Thrive (5 page)

{ 6 }

0 years : 02 months

October

LOREN HALE

“So what’s the deal with Sam?” Ryke asks, sitting
on the hotel chair with an energy drink in hand, only wearing a pair of jeans.

“He’s late,” Connor declares as he unbuttons his white
shirt. “So we all know you two will hit it off.”

Ryke shoots him the middle finger.

I check my watch. “He’s not that late.” I almost never
defend Samuel Stokes—because we don’t get along.

Story of my life.

 
I pull my black shirt
over my head, tossing it on my small duffel bag. My costume lies on the hotel
bed along with Connor’s. We each arrived at the convention in different cars,
trying to throw off the paparazzi. Stepping out of the Princeton house wearing
our costumes wasn’t an option. We’d be all over the internet. The headline,
Lily Calloway and Loren Hale Go to Philly
Comic-Con
,
would be enough to
send Lily running back inside.

So we’re changing here while Lily and her three sisters
dress in another hotel room, and then we’re meeting the girls downstairs at the
convention floor.

“From the few handshakes we’ve had here and fucking there, I
know absolutely nothing about the guy,” Ryke says.

Connor takes off his button-down. “He’s twenty-seven, the
Chief Marketing and Commercial Officer of Fizzle, receiving the position purely
by nepotism,” he says without missing a beat. “His prior employment was Dairy
Queen, and he has a four-year-old daughter with Poppy Cadence Calloway Stokes.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Ryke says dryly. “I asked what’s his
deal, not for his fucking resume, Cobalt.” Ryke nods to me, looking for a
better answer.

“I want to say that Sam’s an asshole like the rest of us,” I
tell him. “But I don’t think about him that much.” Thinking about Sam means I
have to dig through painful childhood memories. Where I threw back drinks to
drown out the world. Where I vandalized houses. Where I screamed.

Where I ran.

Where I became a thing to be hated.

Samuel Stokes showed up in Poppy’s life at fourteen.

I was only eight. I can’t imagine that he sees me as
anything more than a delinquent, rich kid.

And then, within maybe a second, a fist raps against the
door.

Connor goes to greet the person on the other side,
simultaneously unbuckling his belt. When Connor constantly wears collared
shirts and preppy attire, it’s hard to tell that he’s ripped. He has better
definition in his muscles than me, and I work out a lot to rid stress—but
running cuts my muscle mass down.

“You’re late,” Connor says easily, swinging the door open.
Without paying much attention to Sam, Connor returns to his wardrobe on the
bed.

“Try having a four-year-old throw a tantrum over her
Princess Peach costume.” Sam walks further in the room, a travel-duffel slung
over his shoulder. “I had to leave her at the Villanova house with Poppy’s
mom.” Sam nods at Ryke and me in acknowledgement. “What are you two dressing
as?”

I lean an arm on the television cabinet and swallow a
smartass comment. “The Shirtless Wonder,” I banter. “With my sidekick.” I
gesture to Ryke who hasn’t moved his ass off the chair. My brother raises his
brows and sips his drink, sizing up Sam with a long once-over.

Really Sam can be described in two words:

Pretty boy.

When he was younger, he had the whole nineties grunge look
down, his hair hanging half in his eyes, like he was part of the Hansons. Now
his brown hair is out of his slightly unshaven face, dressed in a plain shirt
and jeans—he’s the picture perfect representation of normality.

Without an ounce of humor, Sam says, “It looks like you’re
going as Cyclops.” He motions to my navy and gold costume on the bed with a red
visor: Cyclops circa 2010 comic book era. Before Bendis turned him into a
villain. After he lost Jean Grey and had one of the strongest, most confident
and beloved mutants by his side.

It’s this Scott Summers that I love the most. Somewhere
between good and bad. Somewhere between a stiff and a revolutionary.

“Caught me,” I say with a half-smile.

He sets his duffel on the free bed and then glances back at
Ryke. “What are you drinking?”

He shakes his energy drink can and then takes a large swig.

“Try this.” Sam rummages in the pocket of his duffel before
pulling out a slim black can with a lightning bolt insignia. He tosses it to
Ryke, who easily catches it in one hand.

My brother reads the label. “Lightning Bolt…with an
exclamation point. What is this shit?” He inspects it like Sam handed him
arsenic. And then Ryke pops the fucking tab and takes a sip.

I just shake my head. How has he not died yet?

“You didn’t know what it was, and yet you still drank it?”
Connor says aloud. “Now I’m questioning our friendship.”

“Good,” Ryke says, “because I question it every fucking
day.”

“I remember now, why we’re friends.” Connor steps into his
costume’s black pants. “Every man needs a dog.” He pauses. “
Lassie
taught me that.”

I slow clap.

“Fuck you,” Ryke says.

“I thought it was a compliment,” Connor replies casually
with a grin. “Everyone loves Lassie.”

Sam sits on the edge of the bed. “You’re holding an energy
drink,” he tells Ryke, circling back to the point. “Fizzle created it. We’re
unveiling the product in a few days.”

