Nobody's Hero

A man who sacrificed everything -- including his life -- finds himself reborn with unimaginable power and a second chance at something he never thought possible: happiness.

All Hugo has ever known is duty. For years, he sacrificed his time, his body, and his dreams for others. Saving an old acquaintance from a brutal attack felt no different -- even when the attack led to his demise. That is... until a mysterious, eccentric angel intervened, revealing a path Hugo never could have imagined.

Gifted with otherworldly abilities and guided by ethereal allies, Hugo is thrust into a world of escalating crises that threaten the city he calls home. Overnight, he becomes a sensation -- an unintentional hero sought by the rich and powerful who want to control him, and by the women who are suddenly vying for his attention.

Now, Hugo must balance his mission to save those in need with the unexpected surge of fame, and a battle for control over his newfound abilities. Constant danger stalks him, warring with his relentless determination to give aid to everyone... no matter the cost. He never expected to touch so many lives, and certainly never imagined that among those he saved might be the key to something he thought was lost forever: love.

This novel features fast-paced action, steamy relationships, and a heart-pounding clash between good and evil. Readers can look forward to high-stakes adventure, polyamorous romance, and a happily-ever-after that brings a smile to the face of even the grumpiest guardian angel.

Author's Note:

Nobody's Hero takes place in the Good Guy shared universe, but it can be read as a stand-alone. I've split it into four sections for publication here.

All sensuality (on page or otherwise) takes place between characters who are eighteen or older.

Copyright © 2024 Jake Lazarus

All rights reserved.

This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a review).

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, products, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

One

BOOM

Hugo van der Mewre ducked involuntarily in response to the deafening thunder which shattered the relative calm of his early summer pre-dawn run.

"Shoulda checked the weather," he muttered to the empty streets.

He glanced up at the gathering clouds and was rewarded by the first heavy drop of rain striking his forehead. Despite the worsening weather, he maintained his pace. He was twenty-seven minutes into a carefully planned fifty-four-minute jog. He spared a moment of gratitude for his stalwart refusal to lash himself to his phone like so many of his contemporaries, since as a result the unexpected rain would mean only that he got wet.

The thunder had mostly faded by the time Hugo's apartment came into view, but the rain was as heavy as ever. He had no doubt he looked like a drowned wharf rat, in the words of a former sergeant. His close-cropped blonde hair did little to shield his cobalt-blue eyes from the storm, and it was all he could do to pick his way between the run-down buildings which encircled his home. He slowed his steps to begin his cooldown. As he reached the steps leading to his domicile, he pulled off his shirt and slung it over the railing before he began his routine of stretching. The driving rain sheeted down his muscular frame, speeding the cooling of his tortured muscles.

"Hey!" an alto voice called out from the early morning gloom.

Hugo glanced around for a long moment before grumbling, "Musta been thunder," and returning to the task of finishing his workout.

"Do you work here?" the voice called out again.

Another long look around the auto shop parking lot adjacent to his apartment revealed that the windscreen wipers were furiously oscillating on one of the cars. Hugo walked toward the car to find that the passenger side window was cracked. He could not, however, perceive any details through the window thanks to the condensation. He scrubbed his hand across the window in an attempt to see the occupant, to little effect.

"Well?" the obviously feminine speaker prompted.

Hugo glanced behind him for a long moment before returning his attention to the vehicle. "We're closed."

"I don't suppose you've got an umbrella or something so we could speak face to face," she groaned. "It's pouring out there."

He looked around dramatically to reinforce the fact that he wore nothing but workout shorts and sneakers but made no reply.

"Fair enough," she continued. "Listen. My engine keeps cutting out. It seems like the harder it rains; the worse things get."

"Might be an issue with your electrical components. Or maybe a tiny leak in your fuel system. How's your fuel economy?"

"Shitty. Listen, there must be some way we can talk without me ruining my outfit

other than

through a fogged-up window."

Hugo looked around for a moment before saying, "Hang on."

