Generation Next: A Superhero Adventure (The Pantheon Saga Book 3) Read online

  Greyson couldn’t have blown up his entire life in St. Louis. He couldn’t have killed his own father and The Hurricane.

  Greyson couldn’t have hurt—or possibly killed—the love of his life…Lauren Gerard. He pushed all that animus away and gave his whole self to her grinding atop him ferociously.

  “I missed you, Grey.” Lauren arched back with such pleasure her eyes crossed. “You miss me?”

  Greyson held onto her hips, afraid she’d vanish if he let go. Everything tingled. “I missed you so much,” he admitted.

  Lauren brushed back damp blonde locks, leaning down. Her tongue tickled his mouth open before she kissed him. “Do you love me?” she whispered.

  Greyson nodded, sweat stinging his eyes. “More than life.” He was reaching his peak, ready to blast into orbit.

  Lauren smiled broadly, satisfied. “Then why did you kill me?”

  Greyson frowned. “What?” Suddenly, Lauren’s flesh was no longer pressed on his. In fact, she wasn’t even on top of him anymore. She lay on the floor in fetal position, body twitching. And her arms appeared crushed by some invisible force. She glared up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes. “You crushed me...left me to die.”

  Greyson sat up. “No…” The nightmare struck full force. Heroes Anonymous imploding. His therapy group getting captured. Lauren turning everyone else in to save him. His angry response. Greyson’s chest collapsed as reality battered him. “I called 911,” he pleaded. He rose and ran to Lauren. “I couldn’t stay! I…I never meant to hurt you.”

  Yet Lauren kept growing farther away the faster Greyson ran. Her pained expression turned cruel. “You wanted me to suffer after thinking I betrayed you,” she accused. “I wanted to keep you safe.” Her voice withered into a croak. “And you killed me.” Lauren sagged on the floor.

  Greyson finally reached her and cradled his fiancée’s limp body, tears spilling down his cheeks. Part of him wanted to shake her back to life. But her glassy, unblinking eyes told Greyson she was gone. “I’m sorry…” He hugged Lauren’s corpse, quaking with sobs.

  “Are you sorry about me, boy?” The voice was a painful cuff to Greyson’s ears, crotchety and dripping in contempt. He opened his eyes and turned. No…

  A wizened old man loomed over him; retreating hairline, hunched spine, eyes ablaze with singular hatred. Greyson’s heart skipped. “Dad?”

  Aaron Hirsch’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, you remember?”

  Greyson never saw Aaron lash out his cane until something cracked him across the jaw. There was an explosion of pain, and suddenly Greyson was on his back seeing stars.

  “I killed you!” he declared, wincing with each word. His jaw felt broken.

  “Now I’m returning the favor.” Dad’s grin revealed bloody teeth while driving his cane through Greyson’s chest. The pain was blinding. He shrieked.

  “Greyson!” The shout came with a slap that damn near unhinged his jaw. Greyson jerked upright, sweaty and gasping.

  For a long moment, his surroundings made no sense. Lying in a bed he didn’t recognize in some dark, dank room reeking of brine. Another twin-sized bed sat on this small room’s other side. Whatever this place was seemed to glide briskly over a churning surface.

  Greyson turned left. A familiar figure crouched beside him. Disappointingly, it wasn’t Lauren. “Connie.”

  Greyson remembered. He was on a barge full of supers who had fled St. Louis. The destination was somewhere in South America.

  Connie looked nothing like the petite firecracker he’d met in St. Louis. These ten weeks had taken their toll. She’d buzzed off her long, raven-black locks. Smaller food rations and constant fear of capture had burned away baby fat, leaving her physique lean and hard. Connie was the only positive to come from Dr. St. Pierre’s therapy sessions. Everything else about that hack had destroyed Greyson’s life.

  “Another nightmare.” Connie’s thin face expressed worry and pity.

  “Oh…sorry.” Greyson felt a pang of nausea and avoided Connie’s stare, wiping sweat from his face.

  Glancing down, his own physique wasn’t anything to brag about. He’d always been slim but fit. This voyage had done him no favors. Greyson was pale from sparse sunlight. He’d lost most of his muscle definition from little physical activity. His appetite remained nonexistent. If not for Connie, he’d have starved to death.

