Page 24

Half an hour later, they were pulling up to the nondescript building where their chief suspect lived. The neighborhood was utterly ordinary. Personally, Mull disliked ordinary. She didn’t trust it. Ordinary was how evil hid. Everyone knew that.

Oz pulled the car into one of the reserved “Hero” parking spots, which were scattered around the city, designated with a sign featuring the familiar symbol of a man in a cape.

“On one hand, I like the fact we won’t have to walk far. But on the other hand, parking here kind of ruins the low-profile we should probably be going for.” She observed.

Oz shrugged. “I don’t hide. If he wants a fight with me, he knows where to find me.”

Mull smiled, pleased to see that Oz had recovered some of his characteristic balls-to-the-wall boy-scout-iness. “Yeah, fuck him. This is our parking spot.”

“Enjoy them while they last because the city is in the process of removing them. ”

Mull shook her head. “Ain’t no more heroes anymore.”

“A real hero doesn’t care about free parking.”

“But a real hero should be given free parking, all the same.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not circling the block looking for a spot if there’s a bank robbery going on, I’m just going to keep driving.”

Oz unbuckled his seatbelt, then carefully checked and double-checked to make certain the emergency brake was engaged. “They’ve done studies and determined that 72% of Capes would choose another profession if they had their lives to do over again.”

Mull snorted. “Not me. I love low pay, spandex, and vigilantism.”

Oz started to chuckle, and the sound made Mull uncommonly happy for some reason.

Oz so rarely laughed about things, the man was almost always deadly serious.

And… sad. There was something so lonely and small behind Oz’s facade of unflappable (though obsessive compulsive) protector.

Mull didn’t know why that was, but it always made her want to try to help him find some joy in life.

She closed the door to Oz’s Prius and made a face at the boring brownstone buildings which surrounded them. “Jesus. I feel like a stickball game could erupt around us at any moment. If I try to open a lemonade stand, I want you to shoot me.”

Oz looked up at the building, then started towards the front steps. “I still think we should consider calling for backup.”

“You really want to deal with our coworkers?”

“No.”

“Exactly. They’ll just screw everything up and you know it.

” She swatted him in the chest with the back of her hand in a show of comradery, then immediately regretted it, instantly recognizing the fact that Oz didn’t really like other people touching him.

Germs and all. He was delicate. “Sorry.”

He frowned at her. “About what?”

“I prefer to work alone too, that’s one of the reasons why we work so well together.”

He squinted slightly, trying to process that. “I’m… not sure I follow that logic.”

She ignored that. “I’m a dying breed, Oz.

My life is one of those awesome 90s action movies that they don’t make anymore because everyone in Hollywood is a pansy now.

You know the kind of movie I mean. Where a cynical, chain-smoking, foulmouthed, self-loathing, drunken loser anti-hero, shoots bad guys and blows random shit up, while his bosses yell at him for breaking every rule in the book.

There’s gratuitous amounts of nudity and imaginative profanity, it’s always nighttime, everyone is an immoral piece of shit, and everyone is drowning in cheap alcohol.

There’s graphic torture and brutal home invasions.

It’s bloody, and fast-paced, and features an uneasy mix of comedy, violence, and genuine human anguish.

That’s my life.” She started up the front stairs, stopping halfway up to scan the street behind her for possible threats.

“And you don’t think I fit into that?” He asked.

“Well, at first I was thinking you were my mismatched buddy cop…”

“Uh-huh…”

She continued up the stairs. “But now I’m thinking you might be the pretty and innocent friend, who dies for my sins and to give me a greater motivation to kill my enemies and blow shit up in the climax of the film.”

“It’s nice that you’ve got this all figured out. Just imagine if you couldn’t use terrible movies to explain complicated elements of our real lives.”

“I don’t even want to imagine living like that, Oz.” She was horrified by the mere idea. “You just need to face the fact that the world is Death Wish . I’m Charlie Bronson, the last sane man in a world gone mad… you’re his catatonic daughter who gets raped by Jeff Goldblum.”

“I… I don’t think I’m his daughter.” Oz defended, as if having given the matter some thought.

“Well, you could be Denzel Washington, if you want. But Charlie Bronson shoots him too.” She paused to squint at him. “You do have a certain ‘Denzel’ quality about you…”

“Does Bronson kill everyone in this movie?”

