Page 8 of All Superheroes Need PR (Supers in the City #1)

Chapter Six

Vanessa

“This is so inappropriate,” I squeeze out in a tiny, tinny tone, one that Mr. Casteel— Roland —immediately talks over.

“This is what I wanted. I thought that was really fuck—really clear.” He shoots me a side-eye from where he’s seated in the uncomfortable leather chair neighboring mine. Up on the thirtieth floor now in Mr. Singkham’s private office, Mr. Singkham sits across the table from us. Jem sits on my right on a leather ottoman from the equally unpleasant-looking leather sectional against the far wall, a laptop open on her knees, an angry expression pulling her small features into the center of her face, making her look like she’s about to explode.

Meanwhile, I’ve been reduced to a puddle of melted knees. All I can do is watch Mr. Singkham and hope that he can resolve this reasonably ...

“Mr. Casteel, the COE was under the impression that, per your written request, Ms. Theriot was to come on board as your manager—”

“You’re a liar, Prasit. I was really fucking clear.” He leans back in his seat, and both of his clenched fists erupt in flame as he grips the leather. It instantly singes, the brown turning black.

Mr. Singkham squirms. He makes a farting sound whenever he moves, which I wish would cut the tension but doesn’t. He glances at Jem as if paranoid, which he has every right to be, adjusts his tie, and clears his throat. “Can we speak off the record?”

“No,” Jem barks.

“Jem,” I hiss and nod. “Yes, I think this all is probably just a big misunderstanding.”

“In a sense,” Mr. Singkham says at the same time Mr. Casteel says, “I told you what I wanted. You’re begging me to light this goddamn building on fire ...”

“There’s no need for theatrics, Mr. Casteel. We did speak, Ms. Theriot and I, and she agreed to your conditions. She asked not to have her skills utilized in the capacity of your PA and further stipulated which of the tasks we might have seen as being managed by one individual, but Ms. Theriot, you did not mention your opposition to the Lois Lane clause ...”

“But ...” I say breathily.

Mr. Singkham speaks over me. “And Mr. Casteel, while Ms. Theriot may take on the role of Lois Lane, the proposal clearly lists this as a superficial PR position, posing as your girlfriend to help boost your PR image and make you more relatable, sure, but moreover this is a public speaking role. Did you not read the brief? Because while the COE may be in the business of building heroes, we are not in the business of mail-order brides.”

Mr. Casteel doesn’t respond. Instead, the fire in his fists goes out, but not the one in his eyes, which are a bright orange; I can literally see the illusion of flames dancing where pupils and irises should be. He glances at me, and something small happens then. Something ... that wounds me.

A dusting of deep pink strokes the tops of his brilliant brown cheeks.

He’s embarrassed .

I understand embarrassment. I understand its sick, crushing weight, and I feel it bleeding from his skin like a fatal wound, and I slip and slide around in it. I’m going to drown in it.

I clutch the arms of my seat and picture Ann Darrow in the arms of an embarrassed King Kong. I cringe. He doesn’t get embarrassed. Superman doesn’t get embarrassed. The Pyro—the Wyvern—doesn’t get embarrassed. He’s a hero. And I can’t be the one responsible for bringing him down like this.

He opens his mouth, and though smoke curls out into the space between us, no words follow it.

Meanwhile, I’m clenched together so tightly that I burst. “I ... what ... maybe we can ... I can ... I’ll Take The Lois Lane Contract .” My voice is way louder than I mean for it to be, and the entire room falls silent. I clear my throat and wrestle my tone down until it’s barely above a whisper. “We’ll just ... I just ... don’t want to do the public speaking ...”

“You don’t have to,” Mr. Casteel says at the same time Jem balks, “That’s the main role of Lois Lane as we wrote her. Plus, you’ll have to move in together eventually, or no one in the public eye will believe y’all are—or were ever—really dating. You’re really okay with that?”

Oh my God, no. I’m not. I’m definitely not. Though I have no idea what I’m going to say next, I open my mouth to speak but am spared from it when the sirens start blaring and the bright red-and-white emergency lights start to flash.

Two storm troopers dressed all in white—COE security—burst into Mr. Singkham’s offices, the heavy wood door slamming against the wall as they enter. “Emergency protocol. There’s VNA incoming.”

I stand and reach for Jem. She’s still seated on the ottoman, and her laptop slides off her lap and onto the floor when I grab hold of her wrist and start to pull and— BAM . The outer windows explode inward.

I somehow manage to keep my feet as my arms move to shield my head and face. I hear a deafening rumble so loud I almost can’t hear COE security shouting, “Thirtieth floor! Thirtieth floor! President’s nest, I repeat, we are under attack in the president’s nest!”

I have no idea who they’re talking to, but when the whoosh of the blast finally settles, I glance over my shoulder to find that the place where the windows once were is now open, revealing the Sundale skyline—with no barriers to prevent us from meeting it.