He approached the shop and keyed in a code on the panel inset on the front door. Moments later, one of the garage doors opened and he waved in the direction of the woman's car. The car rumbled toward the garage, sounding not unlike a World War II era bomber. As the car squeaked to a stop, he heard the

THUNK

of the hood release.

"Well, there's your problem," he announced immediately upon peering into the engine bay.

He ducked his head under the hood and reached for the freely dangling spark plug, but his hand would not fit through the tiny aperture between firewall and the engine block.

"Damnit," he grunted. "Can you hand me that oily rag on the work bench?"

"What on earth for?"

"It's genuinely a wonder that any water managed to get in there. There isn't enough empty space under here to fit a pair of earbuds. Your car's so small, they'd have to upscale it to turn it into a children's toy. I need the rag because I've got to grease my hand up to get at this damn plug."

"Plug! Are you high? This isn't a hybrid."

He straightened up as he groaned, "Can you just hand me the fucking..."

"Excuse me!" she snapped in obvious anger, but Hugo was struck dumb having caught sight of his surprise visitor for the first time.

The woman who stood less than an arm's length away was nothing short of breathtaking. She was petite enough that, even in heels, she was noticeably shorter than him. Her body was toned and fit, with curves in all the right places. Despite her height, she had a commanding presence and seemed to carry herself with a confidence that made her seem larger than life. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. It shone in the overhead fluorescent lighting, catching the light and reflecting it back in a halo of warmth. Bangs cut straight across her forehead framed her delicate features perfectly. Her eyes were ever so slightly almond-shaped and were a captivating hazel, giving her an exotic, almost otherworldly appearance. Long, thick lashes cast shadows on her high cheekbones. Her lips were full and plump, painted a deep shade of red that was both bold and feminine. They parted slightly as she breathed, drawing his attention to the tiny dimple in her chin. Her breasts were full and round, and strained against the fabric of her cream-colored blouse, drawing the eye and leaving little to the imagination. A wide belt accentuated her tiny waist and hourglass figure. Pencil-skirt enclosed hips flared out from her waist, curving gently down to her long, lean legs. Everything about her was designed to draw the eye and capture the imagination. She was the epitome of femininity; a woman who knew her own power and was not afraid to use it.

Hugo blinked, trying to collect himself as he gawked at the woman standing before him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Clearing his throat, he attempted again, feeling his face heat up.

"I, uh, I just need to, um, grease my hand up," he stammered, avoiding eye contact. He took a long step and reached for the oily rag on the workbench, his hand trembling slightly.

The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Right. So, this will fix the problem?"

Hugo shrugged and muttered, "Maybe?" as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

He rubbed the rag on his hand, smearing the grease over his skin. His heart pounded in his chest driven by the feeling of her eyes on his back as he ducked back under the hood and maneuvered his hand through the narrow gap. After a few moments of fumbling, he finally managed to grasp the spark plug and align it with the cylinder head. He stifled a hiss of pain as his hand got stuck, sending a lance of agony up his arm as he yanked it free. He flexed his hand, trying to ignore the blood now mixing with the grease. He maneuvered a spanner into place and tightened the plug.

"You're hurt!" the woman yelped.

"It's nothing," he grunted. "Why don't you... uh... try to start it up again?"

She appeared about to speak, but instead settled for groaning in frustration and returning to the driver's seat. The tiny four-cylinder rumbled to life, making considerably less noise than it had made upon her arrival. He closed the hood and then turned back toward the workbench to snatch a clean rag. He winced again as the action of cleaning his hands reminded him of the injury he had sustained.

Without turning, he muttered, "You should be good to go."

"What are you talking about? What did you even do?"

He turned, keeping his gaze locked on the bumper of the car. "One of your spark plugs came loose. That's why it was making so much racket. It also introduced water into the fuel system, which is why your engine cut off."

She crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "You're joking!" Hugo shrugged but remained mute. She pressed, "Seriously?" and he nodded in reply. She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Well, thanks, I guess. How much do I owe you?"

Hugo shook his head quickly. "No charge. It was just a quick fix."

"But you fixed my car, right?"

"Hope so," he replied after an awkward pause.

"And you're really not going to charge me?"