“Yeah.” She nodded immediately. “‘Cause he’s Charlie Bronson. If he wasn’t shooting punks and whooping ass, he wouldn’t be Charlie motherfuckin’ Bronson .”

“Isn’t there anyone who isn’t a sociopath in the film? Aren’t there any normal people?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “It’s the most realistic film you’ll ever see. Practically a documentary.”

Arriving at the front door of the apartment building, Mull squinted down at the nameplates, looking for their guy. None of them seemed to be his name, but one of the apartments was lacking any kind of identification. Which meant it was more than likely their suspect .

“So… should we buzz him?” Oz wondered aloud, looking down at the doorknob, obviously debating whether or not it would be destroying evidence to spray its surface with antibacterial solution. “Or should I call the police to get a warrant first?”

Mull had far more experience than Oz did with getting into places she wasn’t wanted.

She couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting Oz somewhere.

“We buzz him and he’ll rabbit on us.” She reminded him, scanning the nameplates again.

“And I don’t deal with cops. They keep trying to arrest me over every little thing.

” One of the plaques identified the occupant as “Kristi Skye,” the name spelled out in pink glitter ink, followed by her Instagram username and an inspirational hashtag.

Mull tried to avoid the impulse to vomit.

But the woman in question was perfect for her current requirements.

Anyone that silly was sure to have a lot of friends stopping by unexpectedly.

And anyone with a lot of friends undoubtedly had trouble identifying them all.

…Or so Mull assumed anyway. She’d personally never had a lot of friends, but she couldn’t imagine them being easy to tell apart.

She took on an utterly insipid voice and pressed the call button.

“Yes?” The woman asked, sounding even more irritatingly vapid than Mull imagined.

”Happy Thanksgiving, girl!” Mull called into the microphone cheerily. “It’s me! Let me up!”

Sure enough, the door buzzed a moment later, as Kristi unlocked it for them.

Mull opened it and ushered Oz through. “See how easy that is, Oz?”

“Wouldn’t it have been just as easy to obtain entrance legally?”

“I haven’t broken any laws.” She defended. “I didn’t lie to dear Kristi, it was me. She’s the one who decided that I was a ‘me’ she knew.”

Oz squinted, trying to follow the logic of all of those pronouns. “I always find conversing with you to be confusing, Miss Quentin.” Oz looked up the stairwell, obviously expecting gunmen to be waiting for them.

Mull rolled her eyes at the man’s paranoia. But then thought about the situation for a moment, and shouldered him out of the way. “Stay behind me, Oz.” She ordered, starting up the stairs. “I’m bullet-proof today.”

Oz made a face at the idea, but didn’t voice his obvious unhappiness about her being the one who would take the brunt of any attack .

“I think I should be in front.” He decided after a moment, still sulking.

“You have super-strength and invulnerability today?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Don’t be sexist, Oz.” She turned to pat him on the shoulder. “I got this, baby doll. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

To her surprise, Oz snorted in amusement. “I’ll try not to, Miss Quentin.”

Mull was standing on the stair in front of him, their height difference lessened. From her position, she once again noted that the man smelled really good. Clean and strong and… wholesome. Mull had no experience with wholesome. But she found it so exotic and intriguing.

Oz was the kind of man that the world wouldn’t let someone like Mull anywhere near, for fear she’d corrupt him. And that idea was genuinely exciting.

Oz was genuinely exciting.

Every time he looked at her, Mull got excited.

Oz had the strange ability to make his mere glance feel like a soft and hot caress, making her body sing.

It was one of the most enjoyable parts of her day, truth told.

She loved that Oz looked at her like that.

She woke up every day afraid that she’d somehow do something bad enough that he’d see the truth about her and stop.

That he’d recognize that she was a terrible person, who had no business being around him. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet.

She met his eyes, feeling the familiar feeling of desire shoot through her, heightened by the shared desire she told herself she saw in his eyes.

“I have told you many, many times to call me ‘Brick House’ today.” She breathed, trying to keep her voice steady and not tinged with the throaty tone of lust she felt at the moment.

Oz shook his head. “I’d rather not, thank you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”