Page 63 of All Superheroes Need PR
“Glad you’re fucking happy about this. What am I supposed to do with that information?” I say, stepping out of the mosh of women and shoving my fingers—claws—angrily back through my hair. I don’t cut myself. I’m not sure how it’s possible when I’ve chipped or torn so many other things while trying to let them grow—a wooden desk, a doorknob, one of Vanessa’s fancy pillows—but I haven’t cut myself yet. I’ve tried and found that I can’t.
“Accept them. Besides, I’m not sure the polymers I’ve been experimenting with will even work. You use your hands too often, wash your hands too often, and when you cut your nails, they just grow back the same thickness and strength they were before. A regular nail file isn’t going to cut it, Roland, if the photo you sent me was any clue. You’re going to have to use gardening shears. And rather than that, I think you should consider that these may just be your new hands and learn to work with them.”
“Workwiththem?” I’m about to fucking explode. I hold up my hands in front of my face and nearly topple the two women standing in front of me when flames shoot out of my ears. “How am I supposed to touch my wife with these?”
“Your wife?” Margerie all but screams. “You’re married? And that little hussy didn’t tell me?”
“I’ve got a few more dates, then yeah. She said she’d marry me,” I grunt. Sort of.
My hands forgotten, Margerie backs away from me and reaches for her phone in hysterics. I know she’s calling her friend; it was either that or beat me up, and she looked like she was a hair trigger away from it. I know there’ll be repercussions from Nessa for putting that out there without her permission, but I honestly don’t give a fuck. I want her to marry me, especially now that she’s resigned her Lois Lane contract.
I’ve only got nineteen dates to go. We had dinner again Monday night after our Italian date night Sunday, and if she thinks I’m not including the coffee we had together yesterday morning as a date, she’sgonna be disappointed. Food out equals date. Period. Nineteen dates to go ... and you can bet your ass I’m counting.
“All right! Sheesh, don’t blow a gasket,” Emily says with a chuckle. “I’ll cut them back this time, but we’re not going to be able to keep this up indefinitely. How often do you realistically need them trimmed so you don’t cut yourself?”
“I ...” I clear my throat. “I’m healing fast, and my nails don’t bother me. But I’m not gonna take that chance with Vanessa.”
Emily frowns. Her eyes move over my chest. She can’t see anything of me past my uniform, but she’s a smart woman. She reads between the lines and asks, “How have your wounds healed from last week’s heroics?”
It’s scary. A little too scary to admit to. But the wounds I had last week are almost totally gone. “They’re scarred over.”
“Already?”
I nod.
“And the tattoos are unchanged?”
“No.” I swallow hard, drop my tone, and say, “I got another one.”
“Where?”
I don’t know how to fucking answer her. Because the truth of it is awkward as fuck. I got a new tattoo after Vanessa gave me head on the couch. And the tattoo? I woke up with it wrapped around my cock. “Groin ... area,” I say quietly enough that the other members of the design team working in the back of the room on a new set of gloves—and Margerie smashing her finger down on her phone furiously—won’t hear me.
Emily blinks at me, shocked. “Oh my.”
I nod, feeling a little unnerved by my own body. And seeing Emily looking at me with such concern right now isn’t bringing up my mood.
“I haven’t found anything in the COE archives,” she whispers. “But I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“I’d still like to take a look at Vanessa too.” Her voice is casual. Too casual.
I narrow my gaze. “Her ankle, right?”
“Yes.” She brought her tools with her—including an electric sander. The machine whirrs while she brings it to my hands. As she files my nails in the weirdest way I’ve ever seen, she continues to frown. And she should know better, because even over the sound of the machine, I can still hear her whisper, “Among other things.”
“What other things?” I snarl.
Emily gives me a nervous look. She’s not afraid of me, that’s for damn sure, but she looks a little bit afraid, and I don’t like that shit at all. She opens her mouth, but she never gets a chance to speak.
Margerie stomps back over, and when she whacks me on the shoulder, I’ve got no choice but to be distracted by her. “She’s not answering, so I can’t yell at her, so I guess I’ll yell at you instead. How dare you get married to her without asking permission?!”
“Your permission?” I scoff. “I’m not asking you for permission.”
“Not mine! Her parents’, you big idiot. And her brothers are going to give you a hell of a time if you’re serious.”
“I am serious.” I feel heat in my gaze, but Margerie doesn’t back down from it. Stubborn woman.
