License to Chill (Subparheroes)

1. CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Colden

I blow into my hands and rub them together. Behind me, the window air conditioner wheezes, coughing air as warm as the ninety degrees baking the city into my office, and I fear it’s seconds from dying. Considering it’s only ten AM, this doesn’t bode well for the remainder of the day. If the rest of me was as cold as my hands, I wouldn’t need air conditioning.

I should contact headquarters and ask April to email me the authorization form for a new air conditioner, but I’ve been avoiding her and her increasingly threatening emails to submit our quarterly report for two months. In my defense, nothing has changed since the last quarterly report. Or the report before that. The most that happens in this town is the occasional skinny dipping incident. So why should I waste my time doing paperwork when I could be doing other things?

The chair, that’s at least forty years old, moans its dissatisfaction when I lean back and prop my feet on the edge of the equally ancient metal desk. Pulling out my phone, my hands warm simply from the thought of communicating with the man I’ve spent five years avoiding face-to-face contact for fear my true feelings would show. Jeopardizing my relationship with my best friend, Dacker, who also happens to be the man’s older brother, isn’t an option. If I were stronger, better, I would have faded into the background, nothing more than Dack’s buddy. A guy who was practically a part of their family when Neo was younger. But there’s nothing particularly exceptional about me, so I give in to my one vice and text Neo Price.

Me: Good luck with your presentation tomorrow.

Three little dots appear immediately and along with them, the tingling sensation that always takes root in my gut when I see a message from him.

Neo: Thanks! Heading into a meeting to review talking points for it.

Neo: Text you tonight.

Me: Later.

A smiley emoji appears, and I trace my thumb over it. The pink cheeks and turned up mouth encompass everything that is Neo. His unending optimism has never left him.

I, on the other hand, have enough understanding of the real world to know that, for most of us, life is a series of disappointments. Not that I would dissuade Neo of his idealism. It’s what makes him, him .

Book on my lap, I tuck my hands under my butt in a futile attempt to warm them. The humidity is so high it smacks you in the face like a brick wall when walking outside, and it’s eighty- seven degrees in here, but none of that matters. My hands are always cold.

Except when I text Neo.

“Hey partner.” My overly cheerful, overly ambitious, overly eager office mate, Arlo, strolls in, hands full of caffeinated concoctions from the one and only coffee shop in the town of Eternity.

I take the to-go cup he holds in front of me. “We’re not partners. You’re a trainee.”

“I’m your friend.” He tips his chin at the cup in my hand. “One iced coffee, no ice.”

“Thanks.” I remove the lid and wiggle my fingers. The telltale tingling starts in the tips, traveling to my palms. Within seconds, there’s the satisfying plop, plop, plop of ice filling the plastic cup. And for a moment, my fingertips don’t feel like they’re on the verge of frostbite. “You’re my office mate, at best.”

Instead of going to his desk on the other side of the room, Arlo rests his hip on the corner of mine and sips his caramel-mocha, cappuccino-latte with oat milk, whipped cream, and sprinkles, or whatever bullshit drink he insists on asking poor Mrs. Speakman to make him. It’s been six months since the Preppy McPreppster showed up at this outpost, and Mrs. Speakman still can’t wrap her head around milk made from oats.

“Coworker,” he counters.

“Fine.” I bring the cup to my lips, the acrid caramel roast coats my throat, and I wonder why I’m still here. In this office, in this town, where I can’t even get a decent cup of coffee.

I start at the intrusive thought. Thankfully, Arlo doesn’t notice, or there would be no chance of him leaving me alone. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

Arlo ignores my question, his gaze sweeping the office space. With his pale green polo shirt and buttercream—not yellow, as I’ve been corrected on more than one occasion—Chinos, he looks like he should be playing golf at a country club not sipping subpar coffee in a dinky town in a rundown office in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. “We should redecorate.”

“No.” I pick up my book from my lap and open it.

“Why not?” Gaze still scanning the room, he doesn’t look at me.

I can almost hear his ideas for making this a trendy office rattling around in his head, and I wonder if this is payback from April for all the years I refused her invitation to join SPAM.

Nah. If that were the case, the last six new recruits she dropped here would have been just as bad. But none of them cared about decorating or making friends or fitting in with a town they knew they were leaving as soon as they had the chance.

Though, Arlo may be my penance for the time I sent her a year’s worth of quarterly reports before the quarters had even occurred. Again, nothing changes, and they were correct, but April failed to see the efficiency—or humor—in it. Her stony stare, even over Zoom, was as intimidating as her job title is elusive. She could be the Empress of SPAM for all anyone knows, which would be appropriate since she runs the show, and everyone who works for Special Processing and Management—aka. SPAM—is well aware.

I jerk my chin to the shuttering air conditioner. “You think headquarters is going to give you money for new desks and inspirational posters?”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask.” Arlo heads to the back where our prehistoric drip coffee maker sits, and for a moment I think he’s going to return to his desk and leave me in peace. Unfortunately for me, he cuts an enormous hunk of banana bread from the loaf I brought in this morning and returns, parking his annoying ass in one of the two wooden chairs in front of my desk.