“It’s not bad,” Ryke says, scrutinizing the Lightning Bolt!
can.

“Good because if you’re around Lily at all, you can’t drink
brands from Fizzle’s competitors. It’s bad marketing.”

“No problem.” Ryke stands and tosses his old energy drink in
the wastebasket.

We all concentrate on changing clothes. Sam rises and tugs
his shirt off before unzipping his duffel. I become acutely aware that he has
four years on Connor and Ryke and six years on me with the way he begins
commanding the room. Confident posture, assured stance—a build that would suit
someone heading into the army. Not that he’s ever going to enlist like his
father and four brothers.

Sammy took another path in life to be with the rich and now
the famous.

By the time I have the gold belt around my waist, along with
tight navy pants and boots, Ryke lounges on the chair.

“You can’t seriously be finished,” I say, scanning his dark
green leather jacket, a hood attached, and an identical colored crew-neck.
Black jeans to top off his simple look.

Sam scrutinizes him. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“Green Arrow.”

I shake my head in disapproval. He wore the same exact
costume almost one year ago—when I first met him.

“It’s the only thing I have,” Ryke says to me. “And what
does it fucking matter?”

“I can see your face.” I point at him. “You can pretend your
little hood will conceal your features, but the moment we hit the convention
floor, people are going to swarm us.”

“I’m going to shave,” Ryke declares. “And I have black paint
that I’m going to use for a mask.”

“Where’s your bow and arrow?” Sam asks, scanning the room
for Ryke’s props.

“I left them at my apartment—”

I groan.

Connor says, “Not surprised.”

“Look, I already had one of the girls swing by my place and
pick them up on their way. Problem solved.” Probably Daisy…but I smother that
suspicion. It shouldn’t matter if she was the one—they’re just friends. Like he
said. I’d rather not put my doubts in Sam’s head either.

Ryke zips up his leather jacket. “And worry about yourself,
Cobalt.”

“That’s the thing,” Connor says, “I don’t have to worry
about myself.” He fits his black mask over his eyes and nose, shrouding half
his face. “It’s called confidence, in case you were confused.”

“Sounds more like arrogance,” Ryke says.

“Closely related,” he says, not denying a thing.

Sam snaps his blue belt around his waist. “Poppy has my
shield,” he says to Ryke, “so do you want to stop by the girls’ room with me?”
He’s being all buddy-buddy with my brother, which has me a bit on guard.

Connor checks his watch on the bed. “Rose already texted me
that they’re waiting on the ballroom level.” Everyone is pretty much ready
except my brother, who’s been slacking. “Hurry up and shave, Ryke.”

“I’ll just meet you fucking down there.” Ryke heads to the
bathroom.

“No,” Connor says. “A man never leaves his dog behind.”

Ryke flips him off, not turning around as he does so. He
disappears in the bathroom.

Connor grins. We end up waiting for Ryke in the doorway. Sam
leans his shoulder on the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The expression
he wears—the faint humor mixed with seriousness as his lips rise—fits his
character too well.

“Captain America,” I say. “Aren’t you glad you left your
four-year-old at home? She’d learn words like
fuck off
and
fucking fuck
all
within the span of thirty minutes.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sam says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap back.

“He’s your brother, right? Cut from the same cloth.”

I don’t curse as much as Ryke, not even close, but he’s
saying that he’d be hesitant to let his child around me. I can’t do anything
but glare.

Sam sighs, seeing that I’m taking offense to this. “I didn’t
mean anything by it other than you’re both rough around the edges.” I don’t
tear my gaze off him, and to throw up a white flag or maybe prove a point, he
calls out to my brother, “Do you plan on procreating, Ryke?”

“Yeah,” Ryke shouts back. “And I hope my kid is a horrible
influence on yours.”

Sam looks at me and outstretches his arms like
am I right?

Yeah. My lips lift. Maybe he is.

{ 7 }

0 years : 02 months

October

LILY CALLOWAY

“Batman?” I stand beneath a towering figure with
pink lips and broad shoulders. And I think:
Please
let this be Connor Cobalt.
Within ten minutes, I lost my sisters among the
costumed-clad masses. I was distracted by the
best
Ninja Turtle cosplay, of all things.

I’d search for the numerous Captain Americas and Black
Widows, but it’s easy to tell which ones aren’t Sam and Poppy. Same goes for
Cyclops—who’d be my first choice.

But the Batmans—I can’t discern from faraway. So this is my
fifth attempt at rejoining my group.

The guy lowers his head a little so his blue eyes meet mine.
And then he says in a deep voice, “I am Batman.”

Okaaay.
“But do I
know you?” I ask. I wish I could just be like:
Hey, Connor, are you messing with me?
I’d rather not shout his name
too loudly. Even though “Connor” isn’t so original, people could put two and
two together, right? And then they’ll figure out that I’m Lily Calloway.

