Strictly No Heroics by B. L. Radley

Author:B. L. Radley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

CHAPTER 24

USUALLY, WHEN I’M tucked behind Sherman on her bike, time becomes liquid. It flows around us as we curve through Sunnylake’s capillaries, the skinny back roads that feed the city’s pulsing heart. Tonight, though? I’m hyperaware of how close she is, the narrow tuck of her waist, the strength in her shoulders. The ride lasts too long and not nearly long enough.

After bidding her the most awkward goodbye of my life (“Okay. So. Yeah. See you. Sometime. Around. Somewhere. Maybe. Yeah.”), exhaustion overtakes my gay-crisis adrenaline rush. I don’t even look at the new Blair Homes letter on the doormat. My eyes are shut before I hit the pillow.

Lyssa, gremlin that she is, wakes me up two hours later by flailing out of her bed in a burrito of blankets and whooping at the top of her lungs. I groan, roll facedown, and attempt autoasphyxiation.

“Nope. Too early for birthdays.”

“You’re just jealous I’m gonna get Superpowers, like you never did!”

I smack my lips and waft a fart in her direction. “Mm-hmm. You’re welcome to ’em.”

I’m not jealous. Every kid wants to be a Super, but if there’s a chance of turning out like Cooper Hanson … hard pass on that.

Course, if Lyssa does develop powers, she might wind up more like Sherman. But, considering the pain in Sherman’s beautiful brown eyes whenever her past comes up, I’m not sure that’s a good thing, either.

A voice chimes in from the main living space: “I better not hear fighting!”

Hernando? Here in the morning? That’s enough of a novelty to drag me from my bed. I hurry into the main room, while Lyssa dons her liner and prosthetic at light speed and follows close behind. We find him smearing salsa verde onto a leftover tortilla. One sniff and my saliva ducts start working on overdrive.

“Chilaquiles?”

“Had to cook breakfast for my princess,” says Hernando. Lyssa sticks her head over the pan to inhale, then rests her weight against him so he can kiss her hair. I smile, watching them together. That’s what a dad is. The guy you can lean on. Who leaves you in charge of his prize motorcycle, so a part of him will always be with you.

When I told Hernando about Hench, the conversation went better than I expected. We didn’t yell and no plates got flung at my head, which puts it miles above the fights I got into with Mom as a kid. But Hernando didn’t pull me into a hug after, like he would’ve done for Lyssa. I know it’s wrong to expect that (’cause I’m older, and I’m not his, and so forth), but damn, if I don’t want arms around me now.

I don’t know how to ask for that. Guess I’ll absorb his love through my taste buds, like always.

Hernando makes chilaquiles the Jalisco way (the best way) like his mama: steeping the tortillas till they’re soft as sponges. He serves Lyssa first, then me. “Enjoy, mija.”

I intend to. “Not at the Mart today?”

“Don’t need to be.

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