He shook his head again, feeling awkward under her intense scrutiny. "Yeah, I mean, no. It's just, it was nothing. Just a spark plug."

The woman sighed again, reaching into her purse and pulling out a business card. "In case you change your mind," she said, handing it to him. "Thanks for the help."

Hugo took the card, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment as she turned to leave. "Uh, you're welcome," he mumbled, staring at the card in his hand.

She watched him for a long moment before ultimately returning to her car and pulling out of the garage bay.

He watched her go, feeling a pang of regret as he closed the garage door behind her. He sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Great job, dumb fuck," he muttered to himself. "Real smooth."

"No charge?" a voice called out behind him.

Hugo turned to spy the garage owner, Derek, leaning against the back wall of the shop with a crooked grin on his craggy face.

"It was just a loose plug," Hugo replied as he threw the rag into a bin.

"You sure it wasn't the fact that she's a bona fide smoke show?"

"Um... what?"

"And there it is," Derek guffawed, crossing his prodigiously tattooed arms across his barrel-shaped chest. "The patented Hugo van der Mewre charm and sophistication;

completely

going to pieces under the mild scrutiny of a beautiful woman."

"Shut up," Hugo huffed.

Derek snatched the business card from Hugo and loudly declared, "Carrie Pescatore. Luxury Concierge. What the hell does that even mean? Is that corporate double-speak for hot-to-death?"

"How the hell should I know? All I know is that she had engine trouble."

"What's up with you, dude? You're a decent looking guy. I know you date. At least occasionally. What's up with the Stonewall Jackson routine whenever you're confronted by a hot piece of..."

"Enough," Hugo interrupted.

"Well?" Derek pressed, undeterred.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I trust you to run my shop, Hugo. I need to know you've got enough sense to come in out of the rain." He glanced pointedly at Hugo's still dripping workout shorts as he finished speaking.

"Fuck off. Just because I was working a double at the plant when everyone else was learning how to talk to girls doesn't mean I can't run a garage."

Derek raised his hands as though in surrender. "I'm just busting your balls, dude."

"Well knock it off. I don't need this shit right now, Derek."

"Jenneke being an asshole again?"

"Don't talk about her like that, dammit."

"How many times did you try to call her yesterday?"

"I don't know," Hugo grumped.

"When's the last time she returned one of your calls?"

Hugo shrugged helplessly. "It's her prerogative. I won't force anything on her."

"What the hell," Derek groaned. "After all you've done for her."

"This conversation is over," Hugo snapped. "I've got to go shower."

He stalked out of the garage, snatching his shirt off the railing as he took the stairs which led to his apartment two at a time. Upon entering his cramped, but still quite spartan, living space, he scooped his phone off the table next to the entryway. He groaned in frustration upon seeing an utter lack of notifications upon the ancient, cracked device.

"Dammit, Jenneke," he muttered disconsolately. "What the hell's going on with you?"

Two

"This was a brilliant idea," Hugo grumbled as he struggled to push the derelict car across the cracked tarmac of the parking lot. "It only weighs a couple tons... how hard could it be?" He blew out a long breath before adding, "Shoulda remembered the tiny, insignificant, barely-worth-mentioning fact that we're in the goddamned mountains."

He finally reached the summit of the not insubstantial hill in the parking lot and quickly darted into the driver's seat so he could keep the car from careening off under the dastardly influence of gravity. He managed to use the vehicle's momentum to complete the journey, coasting to a stop just outside the double-doors of his destination. And, crucially, beneath a quartet of dazzling lights along the edge of the building.

He chocked the wheels of the car before opening the doors to step back inside. Upon his entry, the buzz in the cavernous room quieted at once. He cast a critical eye over the group of seven young men aged between nine and seventeen years old. Satisfied that nothing and no one in the youth center's gymnasium had been destroyed or displaced during his brief absence, he waved them toward the doorway.

"What a shit box," a boisterous voice called out.

