Blaze of Glory Read online

  Fuck that Illiam bloke, giving my bird thoughts about me that are anything but sexy. Apparently, me being present at the end of the world is a boner-killer for her. Sounds more like an aphrodisiac, to me.

  “You reckon he’ll know anything about these Chasm things?”

  “I’m wondering. I wanted to get your read on it, before I went ahead and rung him up.” Penny looks up at me from under a thick fringe of her lashes and I swallow. Of course it’s good with me. The fact she asked though, sends a weird thrill cycling through my gut… the fuck? But beside that, Gav is good people. I trust him.

  “Sounds good to me. He’s the dog’s bollocks, Gav. Good bloke.” I give her a smile and my heart squeezes when she smiles back at me. Stupid fucking organ. If I could live without one, it would be my first choice.

  “Hopefully he’ll know who’s organizing this PR blitz.” She runs her fingers through the messy bits of her hair that stick out and I itch to stop her. I want to run my hands through it, wrap my fingers around the bleached out strands, and give it a good yank. In my trousers, my dick and balls agree this is a good plan. A solid one. A plan that might lead to her going down on me, or me going down on her, or some variation of both those ideas.

  “KING?” I try to keep my brain on the subject at hand, not where my hands would like to be. I’m business-like, you know. On occasion.

  Penny’s thoughtful for a moment before finally shaking her head. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure they’re behind it, but from the way they snatched the story up, I’ll wager they knew it was coming and were happy to give it a push.”

  “I’d be happy to give you a push.” My lips quirk up and she smirks at me.

  “Really? Still?” She’s not taking my shit. Not yet. She eyes me up and down and shakes her head. I feel like she’s right on the edge of giving in, and if I shove her just the right way… getting Penny into my bed is like a physics equation. Too bad I’m proper shite at maths. “You know you’re meant to be on watch, right?”

  “A well nasty push, right in the—” I sweep my tongue out, giving her the exact mental image of what I want to do. My mouth, her cunt, my fingers, wrapped around her thighs, holding her still as she quivers and shakes.

  “And you know if Dee catches you slacking off, it’ll be your third strike and I officially won’t be able to protect you from whatever punishment he feels like dishing out?”

  Ugh. Dee. The fucker. I don’t want to be thinking about him right now. I eye her up and down, giving her the ol’ look-n-fuck that I know will get her motor going. It works for Duncan, and he can’t hold a candle to me. Heh, candle, get it?

  “Who made him the boss?” I step nice and close to her. I want to wrap my fingers around her wrist, bring her palm to my mouth, and lay some soft, hot kisses right on her skin, but she keeps picking through the toolbox.

  “He’s not. I am.” Her gaze flicks up to mine and holds me there. I swallow hard.

  “So why couldn’t you stop him?” Indignity fills me that we’re still talking about that Wall-jumping, thistle-dicked arsehole. Their special time don’t bother me none—until it interferes with ours.

  “Maybe it’s not that I couldn’t, but that I wouldn’t.” Goddess help me, she’s flirting with me, the heat simmering in her eyes. It makes me want to dive right in and snog her, devour her mouth. “Maybe I like seeing you hurt. Maybe I enjoy watching you squirm.”

  “That’s dark, Pen’. That’s playing a game,” my voice drops low and her eyes close, slow. It would be the perfect time to dip down and kiss her hard, sear my mouth over hers and leave my own personal brand.

  “I have a feeling you like games.” She reaches out, and I let her, one of her fingers dragging a line down my neck. I fight the urge to swallow.

  “I have a feeling… your feeling… is just a feeling,” I shoot back, because no way is she winning this one. A second finger joins the first, catching at the neck of my shirt, and her palm presses, steady, and warm, against my chest. I want to stop her, or maybe let her keep going, jury’s still out.

  “A feeling? You wanna know what I’m feeling? Right now?” She’s teasing me. Slutty bitch. I love that about her, though. Her fingers drag down, down, down, f-f-fuck me, right down my abs, tracing the lines of my muscles through my shirt. I exhale when her thumb drags over the waistband of my jeans.

