Read Online Heroine Addiction by Jennifer Matarese - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Matarese
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hint of a frown peeks out of hiding, tugging downward at the corners of her lips. I consider fumbling out my receipt pad and a pen before it dawns on me that there's not much left on the menu that she can order anyway. “So what will it be?” I ask.
Something in the vicinity of her left eyebrow glitters in the sunlight, so either her eyes are sparkling with mischief or her newest piercing just has diamond chips and a good shine to it. “Well, what's good here?”
Oh, for crying out loud, I think in exasperation. “Hazel, I've got three meals left on the menu that you can feasibly digest without medical attention or a three-hour long lecture on the many ways they psychologically mistreat chickens in Guatemala, so how about you just pick some combo of the three and we'll call it an order?”
“Bravo, my girl,” a familiar voice rumbles.
I must have missed the tiny bell above the door tinkling a tuneless greeting as Morris entered, an astounding error on my part considering just how close to the front door I'm standing. But even though I didn't catch the ring of the bell, the sudden silence as Mo's fingers skitter across her guitar strings and the handful of flabbergasted gasps which follow would have been a wake-up call.
Slow and steady movement out of the corner of my eye alerts me to Hazel rising up from the couch, easing to my side as harmlessly as she can manage. I don't suppose now is an ideal time to point out that I can take care of myself, especially against Morris.
Of course, Morris is not making that easy.
Morris built himself a temporary plastic surgery machine not long before my father captured him and carted him off to Beddingfield Asylum for the twenty-seventh and final time. The turnover rate in Beddingfield is more than a little appalling. For a well-funded mental institution housing the superpowered and supposedly insane, patients flow in and out of Beddingfield's doors like a calm and dependable tide. Hollyoak Hills may be the only jail we can reasonably stay in without any chance of escape, but Beddingfield is where villains are more apt to go. For some reason, “crazy” is more comforting for the general public to accept than “perfectly sane but clearly dangerous.”
That's not to mention the large number of patients who were previously doctors in the asylum or those who become therapists there after their release, whether or not they possess medical degrees. As far as I know, Dad continues to swear that the next comet hurtling through the atmosphere towards the asylum is absolutely not getting lasered to bits by the Brigade if he had any say in the matter.
In any event, the plastic surgery machine – meant for a single four-hour stint as another person and created for the ensuing chaos it would cause – was mostly just for kicks and giggles until Morris and Dad moved in together. Since then, it's been the greatest blessing to Morris's retirement he could have hoped for. He can have a normal life like this, safely venturing out into the world as someone else before going home to be himself with Dad.
Your average supervillain chooses to hide his true face behind a mask of leather or suede, or perhaps to shade over shiny burns or bold scars with carefully placed makeup. Morris, however, has a more refined way to cover up the stretched skin on his cheeks and the ear-to-ear slice which will forever dig through the skin under his jawline. With a flip of a switch on the plastic surgery machine he can veil his multitude of scars with rearranged muscles and smoothed skin for a short while.
But today there are two black eyes, a split lip and what looks like a broken cheekbone to go with all of Morris's previous scars. He looks a very recognizable wreck, and it takes me a moment of looking into his eyes to understand it's not just a physical sort of tragedy.
He takes in the stunned, frightened faces of my customers and the terrified whimpers of small children in complete silence. When he speaks
Something in the vicinity of her left eyebrow glitters in the sunlight, so either her eyes are sparkling with mischief or her newest piercing just has diamond chips and a good shine to it. “Well, what's good here?”
Oh, for crying out loud, I think in exasperation. “Hazel, I've got three meals left on the menu that you can feasibly digest without medical attention or a three-hour long lecture on the many ways they psychologically mistreat chickens in Guatemala, so how about you just pick some combo of the three and we'll call it an order?”
“Bravo, my girl,” a familiar voice rumbles.
I must have missed the tiny bell above the door tinkling a tuneless greeting as Morris entered, an astounding error on my part considering just how close to the front door I'm standing. But even though I didn't catch the ring of the bell, the sudden silence as Mo's fingers skitter across her guitar strings and the handful of flabbergasted gasps which follow would have been a wake-up call.
Slow and steady movement out of the corner of my eye alerts me to Hazel rising up from the couch, easing to my side as harmlessly as she can manage. I don't suppose now is an ideal time to point out that I can take care of myself, especially against Morris.
Of course, Morris is not making that easy.
Morris built himself a temporary plastic surgery machine not long before my father captured him and carted him off to Beddingfield Asylum for the twenty-seventh and final time. The turnover rate in Beddingfield is more than a little appalling. For a well-funded mental institution housing the superpowered and supposedly insane, patients flow in and out of Beddingfield's doors like a calm and dependable tide. Hollyoak Hills may be the only jail we can reasonably stay in without any chance of escape, but Beddingfield is where villains are more apt to go. For some reason, “crazy” is more comforting for the general public to accept than “perfectly sane but clearly dangerous.”
That's not to mention the large number of patients who were previously doctors in the asylum or those who become therapists there after their release, whether or not they possess medical degrees. As far as I know, Dad continues to swear that the next comet hurtling through the atmosphere towards the asylum is absolutely not getting lasered to bits by the Brigade if he had any say in the matter.
In any event, the plastic surgery machine – meant for a single four-hour stint as another person and created for the ensuing chaos it would cause – was mostly just for kicks and giggles until Morris and Dad moved in together. Since then, it's been the greatest blessing to Morris's retirement he could have hoped for. He can have a normal life like this, safely venturing out into the world as someone else before going home to be himself with Dad.
Your average supervillain chooses to hide his true face behind a mask of leather or suede, or perhaps to shade over shiny burns or bold scars with carefully placed makeup. Morris, however, has a more refined way to cover up the stretched skin on his cheeks and the ear-to-ear slice which will forever dig through the skin under his jawline. With a flip of a switch on the plastic surgery machine he can veil his multitude of scars with rearranged muscles and smoothed skin for a short while.
But today there are two black eyes, a split lip and what looks like a broken cheekbone to go with all of Morris's previous scars. He looks a very recognizable wreck, and it takes me a moment of looking into his eyes to understand it's not just a physical sort of tragedy.
He takes in the stunned, frightened faces of my customers and the terrified whimpers of small children in complete silence. When he speaks
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