Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(80)

“Ha ha.” My cheeks hurt from my own smile. In the mirror, I notice an actual blush rising. “And you’d find me. It’d just take you a couple seconds…maybe even less.” Not because he’s good at computers.

But because he knows what I like.

“Probably.” His knee brushes against mine, on accident. We both go still. My heavy breath is more audible than his.

So he scoots back his chair, giving me more room.

I clear my throat, my neck burning again. “The next username I make, I want to go public with it and promote Superheroes & Scones. Lily also keeps asking for my u.n. so she can tweet me.” I hold my phone flat on my lap. “I won’t change this one all the time like the others.”

He sees the Twitter login screen. “Have you already picked it out?”

“Yeah, I wanted to do something like Lo. He has his name paired with his favorite mutant.” His username: lorenhellion. “The problem is that willowallflower is already taken.”

Garrison doesn’t seem surprised when I say the word wallflower—instead he just points at my phone screen. “Make the double L’s in ‘wallflower’ capital I’s and it’ll look the same on Twitter.”

I type in the changes, and he’s right. The I’s show up more like L’s, and this username is available. Before I accept the new username, I ask, “You know Wallflower?” She’s not a well-known mutant, and she’s not around for long in the comics.

“You mentioned her in your questionnaire.”

I did?

“I looked her up,” he explains off my confusion, “figured it couldn’t hurt with Maya grilling me every shift.” He spins some in his chair, pretty casual. “Do you like Wallflower with the blond guy or the brown-haired one?” He leans back.

I’m trying so hard not to smile like he’s put his hands on my cheeks. Like he’s kissed me. I just—this is surreal. That he’s here, talking to me about my favorite mutants. He’s not laughing. He’s not calling me a little girl. He’s not calling me dumb or silly. He’s respecting the things I love.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to recall something. “I remember looking up their names.” He swivels. “Shit.” He thinks a second longer. “Elixir…and Wither?”

“Yeah, that’s them. They’re in a love triangle with Wallflower.” I don’t mention how their romances don’t end very well, in case he wants to read the comics. “I like her with Wither, even if they’re doomed from the start.”

“Why are they doomed?”

I intake a breath as I say, “He can’t touch her.”

Garrison’s chair goes still.

“Whatever or whoever he touches decays to dust.” He also wears only black, but I don’t mention this either.

Garrison blinks a few times, processing Wither’s superpower. I think he mutters something about being cursed and then he asks, “What about Elixir?”

“He can heal people. He’s an Omega-level, so his powers are even extraordinary among mutants.” I pause. “He’s also mean.”

Garrison begins to smile. “I already hate him if you think he’s mean.” He suddenly brings his phone up to his chest, and he lifts his brows at me like he’s doing something secret.

I take the time to log into my new username, and within the second, I get a new notification.



@garrisonwither: @willowaIIflower looks like it was time for a change for me too gasp we’re matching



I look up at him, my mouth ajar. “…is…is this your real account?” He could’ve made a fake one just to tweet me.

Garrison nods, slipping his phone in his jeans pocket before he stands. “Yeah. It’s my primary account. Favorite one.” His voice is so honest that I trust him.

I have a matching Twitter account.

With a guy.

Maggie wouldn’t believe me, even if I told her.

“So…” Garrison towers above me, his hands on the hem of his black shirt. He looks beyond hesitant.

He looks scared.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t freak about the bruises. Lacrosse gets rough and…” he trails off. “I tripped over some guy during last practice.”

I swallow hard and just nod, but I wonder if this was the reason why he didn’t want to take off his shirt. Or why he doesn’t want to dress as Ryu or even Ken Masters for Halloween.

As he peels the fabric off his head, my eyes trace the lines of his lean, toned muscles. In a sharp inhale, his ribs are apparent, along with his tightened abs. Most of the bruises appear faded, but the dark, dark purple welt by his right ribcage seems brand new.

When he tosses his shirt aside, I say, “That looks bad.”

He glances at the welt. “It’s nothing.”

“Garrison—”

“Don’t!” Panic spikes his voice, and he raises his hands like I sprung up from the bed and tried to touch his ribs. I haven’t even shifted.

He shuffles back, breathing heavily. Then he freezes and stares off for a second, attempting to calm down.

I hold up my hands to show him that I’m not coming at him.

He mutters a sorry but stays still.