Double trouble: the legend of crime brulee

Chapter 3.2

Connie derived no joy from protecting corporate interests, but the breathtaking Blowtorch had the whole nation fooled. In the next week of her service to the Division, she put a stop to two more bank robberies and an attempted looting at the mall–the next tacky outfit Cecelia would buy on credit from Dillard's was safe…for now.

But her favorite act of heroism began as she flew over St. Philip Parkway, where it ran parallel to the river. Walking along was a lone man, with fluffy, dark hair, clocking in at what she estimated to be a juicy 350 pounds, though it was hard to get a good look in the darkening dusk, and in pursuit of him, about ten feet back, was a second figure he’d yet to notice, with one arm concealed in his trenchcoat.

Picking up speed, Connie launched herself toward the ground and landed just as the approaching attacker pulled out his gun.

"GIMME ALL YOUR MONEY, ***!"

"Please, don't hurt me!"

The assailant fired a warning shot, and the victim leaped into the air in terror, falling facefirst onto the pavement with his thick limbs splayed.

"Fear not, citizen!" Connie cried out. "For when an innocent life is under siege, it's Cri–I mean, it's Blowtorch to the rescue!" She'd been waiting to use that script. She was pretty proud of it; she'd come up with it all by herself!

Inches from her palm, she conjured a bright, orange ball of flame, which she hurled at the mugger, sending him running and screaming into the night. She hated to think of the stone-pounding his boxers would require when he got home–and yes, it was boxers. She could always tell.

Groaning, her chubby charge heaved himself up to his hands and knees. "Allow me, good Sir," said Connie, extending her hand. With her help, he at last stood.

Up close and personal, he was even more perfect than she’d been prepared for. Thick-rimmed glasses, taped together where they had once snapped, framed his wide, kind blue eyes. His cheeks were round and full, his chin doubling adorably despite his attempt to hide this feature by wearing a full and meticulously groomed beard. Suspenders held up his khaki slacks over a belly that jiggled and wiggled with his every motion, begging to be freed from its polyester prison and kneaded, caressed, and groped. HELLO, MY NAME IS MELVIN, proclaimed the plastic nametag pinned to his button-down, over his left moob, the insignia in its bottom corner identifying him as an employee of Excelsior Comics, Cosplay, and Games. Connie was instantly smitten.

“You’re–you’re her,” he said in breathless awe. “You’re Blowtorch! I can’t believe I’m really meeting you!”

She bit back a smile. “Aw, shucks! I didn’t know you’d be such a fan!”

“Are you kidding? I think you’re amazing! But…shouldn’t you go catch that guy and throw him in jail?”

Technically, he was right, according to the terms of her contract, but she had other priorities right now, and besides, the Division would never know she’d let one crook slip through her fingers. Criminals escaped from contractors all the time. “Nah. I’m sure Captain Justice will be all too happy to reap the glory, if he ends up attempting another stick-up. As for me…my conscience demands I see through to the end ensuring the safety of the people I protect. With your blessing, I’d like to accompany you to your destination.”

“Gee…well, thanks! I was just on my way home.” Blushing crimson as he realized the implications of having her along, he bent down to collect the pens that had gone flying out of his pocket protector when he fell, but as she saw him struggle to maneuver around his belly, she stepped once more up to the plate to assist him.

“Here.” She gathered them up off the ground and handed them gently to him. His hands, like the rest of him, were plump and soft in a way that sent tingles of anticipation down her lower spine. “I imagine you must be under a tremendous amount of stress after all of that.”

“Oh, I feel a helluva lot better with you looking out for me,” said Melvin.

“Pleased to be of service! And I can even do you one better to help calm those poor fried nerves of yours!”

She picked them up a bottle of wine from a gas station on their way to his place.

Melvin lived in The Villa on Westheimer, in a unit on the second floor. The halls were drafty, and the walls were cracked, but to the best of his ability, he had made the apartment into a well-kept home–magnificent, even. Walking in, the sight greeted Connie of bookshelves filled resplendantly with comics in wrappers, figurines, and well-loved sentimental knickknacks, including medals and trophies from the Mathletes, the Science Bowl, the Robotics Fair, and the Oregon Open (chess, not golf). The walls liberally displayed artwork both in and out of frames, some of it store-bought, some hand-drawn: spaceships and aliens, city skylines, mutated creatures, and superheroes, her own over-stylized poster pinned up high and proud. “I swear I’m not a stalker,” he said meekly.

“Oh, don’t worry. I like that I’m plastered on your wall! N-not that I’m doing this just for the fame and acclaim or anything.” Except she totally was. “You know what? Why don’t you chill out and pick us something to watch on TV, and I’ll take care of making dinner!”

She found her way to the kitchen, where she opened the wine, poured two glasses–well, plastic party cups, though, to be fair, Melvin didn’t strike her as a stemware kind of guy–and perused the cabinets and fridge. Rice-Otto and tofu sausage crumbles didn’t promise a very exciting meal, and his collection of spices was nonexistent, but boxed dinners had become a staple of her diet once she got off the streets, so at least she knew how to cook it. While all that was simmering on the stove, she returned to the living room, where Melvin sat on the couch, scrolling through the TV guide. “How do you feel about The Nexus?”

“I love it! I could watch it a million billion times!” exclaimed Connie. “I heard they’re making a second one, but it won’t be out until, like, ‘03.”

