Chapter 4
Lacey
And I, in a completely non-obsessed way, keep watching.
At first, I thought the stomach-flipping sensations were because I had been literally falling out of the sky, but they return even when I’m on solid ground. Just seeing the footage of him arcing through the air does something to me.
It plays again—him swooping up to meet me on the edge of the balcony, his arm closing around me as his wings beat powerfully, taking off as the top floor of the building crumbles into dust. My rescuer’s long, pointed, blue tail is the last thing to disappear out of the frame before the clip repeats.
As many times as I watch it, I’m remembering the details the cameras weren’t close enough to capture.
His skin is a different texture, sort of soft, like the inside of leather.
His nose is flattened; there’s something almost catlike about it.
The back of his hands leading down his knuckles are a little too fuzzy, the fur growing thicker and curling into little cowlicks.
The black bodysuit stands out against the sky, outlining his lithe build, but up close the suit made it clear he wasn’t lacking muscle.
He moves like no mutant I’ve ever seen before.
Where the others have all been shambling and staggered, he’s deft and quick.
As wide as his wings span, it’s clear they’re light and thin, bat-like even.
He pulls them in so close to his body it’s like they were never there and then opens them just as quickly to slow his descent.
There’s something about his knees, the arched, clawed feet, they don’t quite bend the way a human’s would, but more like a deer or a lion’s would.
I’ve never seen Dr. Maestro’s mutations change a body in a constructive way like that.
I’m not hung up over this guy. This mutant. I’m not.
I realize the irony in reassuring myself that as I pin a print-out of one of the blurry frames of him from that sent-in footage to part of my ooze investigation board.
He is part of the board; I’m not just pinning a picture of him to the inside of my closet door for no reason.
Even if none of the pink yarn zigzagging across the rest of the newspaper clippings and printouts stuck to my wall connect to him.
I mean, he’s a mutant, he has to connect to all this somehow. Even if only tangentially.
Somewhere in the middle of getting ready for the gala tonight, I lay down on my bed, transfixed. Whenever Laura Beckingham comes back on screen to start reading the traffic report, noting the delays and newly closed off streets due to all the rubble, I find myself staring at the sky.
I know he’s not just going to fly by my window, but a girl can hope.
It’s not obsessive, I remind myself as I slip my vibrator out of the bedside table drawer.
The silicone is a little too cold, so I put it under my leg to warm it up, as I tug up my skirt and my knees fall away from each other.
You can’t have a crush on a guy you’ve only spoken to once, only seen in person for a few seconds.
I mean, he’s a mutant, he works for the vile Dr. Maestro. Being attracted to one of his henchmen would be like unethical or something, I don’t know. And obviously the dumbest thing I could do.
The clip of him flying up to meet me comes back on screen, and I suck in a breath. I trace my fingers lightly against my underwear, the fabric growing damp after a few strokes.
Falling like that had been like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
The asphalt below rapidly approaching for a few terrifying moments, the air whipping past, the way I couldn’t control my movements at all.
Being caught after falling was what my mind kept going back to, the almost gradual way his hands had come up around me, encircling me in his grip, gentle and then firm and strong.
Ok, maybe I’m obsessing a little. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react normally and apathetically when a mutant just drops out of the sky and rescues me, drops me, and rescues me again.
Maybe it’s perfectly reasonable to want to tear the pants off a guy that saves you.
Even if he is blue and a little demonic looking.
Laura comes back on screen after the only thirty seconds of footage of this guy in existence, and I’m back to looking out the window. The glimpse of something flying by excites me, before I realize it’s just a bird. My clit pulses with need as I trace my fingertip around it.
It wouldn’t be him. That would be absurd. He’s not going to come by and check on me, to give me another chance to talk to him. He’s not going to just drop by my window and see me touching myself.
A wave of heat floods my body at the thought, and I let it unfurl.
I bite back a little moan, circling faster around my clit.
The fantasy I spin myself is as absurd as any porno featuring a plumber with pipe to lay, the narrative just a flimsy, but in the moment I don’t care.