  Connie maneuvered around so they were eye to eye. “Sounded like you were getting burned alive.” She was prying again for a window into his pain.

  Greyson refused to open up. “That would’ve been preferable.”

  Connie furrowed her brow. She opened her mouth to reply when their door flew open. Some mountain of a man filled the doorframe, bushy-bearded and with an apron of fat spilling over his belt.

  “YOU!” His bark was a shotgun blast. “Your screams scare my kids!”

  Greyson waved a hand at his shipmate in pacifying fashion. “I’m really sorry, Briggs. I’ll do better.”

  That didn’t please Briggs, who marched inside without invitation. “You said that several times, and your wailing gets worse, asshole.” He took another menacing step toward Greyson, who had no intention of stopping him. Maybe Briggs would pound Greyson into a pulp. And keep pounding. That pleased him irrationally.

  Connie stepped in Briggs’s path. “He said he’ll do better!” She looked like a toddler compared to Briggs’s mountainous frame, but he still backpedaled warily. This wasn’t the first time Connie had intervened to protect him or their rations on this barge.

  The standoff was brief. Briggs retreated, glaring a hole into Greyson.

  “Next time, flatten that fucker,” Connie griped after slamming their door.

  Feeling anything through the numbness these days was a challenge for Greyson. But he stared at Connie in disbelief for her suggestion after what had happened in St. Louis. “No one gets hurt because of me.” No matter what lie Dr. St. Pierre had told, Greyson’s powers were a curse. The biggest favor he could do everyone was never use them again.

  Connie slumped against the door, disgusted. “If you insist.”

  Greyson avoided her eyes again and stood. He noticed then how much the barge rocked around on the waves beneath them. And the wailing winds kept buffeting it from outside. Greyson’s own self-loathing ran deep. But a petrifying fear of this barge capsizing in the dark, fathomless sea ran deeper. “We’re moving really fast.”

  Connie fiddled with the hem of her worn jacket. “Smugglers are all over these waters.” She searched his face again. “Wanna talk about the nightmare?”

  Greyson clenched his teeth. She wasn’t letting this go. “Not much to say.”

  Connie leaned forward with a pleading expression. “Talking might help.”

  Greyson’s tolerance evaporated. “No thanks.” His tone was final. He returned over to his bed and flopped back down.

  Connie bristled but said nothing. She stomped over to her bed and picked up a book she’d been reading. Silence reigned for several minutes.

  “Careful, Grey,” a familiar whisper cautioned. “You can’t trust her.”

  Greyson looked to his right. Lauren sat beside him on his bed, as real as Connie, hair pulled back and wearing a silken robe. Her gaze fixated on Connie with clear dislike. No one knew that Greyson could see and hear Lauren.

  “Why?” he murmured so Connie couldn’t hear.

  Lauren shook her head. “Whatever lady boner she had for you back in St. Louis is withering.”

  He stiffened. “You don’t know that.” Greyson knew Connie had feelings for him. Why else would she have helped kill The Hurricane and taken care of him on this boat? After what had happened to Lauren, this was a betrayal.

  Ghost-Lauren stared back as if he were dimwitted, which the real Lauren used to give when he’d made corny jokes. His heart ached. She gestured at Connie. “See how she’s eyeing you like you’re nuts.”

  Greyson angled a gaze at Connie’s direction. She was stealing glances at him, a mix of worry an
d contempt on her worn face. But when he caught her, she immediately looked away and continued pretending to read. Ghost-Lauren’s smug face had ‘told ya’ written on it.

  At first, Greyson had chalked up these hallucinations to his brain breaking from grief. But after two months, Greyson had learned to accept her random appearances at very inconvenient times, but mostly ignored her.

  Ghost-Lauren sneered in a self-satisfied way that the real Lauren never would’ve. “Sooner or later, she’ll leave you to the wolves.”

  Greyson had heard enough. “Shut up!” he snapped, louder than intended.

  Connie sat up and glowered over at him. “What?”

  Greyson felt the blood drain from his face. A glance to his right displayed no Lauren. “Talking to myself.”

  Thankfully a blinking red light next to their room door saved Greyson from further explanation. That blinking light meant an all-hands meeting with everyone on the barge. Thanking a god he no longer believed in, Greyson popped up, threw on a long-sleeved shirt, and rushed to the door. Connie followed him closely as they headed to the main meeting space on the upper deck.