  “You know what.” She pulls back, and I bite down a curse as her hands leave me. No, sweetheart, c’mon… “On second thought, I wouldn’t want to knacker you out. There’s a chance we could be leaving in the next few days. I’m going to need my fiery lunatic at his very best, especially if our destination is Sovereign territory.” She winks, and steps away.

  “You can’t be serious. After all that?” I reach for her, but she evades me, clever like that, and fast. Never mind that I’m left with a raging hammer in my pants, that I want her to get her hands on. She was so damn eager to paw over the stupid fucking tools in the stupid fucking toolbox—I want her on my tool. Now.

  “Do you need a little lesson in what happens when a girl you like withdraws consent halfway through?” She cocks a shoulder and an eyebrow, and I growl.

  “Fuck consent, we’re both into it. Legit. You’re just being a cocktease.” I grab her hand, and she swats at me.

  “I am,” she smirks. “Or, I was. Now I’ve remembered you need to keep your strength up, and I need to focus on whatever the heck’s going to lure us in and try to kill us this time.”

  Fuck. Me.

  “Not all right, love,” I grit out, because my dick is stiff and if I have to go palm one out in the van, I know one of the other lads is going to notice and that is just not on.

  “What, you think you have what it takes to take me and do your duty? All at the same time?”

  “I’ll do my damn duty,” I hiss, and her eyes light up. She loves it when I get all irritable and sexy. “And I’m going to fuck you like it’s my job, at the same time. Consider it a lesson in multitasking. Now, c’mere—”

  8 Oliver's Homophone

  “Faux Mo Productions presents Pyronamix: the greatest and most exclusive party of the millennium.”

  “Hashtag tear the world open,” Juniper tacks on the end for me, reading the rest of the text imprinted over the most recent set of indigo-branded images. All feature the same four-piece teenage boy band clad in the same white-suit blue-tie combo.

  They hit the Net like an avalanche at six o’clock on the dot—right as the working class of our country are typically starting to rise and shine and check their social media feeds. From my observation, many haven’t slept, particularly those of my own age group. The Zed and Brexennial generations have been up all night, guessing and gossiping, feeding the KING News rumor mill which has been churning nonstop. Always active, regardless of the time.

  “Of course,” I say with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Can’t forget the hashtag.”

  “I love how much you detest hashtags,” my friend grins at me.

  “I don’t detest them,” I reply. “I detest their application, by people who use them too much.”

  Juniper frowns grimly at my laptop screen. “I think their application in this case has been spot on, for what little I know of the Net itself.”

  I nod. I’ve been doing my best to explain the political personality of social media to her all night, the way it can be used to influence both to good and bad ends. “You’re absolutely correct. It’s making the gossip trail easy to pick up on and follow.”

  “It’s taken over like wildfire,” says Juniper, sounding both exasperated and impressed. “There’s nothing else in the news right now, nothing. This is all anyone’s talking about.”

  “The event of the millennium,” I deadpan, scrolling.

  “Complete and utter chaos.”

  “It is, but I think I see through it,” I mumble as I continue to roll through endless reels of commentary. “The chaos is too lineal, too organized. Too perfect. Every move, every flux in this story has been p
lanned by… someone. Someone seeking to ensure all chronological and sociological steps in this announcement are executed exactly as orchestrated.”

  “At least we know what we’re dealing with,” Juniper breathes slowly. “Sort of.”

  “The indigo square, tearing the world open, even a reference to the fire Captain Hope saw.” I stop and push my spectacles up so that I can rub the bridge of my nose. I’ve been developing a nagging headache, despite not using any of my enhanced senses or other Anomaly abilities in over a day. “I’d hazard a guess that, if her prophecy meant something for us, this party is going to wind up being ground zero.”

  Juniper shakes her head, ebony curls bouncing. “Prophecies, Chasms,” she murmurs to herself in disbelief. “I never thought I would actually see the day…”

  “Which day?” I ask, my curiosity itching.

  She jumps, as if she hadn’t realized she’d wondered that aloud. “Oh! N-nothing, nothing.”

