by C. C. Ekeke
“Yeah.” Presley’s smile showed teeth. “You’re my guy. I’m your girl.” She nuzzled her nose on his. “Attending things together is part of the package.”
Shock tickled Hugo from head to heel. Was this relationship some Truman Show shit? Was the universe trolling him? “Who ARE you?” he blurted out.
Presley jerked her head back, confused. “What does that mean?”
Hugo realized how bizarre his question sounded, and his stomach lurched. “Nothing, it’s…things are so great with you,” he struggled to explain. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real.” Hugo cringed as soon as he’d spoken. God, that sounded desperate.
The confession left Presley stunned. She then glanced down with an understanding smile, clearly deciding something. Hugo prayed she’d hadn’t guessed how insecure he still felt in this relationship. That would drive her off in a flash.
Presley hopped off the couch and offered her hand. “Shower time. I smell like burger grease.”
You smell great, Hugo nearly said but didn’t. Between his big mouth and the dance video, he’d embarrassed himself enough. As Hugo took Presley’s hand and rose, her buzzing cell startled him.
Presley pulled her phone from her pocket and swore in annoyance. “I gotta take this. Work stuff,” she stated apologetically. “Go ahead. This shouldn’t take long.” She scurried to the foyer of Hugo’s house and picked up, speaking to whoever had called in a Chinese dialect.
With that, Hugo headed upstairs to start the shower.
The scalding water blasting his skin felt glorious. With his hypersensitive touch, every rivulet had a different warmth, a varying pressure. He leaned forward, bracing against the wall and zoning out.
Several minutes passed before Hugo noticed that Presley was still downstairs. He slid open the shower door. A quick listen revealed the front door open, and two heartbeats outside. “Priscilla!” he yelled playfully. “Get your sexy ass up here. Or else I’m coming down naked to grab ya.”
He heard Presley chuckle and a gasp from whoever was with her.
“Coming, babe!” she called back smugly.
A few minutes later, her footsteps marched upstairs before she entered the bathroom. The shower door slid opened, Presley covered in only thick curls of steam. “Hi!” She stepped inside daintily.
Hugo eagerly pulled her to him under steaming cascades, making her squeal. That shower lasted a while.
After they’d dried off and dressed, Hugo was beyond pleased. Presley toweling his hair dry felt nice, looking hot in one of his t-shirts. But the mysterious visitor nagged him. “Who was at the door?”
“My question first,” Presley replied, wearing a strange smile.
“A real question?”
Presley flung her towel in Hugo’s face. “Remember how I said my friends and I work as fixers?”
Hugo perked up while drying off her hair. “Yeah.” She didn’t really discuss her job.
“Wanna do some jobs with us?” she asked. “Make some extra money?”
Hugo stopped drying Presley’s hair and stared. He hadn’t expected that. But the prospect interested him. “What would I be doing?”
Presley grimaced, searching for the right words. “Odds and ends. We have some upcoming jobs that could use your manpower.” She eyed him again with that same strange expression.
Hugo nodded, never having considered using his powers for cash. But it made sense if he wasn’t doing the superhero thing. But the vagueness kept him leery. “Let me think about it,” he decided.
Displeasure trembled across Presley’s face, gone before Hugo could comment. “Sure. In a few days?”
Hugo nodded and plopped down next to her. “Now, who was at the door?”
Presley cocked her head sideways. “Some Middle-Eastern girl named Briseis.”
Instantly, Hugo’s mood soured. He made a rude noise and rose from the bed, marching to the bathroom.
“Wow.” Presley guffawed at his reaction and trailed him.
Hugo had cut Brie out of his life. Yet she was like an STD that wouldn’t go away. Hugo hung his towel on the rack in sullen silence, hoping Presley would take the hint.
She didn’t. “That girl had a face like a goddess,” Presley continued, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. She frowned. “And was a real bitch.”
Hugo chuckled. “Sounds about right,” he remarked, continuing to clean up the bathroom. Presley’s scent hung in the air, a wondrous distraction.
“Who is she? And don’t say ‘no one’,” she demanded, taking the answer right out of his mouth.
Hugo sighed, turning to face Presley. “Brie’s no one important.” He flinched at using Briseis’s nickname.
