Caped and Dangerous - Isabel Jordan Page 0,2

after her father crashed the family SUV (he’d been drunk off his ass at the time), rolling it several times before it landed, top down, in a flooded drainage ditch. She’d managed to save her mother by tossing the car out of the ditch and ripping the top off with her bare hands, but her father had died on impact. She was nineteen at the time.

Bryn, on the other hand, had discovered the ability to see through walls when she was eight and was spying on her mom stashing Christmas presents in her closet.

Bryn’s life had been as sunshine-y as her hair and voice, so trauma certainly wasn’t the trigger for everyone’s superpowers.

But regardless of how it all started, about a month after the first human with superpowers popped up, the government stepped in to regulate the situation. What followed was probably the most successful marketing campaign to ever unfold.

Those with powers were expected to register within their states. But not so that Big Brother could control them. Oh, no. It was so they could be protected from anyone who might seek to use them for nefarious purposes.

They were encouraged to volunteer for superhero jobs to help their communities. Saying no was always an option. But after getting the “don’t you want to save the world” speech from the US President himself, and seeing all the commercials thanking superheroes for all they do, who would really want to say no? It’d be like slapping a label on your back that said, “I’m a selfish jerkwad. Kick me!”

Once the marketing/propaganda campaign was done, the federal government turned control of the superhero positions over to the individual states to do with as they saw fit. Superheroes applied for their jobs just like everyone else, and signed lifelong, iron-clad contracts that made the job eerily like indentured servitude.

So, at the end of the day, superheroes were essentially highly controlled weapons that were rolled out by the state when needed. Who got to decide when they were needed? The state, of course.

(Greer worked directly for Gem City’s mayor, a woman who was smug, judge-y, holier than thou, and perpetually had lipstick on her teeth. Good times.)

Superheroes who went vigilante were reviled by society, even when they helped people. Superheroes who chose to work regular jobs didn’t fare any better.

See? Told you it’d been the best marketing campaign ever.

But none of that really mattered anymore to Greer. She wasn’t in any kind of mood to lead a superhero rebellion or try to change the minds of society at large. She just wanted to do her job until they retired her and be left alone the rest of the time. Was that too much to ask?

It was today, apparently...

CHAPTER THREE

THE TOP TWO floors of the Morgan Enterprises building were apartments that could probably be rented out for roughly the per capita income of Australia each month. Or so Greer assumed, based on what she paid monthly for her tiny downtown studio apartment.

Killian lived in the penthouse, of course. Greer couldn’t imagine him storing his three-thousand dollar suits in a place that didn’t cost six figures a month.

But since it was his building, she supposed she shouldn’t get too salty with the guy for living in luxury while she iced her knee nightly in a bathroom that hadn’t been upgraded since 1984.

Apparently, mauve ceramic tile had been all the rage back then. Who knew, right?

Greer impatiently tugged at her cape as she flew over the railing of Killian’s balcony. When she landed, she discreetly plucked her underwear out of her butt crack.

Wedgies: another occupational hazard.

If it was up to her, she’d fight crime in her yoga pants and Star Trek hoodie. But no. Her state-mandated uniform included black leather pants and a matching vest over a white button-down blouse. And it was all topped off with an Arrest-Me-Red, nylon cape. All of it was uncomfortable and hard to clean. But it looked great in photos, and that’s all her boss really cared about.

Not that Greer was bitter or anything.

But she was totally bitter.

Greer didn’t bother knocking on the patio door before she let herself into Killian’s penthouse. He never locked it, no matter how many times she told him he should.

Her wandering into his home unannounced and uninvited after he called Rio to get in touch with her was kind of their new routine. It’d happened way more than she cared for lately.

He was leaning negligently against his Italian marble kitchen counter while he waited for her,