  All sixty-plus passengers gathered at the moldy meeting space within minutes. Most were crabby from interrupted sleep, some worried. More than a few looked somewhat inhuman due to their superhuman gifts. But no one onboard judged by appearances. Each passenger was running from something.

  Greyson and Connie stayed in the rear keeping a low profile. That was when he wasn’t screaming in his sleep from recurring nightmares.

  At the room’s center stood a tall older woman, shoots of grey in her kinky brown curls. She had a lean and lined face, to match her weathered clothing and expression. Alanna Kyler, while not ship captain, was the most senior person on the crew representing the group smuggling everyone out of the US. “Alright folks,” she announced, quieting everyone. “We should be safe from whoever was chasing us. Sorry for the delay in your Guyana transport.”

  “When are we arriving?” someone inquired.

  “Another week or two,” Alana replied. “We will stop near the British Virgin Islands to restock food.”

  That drew loud rebukes from the gathering. Greyson and Connie exchanged discomfited stares. Yet another setback for their voyage. They were supposed to have reached Guyana a month ago. But evading the Coast Guard and pirates had pushed the trip past two months and passengers past their tolerance threshold.

  “Bullshit!” Brigg bellowed near the front.

  And the protests grew louder. As the four burly ship crew flanking Alana reached for their stun batons, Greyson briefly feared an open revolt.

  Alanna remained stone-faced as waves of frustration crashed into her. “Hey!” she barked over the shouts. “Wanna steer this boat away from the authorities? Wanna keep our food stores stocked? Wanna dodge the smugglers who’d sell you to the black market?”

  That silenced the room.

  Alanna cocked her head sideways. “Exactly,” she concluded. “Be grateful you’re not still in the States. Dinner is ready in ten.” She turned and vanished through a door behind her as passengers shouted questions.

  Greyson shrugged indifferently to the news. He’d believe their arrival when they reached Guyana’s shores. Then what?

  Connie tapped his shoulder. “I’ll get food. Early bird gets better portions.”

  Greyson waved off her charity. “Not hungry.”

  Connie glowered in displeasure. “I’ll get something small so you don’t starve.” With that, she weaved her way through the crowd toward the mess hall.

  Greyson watched her go, unable to not smile. Connie still cared for some reason…unless she was acting out of obligation.

  Greyson shuffled back to their shared quarters. Freedom was weeks away, according to Alanna. Then what?

  This question kept coming up among Connie or other passengers.

  Greyson lay in bed, unable to picture a life away from everything he’d known.

  Coworkers. Friends. Family. Lauren. He should have spent this past Thanksgiving with these people. Then Hanukkah, and then New Year’s Eve.

  But that was no longer possible. Greyson was on the run for murder. The realization struck more grievously each time he remembered.

  Who am I now besides a murderer and fugitive?

  Greyson saw only one end. His own. He’d do it after landing in Guyana and parting ways with Connie.

  “Coward,” Ghost-Lauren scolded.

  “Fuck off,” Greyson fired back as sleep pulled him under.

  Chapter 3

  Hugo reached residential Paso Robles in two minutes at a fraction of his top speed. “New record!” he bragged. After a quick shower, Hugo threw on a polo shirt and board shorts. Saying a quick hello to Mom, he raced out again.

  Tonight’s destination was El Marquez, the wealthiest of San Miguel’s many suburbs.

  Four minutes later, at 375 miles per hour, Hugo stood a mile from El Marquez’s coastline. The main peninsula wrapped around part of the suburb’s glittering shores with two harbors and a handful of artificial islets.

  Scanning around to ensure his arrival went unnoticed, Hugo emerged from behind a wall of bushes to enter Central Coast Plaza. The mall’s majestic Spanish architecture was silhouetted against a fiery sun sinking into the sea. Half open-air, half indoor, Central Coast Plaza boasted designer boutiques, fine dining, and specialty shops catering to San Miguel’s upper crust. In short, a perfect spot for Hugo to work on approaching girls anonymously.

  Half an hour later, Hugo swallowed the fear crawling up his throat and approached another girl. She was waiting for a pretzel at a smaller shop with two friends. Hugo guessed she was Mexican, super-pretty, caramel-skinned, slim curves, and large brown eyes. Her lips were so kissable.

