Signed, I'm Yours!: A supervillainous romcom, page 1
SIGNED, I’M YOURS!
SUBPARHEROES SERIES
RHYS LAWLESS
Signed, I’m Yours!
Copyright © 2024 by Rhys Lawless
Cover Design by Jo Clement, Covers by Jo
Editing and Proofreading by Abbie Nicole
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
1. Seojun
2. Jack
3. Seojun
4. Jack
5. Seojun
6. Jack
7. Seojun
8. Jack
9. Seojun
10. Jack
11. Seojun
12. Jack
13. Seojun
14. Jack
15. Seojun
16. Jack
17. Seojun
18. Jack
19. Seojun
20. Jack
21. Seojun
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
A Letter from Rhys
Also by Rhys
Audiobooks
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
SEOJUN
“More champagne, sir?” I look up at the pretty Korean girl offering to top me up. Shaking my head, I touch the rim of my glass.
She holds my gaze for a moment before I say, “Screw it,” and let her refill my flute. She smiles, nods, bows, and walks away, leaving me to stew in my thoughts.
Where are they? Why can’t I find them? I’ve searched for them high and low. I’ve searched everywhere and found nothing.
I miss them so much. I thought maybe Korea was the answer. That perhaps I had been mistaken all this time. Maybe they’d returned home, and I was supposed to follow them there. But they weren’t there either.
I’m not giving up. I’ll search every country if I have to and I will find them.
“Mr. Walters, please fasten your seatbelt. We’re about to land at JFK,” the captain announces.
I follow his instructions, turning to the window as New York looms closer and closer, bringing me back to my failures. Back to the place I lost them. Back to haunted memories of how badly I screwed up.
Naturally, the captain is top-notch, so we land with minimal bumpage. I get up, sip the last dregs of my champagne, take my fur coat from the stewardess, and walk out of the private jet.
I barely take two steps before airport security surrounds me, guns aimed.
“Get down!” they shout in unison like a terrible choir.
“Me? On the floor? Darlings, I don’t do that unless there’s a pretty good incentive.”
I scan the crowd of armed men and women, but no one tickles my fancy, and I am the Sinister Seomyeong. I don’t get on my knees for just anyone.
“Get down now!” shouts someone behind me, and I turn to look at the man approaching.
“Have you seen these pants? Dior leather pants. Do you know how expensive they are?” I ask.
He’s a big, burly man with more hair on his face than head, and oh girl, I would have him on my bed any time of day. If only he wasn’t pointing a gun at me and was pointing something else.
“You are under arrest. For theft, violating international aviation laws, unlawful use of aircraft, and customs violations,” he shouts, and I flinch.
“Who? Me?” I ask. “And do you have to be so loud?”
“I’ll be as loud as I want. Are you Derek Walters?” he asks, approaching me with caution. As if I’m a terrorist threat or something. But I’m no threat. I’m just a small, innocent boy with a gorgeous fashion sense and a rather unfortunate fake name.
“I am indeed.”
“Then I hate to inform you that you’re under arrest.”
“Yeah, yeah, you said that already.”
A man walks up behind me, handcuffs at the ready.
“Ooh. Restraints, already? Kinky. We haven’t even met yet,” I say, but neither man I’m sandwiched between laughs.
Handcuffs guy tries to…well, cuff me, and I can’t have that. Not only because I can’t risk him scratching my perfectly good wrists, but also, the last thing I want after a fourteen-hour flight is to drag this charade on any longer than it has to be.
“Hang on!” I start and bring my hands forward to avoid Handcuffs Guy. “I own this private jet. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t steal anything.”
I lie, of course. I am the Sinister Seomyeong. I lie and steal and cheat. As supervillains do.
The man narrows his eyes, looking me up and down with disapproval.
I guess he’s straight, if the dismissive grimace is anything to go by.
Shame. I wouldn’t mind the challenge of trying to convert him. Once he’s done giving me the once-over, he nods at the guy behind me, who makes another attempt to cuff me.
Jeez. I’m not in the mood for BDSM today. Get with the program.
“Why won’t you listen to me? I own this jet. And I can prove it to you. Give me a piece of paper, and I’ll sign for it.”
I take a step forward to avoid Handcuffs Guy, who is literally obsessed with me, it seems, and land almost in Big Burly Guy’s arms. Almost. Sadly, he doesn’t close the distance between us. Sigh.
“I don’t know how you think signing for something will prove anything.” He grabs me by the shoulders, and I know my number is up. If I don’t act now, I’ll have to go through the whole arrest and bullshit before I can get out, and ain’t nobody got time for that.
“Just give me a piece of paper. I’ll do the rest. I’ll prove to you I am no thief.”
Big Burly Guy stares at me. I stare back. He raises an eyebrow, and I raise two. He huffs. I smirk. It’s too hot for comfort between us. It’s like we’re flirting. I can so picture us in bed together doing the horizontal mambo, cha-cha, and tango combined.