“That does not need a sequel.”

Connie raised her cup. “To agreeing to disagree.”

“And to not getting my brains blown out walking home from work.”

Dinner was expectedly bland, but they managed to season it with their conversation, and Connie even improvised a stovetop bread pudding for dessert out of eggs, butter, sugar, and some croissants in a box on the counter that were about to go stale. Melvin went in shy at first, hesitant to take second and third helpings, but eventually, the alcohol loosened him up, and he polished off more than twice what Connie ate. By the end of the movie, he sat beached on the couch, adorably satisfied, with one hand resting on the crest of his belly. “Thanks for staying,” he said sleepily. “And for dinner. Even though there must be tons of people in Blackwater better worth your time.”

“Melvin, stop it!” she snapped, slamming her cup onto the coffee table (out of wine, they’d switched to vodka, cut half-and-half with Citrus Sun Blood-Dragon. It was good, even though her go-to was the Blue Razz). “Need I remind you that I am the mighty Blowtorch? And I won’t stand for you to say mean things about the guy I’m quickly falling for.”

He blinked. “M-me?”

“You’re kind,” she told him. “You’re sweet. You’re smart, and passionate, and I find you incredibly handsome. If I wanted to be back out in the field, or hanging out with all the jerks from work, then that’s where I’d be, but I’m here because I want to be, and not just because I want to avoid all the Heroics Division’s bureaucratic bullshit!”

He was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Do…do they treat you rough over there?”

“It’s like…it’s like a giant game of chess. They’re the players, and you’re the pawn, and they build you up real big, they tell you you can do anything, but they know it’s not true. They just want you to be okay with throwing your life away on their command. And now I have to track down the most fearsome serial killer in Blackwater, and nobody cares if I’m anxious about it, or scared, or, or–”

“Blowtorch…” He sat up straight and reached over to thumb away a tear that had just escaped the corner of her eye. Then, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

***

In the morning, Connie awoke in Melvin’s bed, limbs wrapped around him like an octopus. Her face was smushed between the twin swells of his moobs,and his naked belly pooled against her own exposed curves with a liquid heft, as would a warm sack of jelly. In his sleep, he wrapped his doughy arms around her and pulled her in, close and tight. She was in Heaven. Only her craving for her first smoke of the day convinced her to extract herself from his squishy embrace, triggered by this weird dream she’d had that she’d run out of cig–

Well, fuck.

She found the empty pack of smokes next to her costume, which had been meticulously folded and placed on top of the bedside table. Melvin must have done that; drunk or sober, Connie wouldn’t have bothered. Squinting against the throbbing headache that came with her massive hangover, she sat up and began to get dressed.

Beside her, Melvin stirred and rolled over. “W-wow…so that really…?”

“Sure did, big boy,” she replied, throwing him a wink over her shoulder. “Well, listen, I should go, before these nicotine withdrawals turn me into a fire-breathing monster, but drop me an email to my Division email address if you ever wanna hang out again. Just make it read like fanmail, and don’t say anything too personal, because I’m pretty sure my boss reads it.”

“You…you really meant all that nice stuff about me,” he murmured, unable to stifle a dopey grin. “You really want to see me again?”

“Duh. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m kind of the new queen bee here in Blackwater, and every queen needs a king!”

***

Connie practically fell over the threshold of her apartment, costume buried beneath a cheap sweater and loose velour sweatpants she’d picked up at the mercifully open thrift shop on her way home, so as to conceal her heroic identity from Cecelia. Sister Dearest knowing about Crime Brulee was one thing; if the news about Blowtorch landed, there’d be no end to the favors Cecelia would attempt to extract from her.

Come to think of it, though, oughtn’t the Division have supplied her with stuff like costume changes on the fly?

When she arrived, Cecelia was making her way out of the restroom in a bathrobe that wouldn’t have closed if not for the tie, and even the ends of that were tested by her girth. Her tits were practically right out there. “Constance, does your bathtub always take so long to fill up, or is that something you need to talk to the landlord about?”

Connie groaned. “It’s like, an on and off thing.”

“Also, a fellow called Ned called three times asking for you. Wouldn’t speak to me, though, I’ve no idea what he wanted.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “Dude I met last week at the half-price shoe store.” While Cecelia went about her routine, Connie rushed to the phone and dialed Ned’s direct line.

“Daniels speaking.”

“Have you ever, EVER heard of a beeper?”

“Agent Cole, how nice to hear your cheerful voice. And would you care to explain your reckless decision to SLEEP with one of your saves?”

“Oh, I see, so you deliberately didn’t page me, that way you could ambush me first thing when I got home,” she concluded. “What’s the big deal? Doesn’t everybody do it?” After all, it was a well-known adage that superheroes were entitled to certain privileges.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, but there’s a protocol!”

“Well, maybe you should have gone over that with me before I started!”

“I didn’t think you’d be that kind of girl!”

“That kind of–! Why, I oughta–!”

“Did you at least uphold the secrecy of your identity?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t know my name, But speaking of secrecy, you’re the one who blew up my home phone while my roommate was here!”

“Roommate? Oh dear. That won’t do,” said Ned. “This is usually a privilege we reserve for our more seasoned operatives, but due to privacy concerns, it looks like we’re going to have no choice but to move you into the tower.”