benign. Fire never got past my waist.
Something else
exploded inside, and I started to laugh. I struggled to stand, but the world spun, and my knees wouldn't function. Sam pulled me to my feet and grabbed my face in both hands, turning me this way and that to examine me.
I concentrated on not puking down his shirt, and letting my arm cool off so he didn't burn himself on me, the idiot. "I'm fine—Jesus, watch the arm."
When he turned me to the left, I saw two cops with Trent slammed against the back fence, cuffing him.
When he turned me to the right, I saw a little crowd of our neighbors. Way, way closer than they should've been. "How long have they—"
"Almost got barbecued." He turned me to face him, eyes scanning me again and again.
Fuck, that had been idiotic of me. I mean, yeah, they might've gotten barbecued, but I could tell from the way things were still spinning that I'd come pretty close myself.
"Hansen, you're my fucking hero." He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard, like he was afraid I'd disappear.
CHAPTER SIX
"I don't get why he thought it was you, though," Daly said, sucking on a beer.
Screw beer bottles. Hard liquor for me these days.
Nessa, tucked into the booth between him and the wall, raised an eyebrow at me. Of course, everyone just thought I'd done a brave-stupid thing and smacked the bottle down, then put my own shirt out before it burned me to a crisp. In all the confusion, it had been easy to convince them it hadn't really been as bad as they'd thought. I mean, the evidence was all there—the only thing burned was my shirt and, sadly, my hair.
I was sporting a shorter cut these days but was otherwise physically unaffected.
Mentally, well, we were all pretty affected.
"I'm sure he had his reasons," I said.
Sam looked down into his drink, biting his lip.
"Poor guy." Daly looked apologetic as soon as he said it. "I mean, poor you guys, lost all your stuff and almost got burned alive, but—"
"Yeah, we're okay, though," Sam said. "He's not. It's a good hospital and all, but…"
I put my thigh against his under the table. He reached down and grabbed it, and I covered his hand with mine. "But let's not blame the victims, here. Someone else victimized him, yeah, but it wasn't us. And even if he couldn't tell the difference, threatening and firebombing us wasn't the answer."
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