Presley looked amused. “Her nickname's ‘Brie’?” she scoffed. “How basic is that?”
Since Presley wasn’t letting this go, Hugo wanted details. “Why was she here?”
Presley couldn’t keep a straight face. “Basic Brie came to see you. Looked really upset. I introduced myself as your girlfriend, and she laughed in my face.”
Hugo shook his head, revolted. “Also sounds like her.” He left the bathroom and leaned against the hallway wall. Whatever Brie’s drama was this week no longer concerned him.
Presley reclined on the opposing wall. “Then you called from upstairs.” Presley let out a loud belly laugh. “I swear, her reaction slayed me to Heaven and back. I asked if she wanted to wait. Basic Brie made some snide comment and stormed off.”
Hugo would’ve paid money to see that. He smiled, basking in the reality of having a girlfriend.
“Who is she?” Presley urged soberly. “Besides a beautiful, basic bitch.”
Hugo had been dreading this conversation. But here we are. “I liked her. A lot.” He spread his hands out for emphasis. “Then I found out how much I disgusted her.” Discussing Briseis no longer hurt as grievously. Hugo just felt embarrassed how lovestruck he’d been for her. More than by the cornrows.
“She broke your heart,” Presley’s features emptied of emotion. “Made you feel worthless?” She shook her head vigorously. “Basic Brie is dead wrong.”
Hugo looked down, his heart full of gratitude…maybe love. Was it too soon to feel that?
“So…” Presley pushed off the wall toward him. “We hate her, right?”
Hugo laughed. Words couldn’t describe how much he adored Presley. “Let’s discuss something else?”
Presley arched a suggestive eyebrow. “I know some things…that don’t need words,” she purred.
Potent hunger stirred in Hugo's loins. He reached for Presley, guiding her back into the bedroom.
Hours later, Hugo returned home after from superspeeding Presley back to her place. Somehow, he found himself in the garage. Hugo stripped off his shirt and put on a beanie. The spacious garage was filled with storage boxes of Dad’s stuff, the washer and dryer, plus another fridge. This once had been somewhere his dance crew practiced. The many hours spent here with those former friends remained vivid, as if happening yesterday.
And much to his distaste, Hugo’s mind kept returning to Briseis. Why did she come here? Had Brie’s horrible mom fat-shamed her again? Or was hiding her closeted brother’s secret too much? Wistfulness whisked Hugo back to the night Dad had died. Simon wasn't the only one there for me. Briseis had been with him when the police visited the house. She had called Simon to come over after Hugo heard about his father. The whole next day, he, Simon, AJ, and Brie had played video games to escape the grief. Then came her unwavering support at Dad’s funeral and for weeks afterward. Until their intimacy started to embarrass Brie…
But Hugo had no interest in reliving that time. He owned a portfolio of times that Brie had humiliated him in front of her friends. Like the beginning of sophomore year, when Hugo had seen Brie’s true self.
The selfless, kindhearted Briseis who Hugo had once worshiped was gone. If she even existed… What Hugo had with Presley was real.
He shook his head, thinking back to the dance c
ompetitions, gyrating in sync with old friends. Hugo had been good. Correction, he’d been great. The one area in his life without insecurities.
Before he knew it, Hugo plugged his cellphone into big speakers across from the washer/dryer and chose a hip-hop Spotify list.
Hugo stood in the garage’s center, eyes closed, feeling out the melody and bass flowing through him. Music sounded different through these enhanced senses, enveloping his body, drumming on his bones, caressing his skin rhythmically. It was beautiful.
Then Hugo moved, against the beat, with the beat. It was a competition. He grooved slow during the dance break, juked and shimmied during the faster choruses. By the third track, Hugo knew he hadn’t lost a step, dance moves flowing easily. A Michael Jackson spin here. Gyrating his hips there. The whole time, the ecstasy of street dancing embraced him like an old friend.
Sometime around the sixth track, Hugo heard Mom pull into the driveway with AJ.
“Mom,” AJ remarked, “music’s coming from the garage.” The awe in his voice was obvious.
“I know…” Mom sounded choked with happiness. “I didn’t think he ever would again.” Her reaction struck Hugo the deepest. He gulped, never grasping how much this had affected the family. Mom and AJ slipped inside the front without another word.
