All Superheroes Need PR (Supers in the City, #1)

by Elizabeth Stephens

“What did I say?” She says each word carefully, speaking to me like I’m about to have a panic attack. I am about to have a panic attack.

“If today goes well—which it will—we’ll get the extended long-term contract to manage the Pyro’s PR, which will feed our children’s children’s children. So don’t go doubting us now, after all we did to get here.” I nudge her hip with mine. “You don’t even want kids.” “Damn straight. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to use my kids’ kids’ kids’ money to buy a yacht and retire at thirty-eight.” “If you retire at thirty-eight, I will knife you.”

Making a decision that would have had my first boss, a wonderful South African woman who taught me everything I know about marketing and running a business today, sobbing into a handkerchief, I sign below Mr. Casteel’s name.

She really fits all of those typical second-generation Ethiopian, Mezcal-slinging, monster-loving, shrewd lawyer stereotypes.

I don’t know which of them officially dressed her, but it was a ludicrous fucking choice. It makes her look young. I know she’s got to be over thirty, running her own firm and all, but she looks twelve, and I’m gonna look like a goddamn pervert standing next to her, staring down at her note cards, which are way too close to her tits. It’s gonna look like I’m staring down her shirt in the photos. It’s modest, but still, she’s got . . . her tits, they’re . . . proportional, I mean.

Fuck this, maybe I should just kidnap her,

Nessa’s a good fucking girl.

She follows Rollo past the point of no return. She sees the warning, Beware Ye Who Enter Here, spits into her fist, and smears her palm all over the signage.

“I have the coolest job in the world.”

“Pointy and hard?” I nod. “And you’re describing your fingernails, yeah?” She snorts, and it takes me a full breath to realize she’s made a joke. “Perv,” I huff, trying to keep the smile from twisting my lips.

She pulls out her notepad—the one for prescriptions, which feels decidedly appropriate—and starts scribbling.

“Why Wyvern, anyway?” She huffs. “I thought we went over this.” “Yeah, but I could have just been Dragon-Man or something.” “Dragon-Man?” I shrug, grin widening in response to hers. “I’m no branding expert.” “Clearly.” She shakes her head.

“Voy a matar al maldito que hizo esto” . . .

“You carry?” Charlie sounds surprised. “Don’t you?” “I’m former Marines. Course I carry. What’s your excuse?” “I’m a gay man from backcountry Georgia.”

I stumble forward, fiery helicopter piece leading the charge, though now that I think about it . . . it looks suspiciously like a sword.

“You are not a very nice alien, but I didn’t mean to do this!”

I’m not waiting anymore. Plus, we’ve done it once like this already.” “But I didn’t know then . . . and wasn’t . . . paying attention . . . and things have happened since. I think there’s, like . . . it’s gotten bigger,” I huff finally, gesturing down at my pants like an imbecile. My threat seems to have the opposite effect. Her eyes get big and drop to my crotch. She swallows audibly. Giddily. “Really?” “That’s not supposed to be an incentive.