  I smile at her knowingly. “Another quirk?”

  Juniper laughs, hiding it behind one hand. “Yes, me and my quirks. I’m sorry. You know I’d tell you everything if it made any sense to me. You and your captain.”

  “She understands,” I reassure her. “You’re figuring things out.”

  “You must all have a great deal of trust in me to allow me so close without knowing who or what I am,” she says sadly. “And without demanding to know. Especially after…”

  Her voice trails off, and I catch the tail end of it. Juniper’s anxious enough; she doesn’t deserve to have to sit in silence.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “If it’s any consolation, we’re less suspicious of those who use their hidden hardcore powers to save our butts, as opposed to screwing us over. I think Hope’s worried about you, in all honesty.”

  “She is?”

  “She lived on the streets without her dad for years. I don’t know the full story, I’m not sure anyone does. I only know she did some dark things in order to survive out there, things she won’t talk about now. She probably doesn’t want to see another girl live out the exact same story.”

  Juniper squirms away from my eyes, dropping hers back to the laptop. “So, Faux Mo Productions? Do we know who Mo is, or what she might have to do with all of this?”

  Right. Okay. She wants out of the awkward conversational topic. That’s fair.

  “I’m not sure there is a ‘Mo’,” I answer, happy to oblige. I’m not a fan of more emotional matters myself. “I think it’s a homophone.”

  “You’re a homophone!” comes Rhys’ familiar low tenor, from the couch at the rear of the campervan. Bright and chipper, of course. Juniper chokes on a laugh. I smirk and shake my head.

  “Your opinion has been noted, Felix,” I call back, careful to use his alias in front of Juniper. While we trust her, we still try to err on the side of caution.

  Rhys chuckles, and when I turned in the driver’s seat I can see Tesla’s eyes glinting at me in the darkness.

  “It’s all right, old boy,” he continues around another chuckle. “You’re our favorite homophone.”

  “Oi, ye noisy bastart—”

  Rhys yelps and, with a shifting of blankets, drops to the floor beside the fold-out bed. Duncan snorts, rolls over, and likely goes back to sleep.

  “Ugh, and to think the captain said he’s like a big warm pillow in bed,” Rhys is grumbling as he drags himself down the gangway. He looks scruffier than usual, a pair of pajama bottoms hanging precariously from his sharp, narrow hips.

  “So, anyway,” he addresses us, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler. “Who’s a homophone? What’s a homophone?”

  “Faux Mo Productions,” I relay, as he pops the water open and takes a swig. “We’ve had several updates while you and Dee’ve been out.”

  Tesla appears beside Rhys as he leans on the counter, wrapping herself around his leg and stretching. “Oh? Do tell.”

  “Location: Old London. Date: exactly one week from today. Special guest speakers will include Chantelle King—CEO of KING News—and a representative of M.O.B.’s London posse. Oh, and they also unveiled their headlining act minutes ago: the super-hot, super-manufactured, super-Sovereign boy band, Yvngblood.”

  Rhys pulls his mouth into a thin, straight line. “How…” He ponders the word for a good three or four seconds before settling one the right one. “Exhilarating.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Juniper pipes up. “Folk are losing their minds. The Net was abuzz with the excitement of Britain’s youth all night. They never slept, ergo it never settled.”

  Rhys regards her with a hawklike stare. “You are an oddly Shakespearean one, aren’t you? I’m shocked we haven’t made more of an effort to find time to converse with one another.”

  “Stop hitting on her, Felix,” I smirk out of one side of my mouth. “She’s too young for you.”

  Rhys continues to eye the beautiful, warm-skinned teenager currently sitting in his favorite spot. Then he turns lazily to face me.

  “And you, OP. Aren’t you supposed to be the gender equality activist in this encampment? From what I’ve seen, you can be quite the little feminist when you want to be. A gentleman and a lady cannot have a simple conversation without any underlying debauchery?”

  “A gentleman can,” I say, playful but stern. “You can’t.”

  “He can’t?” laughs Juniper.

  “No. I’ve seen him. He’s awful.”

