I feel fully exposed. I mean, these white spandex booty shorts are riding up and my top is nothing more than a boob corset with laces in the front.
And I think Batman may be checking out my cle**age, which is sparse. He can’t be Connor—
“Should I know you?” Batman asks like he has gravel in his throat.
“Nope,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve crossed paths before.” Off to find the next Batman. Or hopefully the right Scott Summers.
Just as I pass him, Batman sets a hand on my shoulder. “Wait, I do know you.” He broke character, his voice no longer abnormally low.
My eyes bug. “No you don’t.” I knew I should have been the Pink Ranger.
“Yes I do.” He smiles, which looks odd. Batman doesn’t smile like that.
“I’m no one,” I say stupidly and immediately blush. “Ihavetogo,” I mumble that last bit out.
“I do know you,” he says. “You’re Emma Frost. The White Queen. Biggest bitch.”
I glare.
“Hey and you kind of look like her too. Though your boobs need to be a lot bigger. It threw me off at first.”
I purse my lips, feeling a little offended like Rose would. “Stop making Batman look like a pervert.” As I pass, my shoulder shoves into his, and I stomp away. It’s probably way more badass in my head than actuality. Something about costumes—about being someone else—gives me a bit of confidence that I’ve lost since my addiction was publicized.
“You even sound like her too!” he calls out.
I turn around, walking backwards. I contemplate shooting him the middle finger, but my balls haven’t grown to that size yet. Instead I squint, hoping all he sees is a fiery, narrowed gaze full of irritation.
He laughs.
Damn.
Suddenly, my back bumps into a hard chest.
I freeze.
This is a man-chest.
For sure.
“I lost something recently,” he tells me.
My heart swells at the familiar voice, and I spin around to drop-dead-gorgeous cheekbones, a ruby-red visor, and lips that pull into a breathtaking smile.
“Found her,” he says.
I don’t know why those words almost bring tears to my eyes—but they do. They resonate deep within my soul, filling a part of me that only Loren Hale can reach.
I fling my arms around his neck, standing on the tips of my toes, and I kiss him. I feel safe in my costume and safe in his arms.
No one can stop me from loving him.
He kisses back, and he lifts me into a front piggy-back. In the middle of the ballroom floor, booths lining the walls, people milling around us.
I lose sense of everything, except the way his hands hold me close, the way his urgency, the degree of his love, matches mine.
“I missed you,” I say between kisses.
He grips my ass, my legs wrapped securely around his waist, ankles crossed. All is well. “Me too, love.”
We’ve been apart for three hours.
And then the surrounding noise escalates and breaches my happy place. Guys are whistling. Girls are clapping.
“Stick it in, Cyclops!” someone yells.
“There are kids here!” an angrier person rebuts.
“Emma Frost, looking hot!”
“Scott, stop cheating on Jean Grey!” Obviously that guy hasn’t realized that Jean Grey is dead.
I break from Lo’s lips for a second, the place between my legs throbbing for a harder entry, but I force the need away, shelving it as I concentrate on more important things.
Like being a spectacle without people even knowing our real names.
Camera flashes blind my eyes, and every fanboy and fangirl watch us like we’re reenacting a scene from an X-Men comic.
We’re not.
We’re just…in love? Horny? Both. Definitely both.
“Letmedownletmedown,” I slur together in haste (and fright), tapping Lo’s arm.
He sets me on my feet but instantly grabs my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “I’m not losing you again,” he says. He scans our audience, and they start cheering.
“Encore! Encore!” about five people shout.
Nooooo. Well…I take it back. There will most certainly be an encore. Only no one will be watching it. Just Lo and me. Alone.
Lo draws me out of the crowds, giving them a stiff wave to say that the show is over. Now we’re just part of the masses again.
“Should we go to the hotel room?” I whisper.
I can’t see his eyes behind the visor, but he stares down at me with an intimidating scowl. He makes a good Scott Summers.
“Not to have sex,” I amend.
“We have friends now, remember? No more fake Stacey and Charlie.”
“Right,” I say. No more scapegoats.
“And with great friends comes great responsibility,” he tells me. “Like trying to listen to your sister talk without me referencing a demonic entity.” He looks at me. “It’s torture.”
Before I can reply, someone shouts, “I see her!”
I only flinch into Lo because Daisy’s voice emanates from seemingly nowhere. I whip my head around—how can she see me? And probably the least helpful thought pops up: She’d be an awesome spy.
“Emma!” Daisy shouts, using my character name to avoid attracting the wrong gazes. Thank you, Daisy.
I finally spot her…and she’s sticking out of the crowd by a Cider Rose Comics booth—the indies where Lo would’ve put Halway if he wanted to promote. He didn’t, and his father cut into him for that one.
“Is my little sister floating above people?” What the…I tilt my head. Her legs are as high as the heads. Is she standing on a table?
Oh.
No.
She’s on someone’s shoulders.
“Come on,” Lo says, quickening his pace.
Daisy’s short, bright orange wig molds her face. She wears a cropped white shirt and gold spandex. The giveaway of her costume happens to be orange foam suspenders that go beneath her crotch like a thong. I couldn’t pull off Leeloo from The Fifth Element with the same vigor as Daisy.
We reach the line of indie booths, and I expect my sister to be on some stranger’s body. She’s way too trusting. The opposite of me, I realize.
I was wrong though.
She’s on Ryke’s shoulders. Standing. Not sitting.
His hands clutch her calves so firmly that I doubt she can even shift an inch. He has on the same Green Arrow outfit from last year’s Halloween—oh my God, he shaved. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ryke completely shaven.
He looks more like Lo. I don’t like it one bit.
“Hey, guys,” Daisy says with a bright, beaming smile. She playfully twirls her plastic gun and aims it at no one in particular. “Have you seen any aliens that I need to kill?”
“Yeah,” Lo says, “Connor should be around here somewhere with your sister.”
I nudge Lo in the side. “Batman and Catwoman aren’t aliens.”
Lo tilts his head at me. “But Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway might as well be.”
I cover his lips, but it’s too late. Those names have already drifted in the air and penetrated a few ears. I grimace. Penetrated. Ears. Ew…bad one.
“Fine, only Connor Cobalt then,” he mumbles through my palm.
“Don’t say ‘you know whose’ name.” I drop my hand.
His brows harden. “Voldemort.”
I punch him in the arm. Though I fell into that Harry Potter reference-trap too easily.