Hugo regarded the speaker intently until the latter cowed and faded back into the crowd. The group before him seemed to fold in on itself in response to the extended silence. It was something Hugo detested, as many of the boys were only at the youth center to escape such conflict. He could only hope that, having forced the troublemakers to back down, he could quickly get things back on track.

"What's the most embarrassing automotive problem people deal with? And I'm talking about something people call a tow truck for, and when the driver shows up, they know immediately that they're dealing with someone who's utterly hopeless and helpless."

"Oil changes?" a high pitch voice queried tentatively.

"You don't do that by the side of the road, numb nuts," another voice chortled.

"Running out of gas?"

Hugo nodded and said, "That will indeed result in a fair amount of judgement on the part of your rescuer. And something that's easily avoided. But I'm thinking more along the lines of something you could have fixed yourself. Should have fixed yourself."

The group stared at him wordlessly until he demonstrably kicked the tire of the derelict, whereupon one of the younger youths offered, "Change a tire?"

"Exactly," Hugo declared. "Good job, Robbie. Changing a tire is

so

simple... as you're about to see." He took a step back and gestured to the car. "A Formula One pit crew can change four tyres in less than two seconds. Let's see how long it takes you guys to change one."

He offered snippets of advice when the group seemed stuck, but otherwise kept quiet and enjoyed observing their ingenuity. It took quite a bit of patience for Hugo to keep from chuckling as he watched the boys search everywhere

but

the trunk for the necessary equipment. Any humor he might have found in the situation quickly faded as the group before him split into two factions. The first group of four was comprised of the youngest and smallest young men. This group spent their time diligently and faithfully working to change the tire. Hugo's concern, however, was with the second group who rapidly escalated from mild teasing to cruel mocking. Things peaked when attempts by the younger group tried to loosen the lugs of the tire, causing the tire to spin in comic fashion.

"You stupid cunt," the ringleader exclaimed, to the loud encouragement of his companions.

"Enough," Hugo growled. He moved to stand between the speaker and the twelve-year-old trans boy working on the car and pointed angrily toward the parking lot. "Get the hell out of here."

"What's your problem bro?" the youth chortled. "I'm just trying to help out Rachel over there."

"You can walk away now, or I can call the cops. We both know that juvie's done with you. Next time you get picked up, you're going to big boy jail. Is that what you want?"

"You don't scare me, bitch. You ain't got nothing on me."

"Do you really want to risk your freedom on that?"

The youth stared him down for a long, tense moment before shouting, "Fuck you, man! And fuck this place! Come on."

Two other youths fell in step with the troublemaker and followed him off the property as Hugo stared daggers at his back.

As soon as they left the property, Hugo turned toward the young man they had accosted to console him, only to find someone had beat him to the punch. He walked over to where the administrator of the youth center was comforting the young man. The former was a quick to smile, heavyset African American named Will who was a few years Hugo's senior.

Robbie sneered at the retreating bigot and murmured, "I'm cool, Will."

"You sure?" Will asked cautiously.

"Yeah. I could care less what that asshole says." Robbie winced regretfully. "Sorry for swearing."

"You're cool, my man."

Hugo waited a long moment before asking, "Any thoughts as to why the wheel spun when he tried to loosen the lugs?"

No one spoke up with a thought. Hugo's plan had been to allow the group to work things out for themselves. But, as he looked over the morose faces surrounding him, he decided to call an audible. He leaned through the car's open door and engaged the parking brake. As he straightened, he gestured again toward the wheel upon which the group had been working. Robbie leaned on the tire iron once more and nearly faceplanted when the lug loosened easily.

Will gestured toward a bench a short distance away. Hugo gave a parting glance toward the youths, noting with pride that they had succeeded in removing the wheel, before he joined his companion.

"I told you we should have eighty-sixed that punk two weeks ago," Will huffed.

"Yeah, yeah," Hugo muttered. "You're a goddamned genius."

"What'd you think was going to happen? That kid has been

begging

to get tossed ever since the day he showed up. In ten years working here, I can't remember a more hateful individual. Best thing that can happen to that kid is for him to encounter a cop with exceeding patience when he ultimately has his big fuck up. Otherwise, I worry he's going to end up in the ground."