I want to imagine him landing on my balcony, wings and tail outstretched, to see my legs spread and ready for him.
I shouldn’t. It’s not right. You definitely can’t have a crush on one of the mutant supervillains wrecking the city you live in.
The familiar sensation of a climax building stirs within me, and I hold back a whimper, stroking more. I’m already so close from being so turned on.
My apartment doorbell rings, and I freeze.
Shit. I kick my vibrator under the covers, get up and brush off my dress, setting everything back to normal. My clit throbs needily. Another minute and I’d have been utterly satiated.
There’s the sound of the mechanized lock on my front door whirring open, and I have to suppress a groan of annoyance. Clayton doesn’t like to be kept waiting, even a moment. I’ve just finished straightening myself up by the time he lets himself in.
I’m so sure I took my apartment key back from him. But then again, when your billionaire ex-boyfriend owns the building, of course his phone is keyed to all the electronic locks. I really should start looking for a new place.
Maybe a guy just letting himself into my home isn’t actually my fantasy. At least, not if it’s my ex. Maybe one of these nights, I’ll just go out on the balcony and bring my toy out there with me, see what I catch.
“Lacey, there’s a car waiting for us downstairs,” Clayton calls out. “The sign says fifteen-minute parking.”
“I’m sure no cop would ever dream of issuing Mr. Steel a parking ticket,” I reply dryly, and he pushes into my bedroom without even knocking. I frown. “Excuse you, what if I was still getting dressed?”
He doesn’t answer though, his eyes immediately snagging on my bedroom TV. He scoffs. “Not you too.”
My cheeks scald guiltily, and I glance toward my bed to make sure my vibrator is hidden.
“What do you mean? I’m just . . . watching the news,” I lie, as if I hadn’t just been masturbating to it. I’m still wet between my thighs.
“One new vigilante shows up on the scene, and everyone forgets everything I’ve done for this city.” Clayton sighs, shoving his hands in his suit pockets and glowering at my TV.
It’s not surprising that he’s upset about this guy. The whole city has been making wild speculations based on thirty seconds of blurry footage, and somehow even though I actually saw, touched, and talked to him, I know just about as little as all the other broadcasters.
I know one thing more than everyone else. He was one of Maestro’s henchmen. And he fed me pizza. Probably shouldn’t bring that up.
“The news is calling him a vigilante, but more than that, they’re calling him the new super in town,” Clayton grumbles. “I don’t know that this town is big enough for more supers. They can’t just let anybody do it.”
“You should really focus your attention on Maestro,” I tell him. “He’s up to something—”
“I fought one of his monsters yesterday. Didn’t you catch the fight?”
“I was a little tied up,” I remind him. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even asked how I am, after being, y’know, kidnapped. “I’m fine, by the way.”
“Well, I’m sure you can find a taping online somewhere,” he grunts without tearing his eyes away from the screen. Ok, and I thought I was obsessive.
“Maybe I’ll stay in then, catch the re-run,” I offer tonelessly, crossing my arms. It’s an empty threat, but it pulls his attention back to the moment.
“No, of course not. But nothing would make the public happier than seeing you present and healthy, especially after your recent scare,” he says, and offers me his arm.
I bite the inside of my cheek. That’s easily accomplished by my weather broadcast, but I don’t point that out.
I slide my clutch into the crook of his elbow and then busy myself with the clasp on my bracelet instead of taking his arm. The longer I fiddle with my bracelet, the longer I can hold myself a little away from him. It’s not going to work at the gala, but it might last me all the way to the car.
I stride for the door. “C’mon, we have less than fifteen minutes with that parking spot.”
“Lacey . . . you’re wearing the wrong shoes,” he calls from my bedroom.
I sigh and kick off the nice new two-inch heels I bought myself last week.
When I put them on earlier, I had every intent of holding my ground on this, but now I just want to get through tonight with as little friction as possible.
Right now, my only real need is to eat a bunch of those fancy little hors d’oeuvres and get champagne-tipsy.
He comes out of my room and hands me my black silk flats with pearl accents. They match his look more than my dress, keeping me at just about the same height as him.