Nothing but Mr. Casteel. Roland. The Wyvern.

The Wyvern has squared off against the void, broad shoulders looking expansive enough to keep us from falling thirty stories. “It’s the Marduk. He was my VNA contact,” he shouts over his shoulder, glancing around the room. “I’ll handle this. You!” He points at the storm trooper closing in on my left. “Get her out of here. I’ll be back in a second.”

And in less than a tenth of that, he bullets out of the window in a blaze of flame, leaving a trail of ash behind him as his hoodie and sweatshirt entirely burn away. He plunges into the sky, hurtling toward a small object that I would have thought was a bird at this distance.

If I’d had half a mind—and had actually passed the practical in my war journalism course—I might have thought about pulling out my phone camera, but I don’t. I just stare in absolute terror and bewilderment as the Forty-Eight with the power over flame and the one with the power over thunder and wind battle a football field’s length from where I stand swaying toward a long, long drop.

“Let’s go!” The storm trooper shouts at me. “Ms. Tsegaye, Ms. Theriot! Come on!” He gestures for us with a huge sweep of his arm, but I hesitate, reaching instead for Jem and her outstretched hand. Before I can touch her, a huge burst of light draws my attention up to the massive blaze lighting up the sky and then— Boom .

I hear the sound before I feel the harsh slice of the wind cut through my clothes and hair and across my face. I’m tossed up off my feet, and my shoulder slams into the storm trooper’s armor-clad chest. I shout, he grunts, and then I moan again when Jem slams into my back and all three of us go flying. Somehow avoiding collision with the chairs or the desk, we land on a soft area rug in a tangle of limbs.

I blink and plant my hands beneath me only to grab Jem’s calf instead of finding the floor. She isn’t moving, but when I look up, I see she’s awake. The storm trooper is lying face down with Jem’s head on his back. Her face has little scratches all over it, and there’s glass reflecting in her black, curly hair. When I lift my head, I can hear glass tinkling in mine too.

“Holy shit, close your eyes!” Jem screeches a second before another gust of wind hurls into us, slamming us against the wall.

“Ooph,” I groan, Jem’s knee hitting my spine and driving the air clean out of me. My eyes open on instinct only to see the massive chair Roland had been sitting in tipping onto its side legs and threatening to fall directly onto us.

“Jem!” I manage to squeal.

I lift my arms, and a gruff groan sounds from behind me as the storm trooper suddenly shoves my outstretched arms aside and grabs the chair before it lands. He hurls it to the side with my and Jem’s help, but the joint movement sends us toppling over one another all over again. I land on his leg just in time to be distracted by another burst of cataclysmic orange—this time from farther away. I brace for the responding windstorm, but it never comes. I take a breath ... and then a deeper breath.

My heart is pounding as I watch, stunned and speechless, as the Wyvern and the one he’d been fighting break apart. The two grains of rice hovering in the sky separate, one getting smaller and smaller, one getting larger until the Wyvern comes back into focus. He lands hard on the glossy wooden floor of Mr. Singkham’s office, fully freaking naked except for one slightly singed piece of elastic slung low on his hips, holding up a fluttering tag of black fabric.

It’s not hiding much. I gulp and refocus on his face. His cheeks are pink as he stalks across the floor, glancing around only once before coming directly to me. He shoves the storm trooper’s torso off my legs and untangles me from Jem’s grasp, pulling me up into a seat.

“Fuck,” he grits under his breath, his eyes molten pits, his front teeth bared and mean. “I mean, fuck,” he says again as his fingers move over my hair, trying to pluck glass bits free.

I shake my head again and again, answering a question he hasn’t asked me.

“You hurt?” he says the same time that I blurt, “You look good.”

“What?”

“What?” Realizing what I just said, I quickly blurt out, “I mean you look healthy. No. Fit. I mean ... you don’t look injured even though ...” I point lamely at the missing wall. “The battle ...” My voice trails off.

He cocks his head. “I’m not,” he says, and that’s when I see it: high in his cheeks, just a peppering of pink. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“I’ll do it,” I say instead of focusing on my mortification.

“What?”

“The Lois Lane contract. I’ll do it for two years.”

His cheek ticks, and a feathering of fire fans over it, the world’s most insane highlighter, making me jump. He continues to pin me with his gaze, even as emergency personnel swarm the space and medical checks out Jem and Mr. Singkham, who was knocked behind his desk. Meanwhile, Roland ignores it all and keeps his focus trained on me.

“So, deal?” I hold out my hand.

He glares at it. “Five years.”

I blink in shock. “Two,” I repeat.

“Ten.”

“Three.”

“Fifteen.”

My jaw drops. “Four.”

“Fine.” He grabs my hand, then pulls me to my feet so roughly, I tumble against his naked body. I cook from the inside out as he ducks his head, lips moving within striking distance of mine as he says in a low voice that tastes like smoke and chimes with victory. “Then get a room ready for me. I’m moving in with my girlfriend tomorrow.”