I straighten my blonde wig in anxiety, hoping that the
glitter on my face is a good enough disguise. If it was up to me, I’d be a pink
Power Ranger—totally hidden from head-to-toe. However, Rose and Lo said I need
to be
partially
exposed to the world
because I can’t dress up all the time.

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 cleavage, 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.

He mock winces. “Ow.”

I take a deep breath and glance at my little sister. She now
sits on Ryke’s shoulders. He grabs her by the waist and lifts her off his body,
dropping her on her feet—a lot less carefully than Lo usually does to me.

She lands perfectly fine, thankfully.

“She’s a girl,” Lo tells Ryke, motioning to Daisy who twirls
her gun and searches the area for our older sisters.

“I didn’t notice,” Ryke says with thick sarcasm.

“Just don’t be rough with her,” Lo tells him, less
defensively. He’s trying not to jump down his brother’s throat about Daisy.

“If she can’t handle me, then I wouldn’t have let her on my
shoulders.”

“I can’t handle you, but you still hang around me. What do
you call that?” Lo asks.

“Tough love.”

Lo nods a few times, and that conversation is cut off by
loud bickering.

“You can’t just take my whip, Richard,” she says. “It’s part
of my costume. You’re breaking the convention’s protocol.”

“And you’re making up rules. Are the fictional costume
police going to jail me in their invisible prison?”

“Ugh! You are so…” She growls. They come into view, only
about ten feet away. Rose stands with her hands perched on her hips, her black
leather pants and leather jacket just as badass as her Catwoman eye-mask and
ears. Her hair is sleeked back into a pony. Even in her stiletto boots, Connor
stands four inches above her, appearing to have an advantage.

Batman and Catwoman are flirt-fighting.

The fangirl inside of me is singing right now.

“You love me,” Connor tells her, still holding her black
whip, the source of their argument.

“The more you say it, the more untrue it becomes.”

“It’s just the opposite.” He takes a step nearer.

Rose raises her chin, not recoiling. She snaps, “So now it’s
Opposite Day?”

I’m fairly certain that beneath his Batman mask, a single
brow arches. He has that arrogant look in his eyes, the one he wears a lot
better than most people. “I didn’t declare an unofficial, kind of pointless,
holiday, but if you want to, go ahead. I doubt anyone will listen.”

She smacks his chest. “Don’t insult me, Richard.”

Ryke asks, “Are we going to keep watching them?” He stands
right beside me.

Lo and I nod at the same time, fixated on the couple who
provide too much entertainment. No one on this planet are like these two.
“Maybe you’re right,” I whisper to Lo. “Maybe they are extraterrestrials.”

“It would explain a lot,” Lo agrees.

“Like why Connor never stutters.”

“Why Rose makes babies cry when she walks past them,” Lo
adds.

I nod. “And why Connor never has a bad hair day.”

Lo laughs. “That’d be his hundred-dollar hair products.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Maybe his shampoo comes from space.”

Ryke shakes his head at us. “You two are so fucking weird.”

At that fact, Lo squeezes my hand. Today is definitely a
good idea. I don’t think I’ve felt like this since Cancun—before the media
hoopla.

I don’t want it to end.

I watch Rose point a threatening finger at Connor. “You’re
just bitter because
I
beat you at
chess
four
times in a row last night.
Now you’re stealing my things out of spite.”

Connor raises her whip, half of the black leather wrapped
around his hand. “I only stole this because you were minutes from snapping it
at that guy, which would have sent you to
real
jail.”

“He smacked that girl’s ass! Just because she was dressed in
spandex—it didn’t give him the right to touch her without her permission.”

“I agree, but you can’t whip every person that makes your
blood boil.”

They’re only an inch or so apart now. “What if he did that
to me?” she asks seriously.

He stares in her yellow-green piercing eyes for a long, long
moment, reading her gaze. I still wish I had that superpower—or that smart
person ability.

Finally he says, “I would’ve stepped in.” So far, Connor
hasn’t really had the opportunity to protect Rose from a rude guy. Usually she
does all the yelling and pushing herself before he even arrives.

“Even if you’re not her boyfriend, you should have stepped
in like I did.”

“Clearly I’m not as moral as you, darling. You know this
about me.”

Rose’s eyes narrow even more. Then she stomps forward,
almost challengingly, and pauses for dramatic effect. With so much confidence,
she grabs the back of his head and licks his face slowly, starting from his
chin all the way to his nose—like a cat.

Connor stands poised, unmoving and unblinking. But his grin
could shatter the world.

My smile grows. “Did she just…”

“Yeah,” Lo confirms, sounding impressed. She recreated a
scene from
Batman Returns
where
Michelle Pfieffer licks Michael Keaton’s face. I’m not sure if Rose has seen
the movie or if it’s just a coincidence.

“Daisy?” Ryke suddenly glances around. “
Fuck.
She ran off…” He whips around to go find her, and as he
rotates, a sharper piece of his bow hooks onto the strings of my corset. With
Ryke’s haste (and strength), my costume
rips
right down the middle.