But I also have business to attend to, and I’m too tired to convert a straight man…
“So?” I say, and he surrenders with a growl.
A female security guard approaches with a clipboard and a blank piece of paper.
I put my hand under my fur coat and freeze. Everyone’s guns rise back up, and a dozen lasers dot my body.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Relax, won’t you? I’m just getting my pen,” I tell them and remove my hand slowly. So slowly. I don’t want to get shot. Do you know how much I paid for this coat? I don’t want to get blood on it.
Under everyone’s gaze, I take the cap off and put pen to paper, staring at Big Burly Guy.
“Like I said, I am the owner of this private jet. I have paid for this flight. We have all the appropriate aviation permissions to be here. Do you believe me?” I sign the paper and hand it to him.
As soon as he looks at my signature, his eyes go wide, his posture goes rigid, and his jaw shakes.
“I…I am so sorry, Mr. Walters. I don’t know what happened. We were told this jet was stolen and there was an unauthorized passenger on it. We didn’t… I don’t know what to say. Please forgive us. We must have made a mistake.” He gestures to the rest of the airport security people, and they lower their guns.
“No, darling.” I smile at Big Burly Guy and drag my index finger across his face. “You’ve been signed. By the Sinister Seomyeong…sexy.” I whisper in his ear and walk away.
I know for a fact he is staring at me, despite finding me positively despicable only a moment ago. What can I say, my signature comes with some charm. Naturally, I drop my fur coat so Big Burly Guy can have a full view of my ass. You never know when we could meet again. Might as well lay the groundwork for our torrid affair.
I spot the small, discreet limo at the hangar and a man dressed to the nines, cap and gloves included, standing to attention in front of it.
“What was that about?” he asks.
I shrug it off and smile at the man.
“Oh, nothing. Just a hitch.”
“Mr. Hank, I presume?”
“The one and only,” I respond, and the chauffeur opens the door for me.
Now, this is more like it.
This is how I should always be treated. Like a king. Or queen, depending on the mood.
The door shuts behind me and I find another glass of champagne waiting for me.
I guess being back has its advantages. It’s so much easier to manipulate people in New York than anywhere else in the world. It’s as if New Yorkers are more susceptible to lies and manipulation. Everyone is so desperate to make their dreams come true in the Big Apple that they’ll do or believe anything.
“I hope the temperature is to your liking, sir.”
I glance at the chauffeur through the rearview mirror and purse my lips.
“It’s acceptable. Now go. Get us out of here. I’ve got business to attend to.”
And an arrest to avoid.
I don’t know how long the effects of my signature will last, and I’ll have to go through the same shenanigans to get out of this.
“Right away, sir,” he replies, and we set off to the City.
As soon as we’re out of the airport, I relax against the seat and wipe the smugness from my eyes.
Being the Sinister Seomyeong can be exhausting sometimes. Especially when there are guns aimed at me. Which
I just need my bathtub and a good, long soak. Then, I can resume my search.
Halfway through Brooklyn, I fish out my phone from my back pocket and check my notifications. My screen is flooded with welcome-back-to-the-country text messages and pointless app updates, but one catches my attention.
An email.
Ever heard of SPAM? the subject line reads.
“SPAM?” I mutter under my breath. “The canned meat?”
CHAPTER 2
JACK
“Ithink I’m gonna be sick.” Bob covers his mouth and nose with his arm, turning away from our victim.
“Come on, Bob, don’t be so dramatic,” I tell him.
He gives me his signature stare that I’m sure is supposed to rattle my chains but never does, and I smile.
“Just because this shit doesn’t bother you doesn’t mean the rest of us are being dramatic, Happy.”
“Whatever you say, Bob,” I reply.
I know the nickname is meant to annoy me, but for some reason, I can’t find it in me to be annoyed by such a cool and positive nickname.
Bob takes a few steps back from the body to take a breather and looks away. Typical Bob. He’s been with CREEP for over thirty years and is still not used to the bloody cases we have to deal with.
Light floods my eyes, and I flinch.
“Sorry,” the photographer says, and I blink a couple of times before I can look at him.
“That’s okay. You know what they say. A flash here and there is good for eye endurance.”
The photographer nods a couple of times before he frowns. Probably realizing there’s no such saying.
I turn my attention to the victim. White. Male. Age indeterminate due to the condition of the body.
Where his eyes should be are just empty sockets, blood dripping down his face like tears. His mouth is foaming, and his chest is split open as if something crawled out from inside him. His heart is blown to smithereens, his stomach and guts are spilled on the floor. His testicles have suffered a similar fate to his heart, as have his kneecaps. The only parts of him not touched by blood are his fingers and toes.
“Well, I guess that’s a start.” I crouch and take his fingers in my gloved hands, shining a flashlight under his nails.
I can’t see any DNA or anything else lodged in there. Not with the naked eye. But maybe the coroner will find something. He may be our fifth Pulverizer victim this month alone, but I can’t give up trying. Right?