When Hugo reentered the kitchen, AJ greeted him with a giddy smile. Mom, still in maroon nursing scrubs, bearhugged his shirtless torso.
Hugo melted inside and gently returned her embrace. “Love you too, Mom,” he whispered.
Mom pulled away and patted his cheek. “Go get dressed so you look half-decent.” She went to rummage around in the kitchen fridge. “Ms. Ortiz invited us over for dinner.”
Hugo straightened in surprise and glanced back at AJ, who nodded happily.
Dinner with Ms. Ortiz and her daughter, Zelda, for the third time in under two weeks. Not that Hugo minded, despite Ms. Ortiz’s kookiness. Ms. Ortiz was a good friend to Mom, so Hugo was happy.
“Cool.” He was about to head upstairs, then stopped. Hugo remembered something more important than dinner. “Be back in fifteen minutes.” Hugo raced upstairs, threw on a t-shirt, then raced out the backdoor before Mom could object…which she did.
Two minutes later, Hugo was in an East Paso Robles neighborhood of similar model townhomes, knocking on one of many doors.
The door opened wide, revealing an older Korean man with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. Wearing a sweater vest and button-down shirt, he gaped up at Hugo. After a moment, recognition flooded the man’s face, which resembled his son’s. “Hugo! Hello!”
“Hi, Hugo!” Mrs. Han called from the living room, watching an N3 special on Tomorrow Man.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Han,” Hugo greeted, hearing Simon’s outrage from upstairs. “Is Simon home?”
Mr. Han invited Hugo in and called his son, then joined his wife in the living room.
After four minutes of procrastinating, Simon emerged from his room in a “Remember the Titan” t-shirt and sweatpants. He stopped halfway down the stairs, probably so he could actually look down on Hugo for once. Unlike his parents, Simon had no smiles or warmth. “Hey,” he stated flatly.
Hugo replied with an awkward wave. The tension between them was thicker than concrete.
By Simon’s irked glare, Hugo knew he had to start. “I was a dick. I’m sorry.” He meant every word.
Simon lifted his chin, unmoved. “Took you long enough.”
“I’ve always been kinda slow,” Hugo admitted with a chuckle. Now he waited and hoped for forgiveness. The thought of not having Simon as a friend was a scary, lonely place.
The Korean boy sighed and the anger bled from his face. “Sorry I kept pressuring you about…” Being a superhero, his guilty expression suggested. “You know.”
“I know,” Hugo replied, smiling.
After a tense moment, Simon rolled his eyes and waved him forward. “Get up here, you big dumbshit.”
“Simon!” Mrs. Han barked from the living room. “Language!”
“Sorry, Mama.” Simon shot an accusing glare at Hugo, which doubled them both over in muted laughter.
The tension lifted. Hugo rarely tasted relief so sweet as he climbed those stairs. “Can’t stay long,” he said when they reached the top of the stairwell. “But I’ve got a date to Fall Fling.”
“Yes!” Simon erupted with joy for him. “Tell me about it!”
Chapter 23
“C’mon, QB!” Creed Samuels urged. By his slightly slurred words, he’d had a few drinks. And by the raucous background, he was clearly at a bar. “It’s me, Jensen, and other folks from the circle of trust.”
Quinn laughed, cradling her cellphone to her ear. The circle of trust was a group of about seven other SLOCO Daily employees who Quinn could go to happy hour with and safely vent on workplace issues. Not having a job or seeing these wonderful fools these last three days had felt…odd and embarrassing. The loneliness made Creed’s offer even more tempting.
“I have to pass, Creed,” she uttered regretfully. Quinn had plans tonight involving her investigation. Getting fired from SLOCO Daily hadn’t stopped her from being a reporter. Or getting to the bottom of this story…
“Fuck Colin!” a drunk woman slurred into the phone. “Fuck his 1980s hair and his motormouth!”
Quinn winced. “Is that Jensen?”
“Indeed.” Creed chuckled after reclaiming his phone. “She’s rip-roaring drunk!”
“Please don’t blame Colin,” Quinn pleaded. “He made an honest mistake.” The videographer had apologized profusely in the aftermath. Quinn had been angry but understood how these slipups could happen. That didn’t change how she was now jobless and pacing around her apartment barefoot.
