Felicity

I’m a freak.

A not-normal, talking to herself, addicted to school, career-floating, self-sabotaging, dick-magnet freak.

I get a weird look from a suit in the elevator. Probably because my eyes are leaking.

“I’m not crying,” I tell him. “It’s my puppets.”

Yeah, that helps.

Not.

Especially since I don’t have any of my puppets with me.

I didn’t know this was a freaking job interview for a part-time position as a Thrusters publicity stunt.

Or that my brother has been defending my honor since before I hit puberty.

Because I’m not normal.

Nick’s a lot of things.

Cruel isn’t one of them. Not to me.

But he doesn’t think I’m normal. That I don’t date normal guys.

Even my brother thinks I’m a freak.

It shouldn’t hurt. I know I’m off-center.

But this is who I am.

And I’ll never be normal.

The suit looks me up and down, and one of those smarmy smiles snakes over his lips. “If you need a shoulder—”

“Aaargh.” The door dings open. I barrel out without looking where I’m going and almost run over a group of fans in Thrusters jerseys on a tour of the arena. An oversize replica of Nick’s jersey is painted on the wall behind me, reflected in the two-story windows above me. Ares’s jersey is right beside it.

Berger. 00.

Double zero.

Like he’s nothing.

Who the fuck let him use that number?

I shouldn’t be out here. I should be upstairs, defending his honor.

But I just want to be alone.

No men. No monkeys. No family. No well-meaning friends.

What am I doing?

I was living with a guy just over a month ago. I knew it was over a few weeks before I left—I probably should’ve known before I ever moved in with him—but it took me that long to work up the courage. And the plan to end things.

And now I’m living with another guy.

In my grandmother’s house.

And it feels different.

Ares is different.

Or am I just telling myself that? Do I just want to believe he’s different from all the other guys I’ve ever dated?

I thought Doug was different. A businessman. Worked out, but he didn’t play sports.

And I was wrong.

I’ve been wrong about every single guy I’ve dated.

And now I’m sleeping with a guy who grunts more than he talks.

But he’s more.

He is.

I’m not wrong this time.

I’m the one who’s screwed up. The one with voices in my head, who can’t quit talking, who draws weirdos into my circle just by breathing.

The cold November air slaps me in the face when I shove out the massive glass doors.

The one consistent thing I’ve been interested in my entire life is ventriloquism. Even before I knew what it was called, before I saved up all my pennies to buy my first puppet, I’ve been obsessed.

Lucy can code in HTML. Tim can recite old tax law. Harold was instrumental in getting me that bowling industry management degree, even if we never used it.

We.

Fuck, I’m so weird.

No wonder all my ex-boyfriends are crazy.

I’m crazy.

I put my head down and turn south. Reynolds Park is just a few blocks over. I need to clear my head. Shake everything loose. Get some fresh air.

Think.

Listen.

Listen to my heart.

Someone latches onto my elbow at the corner.

I jerk away, but he squeezes harder.

Right on a pressure point.

Doug.

“We need to talk,” he growls.

“Let. Go.”

“You called the fucking cops on me.”

And clearly it wasn’t enough. I yank my arm again. “I said, let go.”

“Not until you—ow, FUCK, my nose!”

I shake my hand out.

Fuck is right.

That fucking hurt.

But defending myself by driving my fist into his face was a reflex, and I don’t regret it.

Oh, god.

I just punched him. In broad daylight. On a crowded street corner.

Something fizzles in my veins, and a tremor rolls through me.

Maybe I do regret it.

“You bitch!” Doug dives for me. I lunge, there’s a sickening thud that has nothing to do with me, and he goes flying.

“Ohmygod, did you see that?”

“Call 9-1-1!”

“That man tried to molest that woman!”

“Holy shit, the Force is down!”

We’re suddenly surrounded. Ares is crumpled to the ground at my feet, chest heaving. Doug’s splayed at the edge of the curb. A spry, slender woman who could’ve been Gammy’s twin in white curls and support hose whacks him with her purse. “When a lady says let go, you let go.”

Sirens sound.

I drop to my knees. “Ares?”

Pain creases his face. I grip his cheeks. “Ares.”

He studies me like he’s trying to place me. Like he doesn’t know who I am.

He’s hurt.

There’s no blood, but there’s no boot either.

He wasn’t wearing his boot.

No crutches.

“Ares,” I whisper.

“Okay?” he grits out.

No, I’m not okay.

He’s hurt. He’s hurt, my ex is a stalking dickhead, I don’t know where Loki is when he should be sitting on Ares’s shoulder, and Ares is hurt.

“He tried—kill me—” Doug’s moaning.

“That nice young man stepped in and defended that poor lady’s honor,” Gammy’s twin says. “You go look at all those security cameras on the arena. You look at the traffic cameras. She told him nicely to go away, and he wouldn’t.”

Gammy’s twin is a fucking angel.

“Ma’am?” A cop kneels beside me.

Eyes Ares with a healthy amount of respect.

“He’s hurt.” I’m blabbering. Tears drip down my nose.

“Ma’am.” The cop gestures to his eye. “Did someone—”

Ares tries to sit.

The cop puts his hand to his weapon.

“Stop.” Fuck. My eye. Right. It’s still greenish, almost healed, but not quite. And I walked into a door doesn’t really sound likely when I’m sitting on the ground cradling a giant.

“He’s hurt,” I say again. I stroke his hair while he squeezes his eyes shut. Breathing. Like he can meditate the pain away. “He was trying to save me.”

Trying to save me.

From all the bad decisions I’ve ever made.

All the wrong situations I get myself into.

From myself.

My. Fucking. Self.

Who I am.

What happens tomorrow? The next day? The day after?

What happens when Nick pulls a Nick on him, or when we go to the grocery store and run into another ex who tries to touch me wrong, or when he decides he’s just plain tired of all the drama?

Tired of my voices.

Tired of my indecision and my aimlessness and all my brains that don’t do shit for telling me who I’m supposed to be.

Tired of me.

Look at all the trouble I’ve gotten him into, in less than two weeks.

The crowd’s getting thicker.

“Felicity? Felicity! Motherfucker, what’s that asshole—erp.”

“I got him, Felicity.” Duncan’s voice. I can’t see him, but it’s a voice of reason.

More sirens. More people. The cop finally gets a good look at Ares. “Oh, fuck. It is the Force.”

I can’t look at his ankle again.

I can’t.

He’s not starting rehab next week. Maybe not even the week after.

Because he was trying to defend me.

To protect me.

I’m the reason he’ll miss even more of the season.

Coaches come running. Staff. Team members.

I’m shoved aside. The cop wants to talk. Gammy’s twin is still standing watch over Doug and detailing his crimes. “I was going to step in myself when that nice giant took care of him for me.”

“You know both men?” the cop asks me.

I point to Doug. “Ex. Complaint on file.”

I point to Ares. My eyes water. My throat clogs. “And Ares—Ares is my hero.”

He looks back at the crowd around Ares. Nick finally makes his way to me, Duncan and Jaeger each holding him by an arm. They let him go when he grabs me in a hug. “Jesus, Felicity. Are you okay?”

My brother is such an overbearing shithead.

But he’s here—he’s always here—and that’s what counts.