“Why do you even bother?” Bob asks from the door, still covering his face and avoiding looking at the body or me.
“What do you mean? I’m just doing my job.”
“Ah, just give it up already. You know he never leaves any traces behind. We just have to accept we’ll never find this guy.”
“Or girl,” I remind him. “Women can be murderers too.”
“Fine. We’ll never find them,” he says pointedly. “Happy?”
I shrug.
“I wouldn’t say happy, but you know I’m always in a good mood.”
He rolls his eyes and gags, although whether from the fumes or his disgust at my disposition, I’m not so sure.
“I know.”
“So why do you ask?” I ask.
“Oh, shut up, Lewis. You know what I’m saying. We’ve had over twenty of Pulverizer’s victims this year, alone. If we were going to find them, we would have by now. April has even had monitoring and registration increased to help us. But nothing. SPAM records still show no supes that can make people”—he waves a hand at the exploded man beside me—“blow up from the inside out.”
“Well, usually, when something is blown up, it is from the inside out,” I point out, and he growls at me in typical Bob fashion.
He turns his back to me and shakes his head.
“Bob, I know, man. I know you want to get the Pulverizer before your retirement, but that attitude won’t help, will it? We can ask April to give us more SPAM resources. Maybe there’s someone, somewhere in SPAM, who can help us find them.”
The photographer lowers his camera and tilts his head. “What the hell is SPAM? The canned meat?”
I smile at him when Bob spins around and barks at the poor guy. “Mind your own business. You’re here to take pictures, not ask questions.”
The guy literally jumps on the spot and gets back to work with shaky hands.
I get up and approach my partner with my best attempt at a frown, only it’s still me, and I can’t do that. Which is why my next words come out playful rather than disappointed. “Did you have to be short with the guy?”
“Well, I can’t be tall with him, can I?”
I glance back at the photographer, who’s closer to five foot than six, and shake my head.
“That’s mean.”
Bob bites his lip and has a minor tantrum as if he wants to give me some colorful expletives but is holding back before he composes himself.
“He’s asking questions, and we can’t have people asking questions.”
I roll my eyes at him. Why does he always have to be like this? I’ve always wondered if he’s been like this from the start or if grinding away in this job has chipped away at any positivity he may have had.
Or if he’s just a mean old man, which wouldn’t surprise me, considering he’s been like this since my first day.
“Yeah, I know, Bob! But he’s an innocent guy. We could have told him SPAM was a fucking satellite, and he’d believe it.”
“Whatever.” Bob huffs and walks out the door. I follow him close behind him. “We’re never going to find this guy. He’s as elusive as…as the fucking clitoris.”
I stop and choke. Bob glances at me, frowning.
“What?”
I stare into my partner’s bright-blue eyes and whisper, “You can’t find your wife’s clit? Do you need help?”
He goes so red that if he turned into a raging monster before my eyes, I would have shrugged and said, “Knew it.”
“Haaaappyyyy!” he growls.
His shoulders rise and fall rapidly in sync with his breathing.
“Yes?”
I expect a punch, a shove, or maybe even a slap. But none of those happen. No. He rasps and spins around, speed-walking like a bull in a china shop.
“That wasn’t a denial,” I mumble behind him.
Poor Martha. She’s been married to him for over forty years. Maybe I should rethink my retirement gift to him. I’ll return the golf clubs and buy him a biology book or something. There’s got to be something out there that can break it down for him. Hell, I’ll show it to him if I must. It’s not fucking hard.
Bob kicks the door open, ducks under the yellow tape, and makes a beeline for the car.
“We’ll find him, Bob.” I rush to catch up with him, and he looks up at me.
“Oh, now who’s being sexist? You said him.” He points at me as if I’ve committed murder, and I think I may have upset him a little too much with my comments.
“Slip of the tongue. We’ll find them. I believe it.” This is, like, our twentieth victim.
Bob pulls at his thinning hair—I have a theory I’m the cause—and cries out. “How? He’s our twentieth victim.”
A couple of police officers turn to stare at the CREEP making a scene, and Bob hides inside his car.
I raise my hand at them by way of apology and get into the passenger seat, turning to my partner, smiling.
“What?”
“You said it,” I say. “He’s our twentieth victim, which means…”
He groans before I even finish my sentence.
“We’re getting even more evidence. So we’re one step closer.”
“Oh great. So we should let them murder more people until we can put more puzzle pieces together, right?”
“That’s not what I s—”
“Enough, Jack! Your positivity annoys the hell out of me sometimes.”
“You know I can’t help it.”
“Yeah, yeah, but it irritates the heck out of me. Anyway, let’s get back to the office and hope these idiots have found something we can use to find this guy. Or girl. Or person.”
“You know you can just say person, right?”
“Fuck off!” He barks inches from my face before turning the engine on and setting off.
When we’re back at the office, we comb through all the evidence from all the past crime scenes, fingerprints, DNA, MO.
