1
That’s Some Superhero Shit
Icame to with a start, the fight surging awake with me. My heart thumped so hard it hurt, like it might bounce right out of my chest. I was lying down, andhell noI wasn’t about to let a bunch of goons kill me and my friends while I lay around doing nothing to prevent it. Even as I struggled to wrench open my eyes—so freaking heavy—I forced my body to sit up, and fuck if I didn’t hurt just about everywhere.
Hands pressed gingerly against my shoulders, holding me down. Before I trained my unfocused gaze on him, I recognized his touch.
Griffin.
Griffin was here.
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding eased out of me.
“Shhhhh,” he whispered, when he should have been screaming at the hired guns not to kill us.
Oh my God.
My mouth went slack as the shots rang through my memory. Five each for two of my friends—my fucking family. For a moment, I allowed my eyelids to drift closed—it was so much easier than trying to keep them open—and relived Layla shuddering as bullets tore through her torso, her body twisting and falling, suddenly lifeless; Hunt jolting as each bullet ripped through him, then crashing to the floor of the gymnasium and not moving again.
My heart ached even more, to the point of breaking. “Layyyylerrrr. Huuuunchtuh.” Why wasn’t my tongue working properly?
“Shhh,” Griffin repeated, guiding me to lie back down. “They’re alive. They’ll be fine.”
This time, when I got my eyes open, the face I loved more than any other was in better focus.
Griffin’s eyes were heavy and dark, the hazel that brightened them at times subdued. His forehead was furrowed, his beautiful lips pinched, and scruff darkened his face.
He smiled at me, soft and sad, his eyes glistening. “Hey there, Joss. It’s so fucking good to see you awake.”
He closed his eyes for several seconds, holding back whatever else he was feeling, thinking, unwilling to say. When he opened them again, the moisture was gone and the hazel blazed. Breathing hard, he simply stared down at me for several moments.
“Whatttt happeeedd?” I slurred, focusing on my surroundings, sensing what I’d missed before: the scent of disinfected cleanliness, but not as acrid; soothing, dim incandescent lighting; calming classical music playing softly. I recognized the song, knew it well, but its title was beyond my reach.
Griffin released my shoulders, clasping my hand instead. “Magnum Chase had his people set the gym on fire. Then he sent armed soldiers in to kill us.” He paused to unclench his jaw. “They killed all of you. After you”—he gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing—“died, Brady went apeshit and they shot him too. So then I couldn’t do anything to them or I couldn’t be sure they’d bring you back. If they killed me too, then they might’ve left us all dead.”
His eyes were so tormented that I couldn’t look away from the greens, golds, and browns popping in his irises. It was clear that restraining himself in order to ensure we all lived had been more difficult for him than dying a second time.
I squeezed his hand but the effort was pitiful. Just the same, he glanced at where our hands met and laced our fingers together. When my attention followed, I noticed a tube snaking from a vein in my arm to an IV stand from which fluid bags hung. I was in a hospital bed. A blood pressure cuff, currently deflated, adorned my other arm, connected to a machine that silently recorded my vitals.
“You’re groggy and slurring ’cause they have you on a morphine drip. The slurring’ll stop soon, if what happened with Hunt and Lay’s any indication.”
I snapped my gaze to his face, and he read my unspoken question.
“They’re both awake. They’ve been awake. You …” He inhaled and exhaled deeply enough to make his chest visibly rise and fall. “You took longer.”
“Why?” I croaked. My throat was parched. Rough.
Again, Griffin understood. He rose and crossed the room to a small, slim table holding a crystalline pitcher filled with water, matching glasses beside it.
The room was about the size of my bedroom, with recessed lighting revealing warm gray walls. An ample window with a seat framed a clear blue sky. Daytime, then. The floor was carpeted in a plush cream—who the hell put light carpet in a hospital? The furniture—a twin bed and two armchairs—looked comfortable. The chairs were upholstered in sleek leather. A floor-to-ceiling armoire occupied one corner of the room, its wood a deep, rich black. Vivid orchids in pots adorned either side of the deep window seat. Everything about the decor screamed expensive elegance.
Griffin slid a hand behind my back and helped me lean forward, bringing the glass to my lips. I drank several sips, swallowing roughly.
“They intubated you,” he said, setting the glass down on a ledge. “That’s why your throat feels like that. They did it to me too, when I died.”
Quietly, I snorted. When the hell did our lives—anddeaths—become so fucking absurd? It was our senior year in high school. We were supposed to be partying and living it up—not dying and resurrecting.
Inching the arm with the blood pressure cuff toward my forehead, I hesitated before running my fingers across the skin. Smooth as usual.