  Rhys scoffs.

  “You should go back to sleep if you can,” I tell him, my tone taking on a more serious vibe. “If the captain decides this is our next stop, she’ll need you at your best.”

  “You sound just like her. I must say, she has you exceedingly well trained.” Rhys sips his water, but pauses before swallowing. “Beg your pardon, if what’s our next stop?”

  “Old London.”

  One would have to be completely oblivious to miss the way Rhys’ body and face physically recoil in reaction. It takes me by surprise. Usually, he’s next to impossible to get a read off of, keeping his cards and his emotions very close to his chest.

  “… ah,” he says eventually, staring at my laptop screen instead of at either one of us.

  “Is that a problem?” I press, verbally tip-toeing up to the matter. Again, he flinches, and then—as if snapping himself out of a trance—plasters a huge grin across his face and lifts his water bottle toward us.

  “Of course not, old boy! Why in Nova’s name would you think that!?” he exclaims. The volume draws another deep grunt of protest from Duncan, and the whole van shakes as the inhumanly strong Anomaly rolls over in his sleep.

  “Old London!” he declares at a significantly lower level, but with no less enthusiasm. “Where the streets are paved with gold, if you can catch a glimmer beneath the blood and tears of its loyal inhabitants. I’ve heard things in the past six months have gotten considerably worse, too, especially for Anomalies. But, ho! Onward! And here’s to our next glorious adventure, my kin!”

  And with that, he swigs his water, tips his head, and melts into the darkness of the back area of the van.

  We both allow for at least several seconds’ worth of silence before speaking again.

  “Is he often this peculiar?” whispers Juniper, chuckling awkwardly. I roll my eyes in response.

  “Yes,” I say. “But in much different ways. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this…”

  My sentence peters out into thin air, and Juniper offers an ending.

  “Nervous?”

  “Anxious. Fretful.” I chew my thumbnail thoughtfully. “He doesn’t typically get so defensive. And you saw that look on his face.”

  Juniper’s lips curl into a smirk. “Look at you, on the ball.”

  “I’m not as naive as people give me credit for,” is my flat response. I’m focused on my social media feed again, letting it refresh after the distraction.

  “So,” says Juniper, reading over my shoulder, “what’s the homophone?”

  I s
uck in a deep breath. “FOMO.”

  “FOMO?”

  “It’s an acronym, stands for fear of missing out. A common human psychological reaction, especially in this day and age of social media and mass online marketing.” I sigh, releasing the breath I’d been holding onto. “It’s one of the most addictive drugs, and can be one of the most dangerous ones if deliberately manipulated. You can lure a person into doing anything if they’re afraid they could miss out on something and regret it later.”

  Juniper’s frown is dark. “So,” she says slowly, “you believe the vague chaos of these social media posts is deliberately being used to create this sense of… FOMO?”

  “Yes. Which concerns me.”

  “Because they may be looking to lure younger people into whatever this Chasm thing is, under the pretense of the most epic party they’d hate to miss?”

  I nod silently.

  Juniper settles back in her chair, glancing to the where Tesla is happily rubbing her scent glands against the cushion of her seat. “No wonder your captain acts so proud of you,” she says, and the way in which she does so makes me snap my head up from my screen.

  “Huh?”

  “Captain Hope. She’s awfully fond of you. I can tell.”

  The heat in my cheeks is noticeable. I’m terrible at taking compliments, especially when they pertain to Penny. “She’s fond of all of us.”

  “Oh, I know. I can tell that, too. But the way she looks at you, when you’re talking? When you’re speaking your mind?” Juniper seems almost smug. “She’s… very into you, OP.”

  My cheeks darken another shade or two—I can feel it. It’s difficult not to go back to earlier this evening. I can still taste Penny all over my tongue, earthy and musky and honey-sweet. I can still feel her softness pliancy against my mouth.

  I wrestle back a shiver of excitement as the burn in my cheeks tries to relocate between my thighs. But I’ve spent too long lost in thought, and Juniper has already noticed my hesitation.

  “Hmm. And apparently, you’re very into her, too.”