Sighing, I close my book and drop my feet to the floor. He’s only been here for six months and in that time, we’ve had more chats than I’ve had with anyone in my life. And it doesn’t appear I’m getting out of a discussion about office decor. “I prefer to keep a low profile. This town doesn’t like flashy.”

Not acknowledging my statement, he takes a bite of the bread, humming his satisfaction as he chews. “I emailed April yesterday about the air conditioner, and she said a new one will be installed next week. I also completed the quarterly report.” He sips his drink and crosses his right ankle over his left knee, the tan skin of his ankle making it apparent he’s not wearing socks with his loafers. “You’re welcome.”

“The reports are busy work. They could pull what they need if they upgraded their system.” I’ve said as much to April, but there’s always an excuse, and it’s always money. Something about our budget being “up in the air” or SPAM’s oversight being changed to another government agency. It all sounds like bullshit, but I’m not willing to piss April off that much and tell her.

“Did you see the latest bulletin about the Eastern Criminal Alliance?”

ECA is a group of criminals who also have powers. Ordinaries think ECA is the Educating Children Association. They are unaware of the group’s intentions, and SPAM wants to keep it that way. The ordinary population would freak out if they knew there was a group of criminals parading under the guise of enhancing education whose goal was…

Huh, other than wreaking havoc, I’m not sure if they actually have goals.

“We don’t need to worry about it. Nothing happens here.”

He breaks off another bite and dips it into the whipped cream topping his drink. “I heard they’re holding some kind of competition with the regional groups.”

I snort, my chair groans so loudly, and I rock forward, afraid this will be the day it snaps. And Arlo witnessing me falling ass backwards is something I refuse to let happen. “The regional groups make incompetence look good.”

He doesn’t say anything, just sips his dessert in a cup. Moments pass and I return to my book. As long as he’s quiet, I don’t care where the man sits. I turn to where I left off and begin reading.

“The Duke of Marlborough had loved the Duke of Rutland since they were just Charlie and Teddy. Two boys—”

“How’d you end up here, anyway?”

My teeth clap together. At this rate, I’ll get through the first page sometime in August.

Arlo waves his hand, gesturing to the gray cinderblock walls and the worn industrial carpet. “I’m assuming your sparkling personality had something to do with it.” His smirk is teasing, but there’s a bit of something in his expression. Loneliness?

I sigh again. The kid is young, and being sent to a run-down office in a run-down strip center in a run-down town has to be a letdown. I place my book next to the 2010 desk calendar that’s been here longer than me. “It may come as a surprise, but I don’t do well with authority.”

“Really? I had no idea.” Sarcasm drips from each word, but amusement sparks behind his black-framed glasses. He brings his cardboard cup to his smirking lips. “Tell me more.”

My gaze falls to my book, eager to lose myself in the historical romance world Forest Garvis is a master at creating. There’s no way I’m getting to it now. “My journey to SPAM was a little different from most.”

“And…” He gestures for me to keep talking.

I blow out a breath. “Fine. I come from a well-known family. SPAM had me on their radar for years before I finally joined.”

Eyes wide with interest, he leans forward. “How did I not know this?”

“Because I don’t spill my life story to everyone I meet.” I drop my legs from the desk, stretching them underneath and wiggle my ass trying to find a comfortable position. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a new desk chair.”

Arms crossed over his chest, his annoyance manifests with a finger tapping the coffee cup in his left hand. “We’re working together. Of course I’m going to tell you about myself.”

“You could have left out your birth story,” I mutter into my cup, cringing at the bitter taste.

He shrugs his shoulders in a way that says, sorry, not sorry . “So, who’s your family? Would I know them? Are they celebrities?”

“In our world, they are.” My fingers tingle, pinpricks stinging them. I get up, stride to the mini fridge in the back, and pull out the ice tray.

My power has always been a mystery. When I was a kid, physicians who specialized in superpowers poked and prodded me, but no one could figure out exactly how my power works. I can’t turn water into ice, and I don’t need it to make the frozen cubes. But somehow, I have the ability to shoot it from my hands.

“My father is Royal Fuentes.” Wiggling my fingertips, I fill the tray with icy square cubes, and the relief is immediate.

Arlo’s eyes bug out. If it weren’t the typical response, and one that always makes me want to dive for cover, it’d be comical. “ The Royal Fuentes?”

“Yep.” The P pops and I return the ice tray to the tiny freezer. “Maybe you can sweet-talk April into getting us a bigger fridge. We need more space for ice.”

“Don’t change the subject.” He twists in the chair, like he’s afraid if he takes his eyes from me, I’ll vanish, and he’ll never hear my story. “If you’re the son of the most powerful psychic surgeon of our time… That means your mom is Evangeline Fuentes…” I didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes round more, making him look like a cartoon character. “And Calix Fuentes is your brother?”