“Then fuck Helena,” Creed raged, “and her Irish boytoy for backstabbing you—”
“Don’t do anything dumb, Creed!” Quinn pleaded. “You know how much power Jono has over Helena.” That fact made her shiver with anger. “Stay out of his crosshairs!”
Besides rowdy patrons and background music, she heard nothing for a few moments.
“Fine!” Creed finally acquiesced. “Need any referrals to other newsites? I hear Newsworthy is hiring.”
Finding another job. Her recent unemployment was still fresh. Quinn tried ignoring the dull sting in her throat. “I’m taking a week to decompress first. But thanks.”
“Just be careful with this Lord Borealis story, QB,” Creed warned, stone-cold sober despite his slurring. “I’d rather you be safe than dead and right.”
Quinn squeezed her eyes shut. He wasn’t wrong. But Quinn had gotten too far. Creed didn’t understand, despite many explanations. The doorbell rang. Perfect timing. “Dinner’s here,” she lied. “Bye.” Quinn hung up and trudged over to the entry console next to her front door. She clicked on the buzzer to open the front gate a few floors below.
Five minutes later, a knock rapped outside. Quinn twisted both locks and opened her door.
“Sorry I’m late.” Helena Madden strode in, giving her ex-employee a quick yet firm hug. She wore a maroon leather jacket with a scarf, spiky hair dyed deep blue. “Senior staff meeting ran long.”
“No worries.” Quinn waved off the explanation. Greeting the editor-in-chief so casually after everything felt surreal. “Want anything to drink?”
Helena shook her head, sliding off her jacket. She studied a cluttered wall in the common room and adjusted her glasses. “These are your prime suspects?”
Quinn nodded and stood beside Helena. “Based on possible motives and connections to Titan.”
The pair studied a wall cluttered with pictures of world-famous superheroes, plus Quinn’s scribbled or typed notes. It resembled a crazed conspiracy diagram. But with so many moving pieces in the Titan murder, Quinn needed visuals to organize things. Helena pulled out her iPad to take notes as they ran through the suspects.
They started with an older gentleman, white streaks peppering his dark-brown hair. Sharp features and handso
me in an Englishman way. He was the patriarch of the UK’s premiere superhero team. “Rupert Champion?” Helena questioned skeptically.
“Simple.” Quinn approached his picture. “For years, there’ve been rumors that his wife, Cassandra, and Titan had an ongoing affair. Could be true.” She detailed how Rupert Champion had the powerset and scientific brilliance to both kill Titan and frame Lord Borealis. Helena didn’t disagree but noted his HQ was in London.
Quinn moved to a gorgeous picture of Lady Liberty, sunkissed and smiling. That face, sporting superb bone structure, had graced countless magazine covers.
“Lady Liberty?” Helena mused, scratching her chin. “Almost too obvious.”
“Perhaps,” Quinn countered, gesturing at the Glorious Glamazon’s picture. “Yeah, the broken heart excuse is reductive. But she's called Titan the love of her life. Maybe she went loco after all these cape-chasers he kept bedding. And…” Quinn had found this nugget of info during her stay with the Vanguard. “There might be truth to her and Lord Borealis having been involved.”
Helena gaped. “When?”
“2011,” Quinn replied. “When Borealis first tried redemption? He left Lady Liberty and broke bad again.”
Helena nodded, impressed. “Revenge on the two men who’d wronged her. Plus, her full powerset has always been nebulous.” That made her a prime suspect.
They both decided to drop Wyldcat, even though her motives would mirror Lady Liberty’s.
“She’s not the calculating type. Much more hot-tempered and in-the-moment,” Quinn decided. She moved to the next picture of the square-jawed supersoldier named Sentinel. An action figure made flesh. “He breathes, eats, and sleeps being a superhero. There had to be jealousy of Titan.”
“I doubt XS would make him powerful enough to kill Titan,” Helena retorted. “He'd still need help.”
Quinn concurred. She had told Helena about the XS drug angle, which could make even lesser-powered superheroes suspects.
“Justice Jones?” Quinn offered, referring to the tattooed biker superhero, mean-mugging in his picture.
“He can’t match Titan’s strength.” Helena gave the Outlaw Superhero’s picture an admiring onceover. “Maybe on XS… Still doesn’t explain the EMP that killed Titan.”