Page 75 of Signed, I'm Yours!
“April has been busting my balls this week, man. Apparently, there was a break-in in one of the offices, and she keeps sending me on wild goose chases. She doesn’t even know who it was,” one of the SPAM agents says.
“You know April, dude.”
“And you can’t say no to April, or you’ll face the consequences,” two others chime in.
April? Who is that? And how does she know I broke into the office? Or has there been another break-in?
“You! Pink Boy!” Red Viper shouts, and when I glance her way, both she and Rugrat are glaring at me. “You stole my apartment.”
“You stole my money.”
They both come at me like a hyena coming after their prey, and when the SPAM agents step aside, I’m left exposed, open to whatever torture my enemies have in store for me.
“Isn’t that Red Viper? Isn’t she the second most wanted on the list?” an agent says all of a sudden.
Red Viper stops and frowns at the agent.
“Who took my number one spot?”
“I don’t know. Some maniac who’s blowing people up,” the agent answers her. “The Pulverizer.” She gasps.
I can’t say I blame her. I’d gasp, too, if I wasn’t under threat of dismemberment. As if Red Viper made it to the list before me. This world is so unfair.
“That’s Motorboat!” someone shouts across the room. “Hey! You owe me a car, douchebag!”
The person in question, a robust woman with big…personalities, ducks just as a vase is directed at her face. The man beside her, a tall, lanky guy with acne who goes by the moniker Motorboat’s Boyfriend, growls at the guy who threw the vase, a man who aptly goes by Motorboat’s Ex. Honestly, their social circle is a whole Appalachian reality TV show if I’ve ever seen one. Especially when you consider the ambiguous parentage of Motorboat Boy, a grown-ass thirty-year-old who steals yachts to impress Mommy.
A woman standing next to the string quartet, Mrs. Rainstorm, grabs a violinist’s bow and swings it around her, zeroing in on a mountain of a man, Mr. Cloud. Their feud over their supervillain names is a legend on 116th East. Apparently, people still fight one another over trademarks.
“You monster!” a guy in a long black coat and round red glasses turns to the man beside him and wrings his neck with both hands.
Oh, Devil May Care and Little Angel. One of these days, they’ll jump into bed and resolve all of their closeted sexual tension.
“Seojun! Seojun!” I’m yanked by the hand, and I look at whoever is trying to undo me. It’s not a little black book guest. It’s Jack. And he doesn’t kill me. Not yet anyway. Instead, he pins me to his body and drags me toward the kitchen.
“Who are these people? What’s going on?” he asks.
I look up and bite my lip. “Would you believe me if I said it’s the new cast of90 Day Fiancé?”
He gives me the most serious face he’s ever managed to give me, and I pull him back toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.
“They’re supervillains,” I say when we’re away from the chaos outbreak. “And they hate each other as much as they hate me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What did you do to them?”
I shrug.
“You know. Supervillain stuff.”
He shakes his head and looks back.
“We need to call the cops.”
“No!”
I don’t need cops anywhere near my apartment, considering my dubious contract and secret identity.
“Seojun, my friends and colleagues are out there in a room full of criminals without anything to protect themselves.”
