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.