  Ignoring his knotting innards, Hugo approached. “Hey,” he said, drawing her attention. “Any suggestions on what’s good?”

  She looked at him sideways. “You know those things called menus?” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the menu above the cash registers. “That might help.” Her sneering tone drew laughter from her friends and sympathy from the server behind the counter.

  Hugo forced himself to let her unfriendliness flow through him. “I preferred personal recommendations.” He smiled, fingering one of his earring studs. “But honestly…” Hugo drew in a steadying breath, remaining grounded and present in his body. Then he spoke his truth with a velvety voice. “I think you’re sexy and I had to meet you.”

  The girl gave him a bored onceover. “We met. Not interested.” She turned away, ignoring him. Both her friends moved swiftly between her and Hugo, a literal wall.

  With a disappointed shrug, he walked away. Hugo wasn’t crushed. But consecutive rejections from seven girls weren’t encouraging. He shook his head.

  So much for my pimp game. Waiting on the other side of the open-air passage were three witnesses to every rejection. Simon Han stood with that Bruce Lee bowl cut and headphones slung around his neck, wearing a vintage Midwest Miracles t-shirt. Dwarfing the Korean boy was Raphael Turner, slightly taller than Hugo. These approaches were his idea, paired with solid advice. Raphael wore a button-down shirt and jeans, his hair grown out into a short afro, every step oozing swagger. Grace Misawa rounded out the group in a bejeweled San Miguel Titans basketball jersey as a dress, the red and blue team colors inverted. No doubt she’d designed that jersey dress herself. Grace also had on a wide brim black fedora to accentuate her stylish ensemble. All three friends gave Hugo sympathetic looks as he reached them. Correction, Grace and Miguel were sympathetic. Simon giggled sadistically, because only he knew about Hugo’s ‘playboy persona’ intentions. Asshole…

  The Samoan ignored his mockery. “I suck at this.”

  Simon snorted. “Keep thinking that, then you’ll keep sucking.”

  Raphael grasped Hugo’s shoulders with an understanding smile. “Relax!” He squeezed Hugo’s deltoids, wincing at the rock-hard firmness. “Get outta your head. Focus on how your
body feels in the moment.”

  “Chin up, Bogie,” Grace encouraged, smacking Simon upside the head to silence his laughter. “If one clueless gal rejects you, San Miguel has thousands more.”

  Hugo appreciated the feedback. But if he didn’t improve his approach, socially awkward might be his only option. Hell no! Hugo refused to accept that fate.

  “BTW,” Grace asked with a curious frown, “why don’t you just work things out with Presley? She was super-fun.”

  Raphael and Simon grimaced.

  Hugo’s mood frosted over. “Never,” he replied curtly.

  Grace paled, taking the hint. “O-kay…”

  That sounded harsh, Hugo realized. But discussing Presley required lying about who she was and reliving how badly she’d wrecked him. Maybe worse than Brie had... Thankfully, his stomach had other priorities. “I’m getting hangry. Food, anyone?” No one disputed.

  The group found a somewhat affordable fancy burger joint with outdoor seating. While not as delicious as Beach Bum Burger, Hugo was too hungry to be picky. He devoured three half-pound triple cheeseburgers, much to his friends’ shock.

  “You’re a human vacuum cleaner,” Grace remarked, almond-shaped eyes bulging. She then smacked Raphael’s hands as he tried stealing her fries.

  After leaving the burger joint, Raphael checked his cell. Strangely, he glanced at Hugo before stuffing it back in his pocket.

  Hugo frowned in concern. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Raphael’s nonchalance felt forced.

  Simon also noticed. “Is it about that Santa Maria bombing?”

  Everyone shuddered. Hugo had heard the news this morning, still shaken by the casualty numbers.

  “Nope. Seriously it’s—”

  “—something,” Hugo interrupted. Raphael was always a good friend. The Samoan wanted to reciprocate.

  Grace wedged herself between the two massive boys. “Speak, big man.”

  Raphael sighed in acquiescence. “Briseis and Jordana aren’t friends anymore.”

  Shock dominated Grace’s pretty features. “Saywhatnow?”