“That’s what they tell me.” I grab two mini bags of fruit snacks from the basket. Once Arlo discovered my love of the treat meant for pre-schoolers, he’s kept the basket filled with them. As annoying as he is, he’s a good kid.

He takes a pull of his drink, sucking the straw so hard his cheeks hollow. “Is it true your mom made a four-star general cry?”

“He was an admiral. Though, I believe a three-star general teared up in the situation room when she pointed out all the ways his plan to invade some country or another would lead to unnecessary deaths and possibly the beginning of World War Three.” My mother may not have “powers” but she’s Einstein level intelligent. If my grandmother is to be believed, my mother’s IQ is five points higher than Einstein’s. Pair that with her innate ability to strategize and it’s no wonder she was being recruited by the government by the time she was in high school—which for her was the age of ten. Needless to say, my childhood was a series of trying to get away with something and ultimately failing because my mom basically knew what I was going to do before I did.

“I heard your brother and mother were the reason Sweden and Finland didn’t go to war.” His voice drips with awe.

And why wouldn’t it? The public is oblivious to the number of times war has been thwarted due to the help of my family. My brother’s ability to understand and speak even the most obscure language like a native the first time he hears it has helped numerous peace talks and hostage situations throughout the world. In his free time, he works with native speakers of endangered languages, helping to revive and preserve them.

And this is why I changed my last name.

Being the less than exceptional son in such an accomplished family is a heavy weight to lug around. Especially when your power is essentially being a human ice maker. Hell, the only reason I kept my job as a bartender at Stealthy Spirits for as long as I did was because my best friend owned it. Apparently, not everyone wants ice in their beer. Go figure.

Before I can mutter out the obligatory praises everyone expects for how awesome my family is, the glass door swings open, bringing in a gust of humid air and a hurricane of flowing colors, carrying two large buckets.

“Hello darlings,” my aunt sing-songs, her bronze skin dewy and her cheeks rosy.

“Aunt June.” I cross to her, enveloping her in a hug and breathe in the woodsy scent of campfire that has become part of her since coming into her powers a few years ago.

She wraps her arms around me; the orange buckets she carries bump my backside, and the sound of plastic knocking against plastic reverberates. My father’s younger sister and my favorite person in the world gives me a tight squeeze before pulling away and lifting the buckets. “How would you feel about helping with ice?”

“Not sure I can fill one bucket, let alone two.” What makes my ridiculous power even more useless is the fact I can’t fill up more than an ice tray at any one time.

“Of course you can. You can do anything.” She sets the buckets onto the floor, then turns to Arlo with open arms.

Expression bright, Arlo abandons his coffee and bounds from his seat, wrapping himself around my aunt. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he closes his eyes like he’s soaking in all the love and goodness from her.

Like she did with me, she gives him a tight squeeze before stepping back and inspecting him. She pinches his side. “You’re too skinny. Come over for dinner tonight.”

He chances a glance my way, as if he needs permission. Like my aunt doesn’t invite him over at least twice a week. I nod and his grin grows so wide and his cheeks push so high, his eyes become nothing more than slits. “Will you make your enchiladas?”

“Of course.” Aunt June points to the buckets. “Tuesday and I are having a picnic. I told her I’d bring ice to chill our beers.”

Since moving in with me after accidentally setting her house on fire with her uncontrollable power, my aunt and Tuesday vonMarx, the owner of the psychic, tarot card reading, and yarn shop two storefronts down, have become fast friends. My fingertips wiggle and cubes clunk into the bucket. “How many beers do you plan on downing?”

“We invited Howard, Gilbert, and a few others.” She gestures between Arlo and me. “You two are invited.”

I scrunch my nose and dump another handful of ice into the bucket, the orange bottom mocking me. “Is Howard bringing the food?”

Howard and Gilbert are the other two shop owners in our little strip center. The jokes from SPAM headquarters were rampant when Howard opened a restaurant that serves spam. That’s it. Only spam. Spam burgers, spam dogs, spamghetti, spamloaf, and whatever spam creation he comes up with for his spam restaurant called Spamilicious.

Aunt June lifts a shoulder, and her hot pink crochet top slides down. She tugs it back up. “That restaurant is his dream. We can’t tell him not to bring something.”

“I’ll pass.” Arlo pats his stomach. “I want to save room for dinner.”

“Same,” I say.

Aunt June narrows her caramel eyes at us. “I didn’t know SPAM hired chickens.”

“Well, now you do.” More ice spills into the plastic drum.

Arlo laughs. “It’s not like recruiters see a lot of action.”

Which is exactly why I took this job. While Eternity may have more people with superpowers per capita than anywhere else in the continental United States, the people here basically want to be left alone. And that means they don’t bother me once they realize the insurance agency is a front for recruiting them as part of SPAM. I leave them to their lives, and they leave me to read in peace.

Win, win.

But things change and nothing stays the same for long. Even in Eternity.