The Last Superhero (11 page)

I close my fist, trapping
his hand, and he brushes it with his thumb.

So soothing.

Once at his house, I walk
him to the door.

He asks, “Shouldn't
this be the other way around?”

He lets me climb the front
step so our heights are more even.

I answer, “Welcome to
the twenty-first century, Mr. Waldorf.”

His hands on my hips, his
fingers burrowing unto the flesh under the fabric.

A kiss.

Do you have to let it
linger?

“
Do
you work tomorrow?”

“
Sadly.
People use bookstores as touristic sites, meeting places or plain
wandering-under-air-conditioning establishments on Sundays. Nothing
to do with buying what we sell, that's for sure.”

“
What
time do you close?”

“
Seven.”

“
Maybe...”
He toys with my scarf and I can tell he's got some plan in his head.
“Maybe you can come by after work and I can make you dinner.”

Naughty grin, eh?

Take the bait, girl.

“
And?”

There's an elegant finger
running down my arm.

“
Bring
enough to spend the night.”

Jeez! Don't grin so wide!
Don't look so desperate!

“
I'll
think about it.”

He pouts, then his fingers
slowly wrap themselves around my neck.

Kiss me, convince me, set me
ablaze.

Look me in the eye and show
me how much you mean it, how much you want it, how much you need it.

“
I'll
be there at closing time and then you can tell me what you've
decided. Dinner's on me anyway.”

“
Yes,
sir.” I know who I want to take me home, so I wrap my arms
around his neck for another kiss.

Go down the steps and try
not to show how much you'd like to stay.

“
And
maybe then you can tell me exactly who that Simon is.”

A cocked eyebrow, a smug
grin. Jealous is good sometimes, especially when he's biting his
lower lip like that.

U to the N to the F.

“
Night
night.” I head for the gate.

“
Night,”
he calls my way.

Get in the car, drive, don't
think of anything else.

Not Mom, not Simon, not the
cop or the dead.

Think better on the fact
that tomorrow is only a day away.

10

Daphne's waiting for me next
to the shop's door.

But Daphne doesn't work on
Sundays.

Sees the backpack hanging
from my shoulder and can't keep her mouth shut.

“
It
is my belief that you're not thinking about this thoroughly.”

Click
goes the padlock,
clank
clank
clank
goes
the gate,
click
goes the lock,
yawn
goes
the door.

“
I
have thought about the matter thoroughly and come to my own
conclusions.”

“
How's
your mother?”

“
Utterly
in love with him.”

Click
clack
our steps on the tiles on our way to the back wall, turn on the
lights and
vroom
goes the A/C, the blowers rumbling, making the ceiling tremble.

“
We
had dinner at Simon's, then helped her unpack and I had to swat
Steven's hands off the books she brought because he wanted to take
them all.”

Set the backpack on my desk
in the office and hear Daphne slump in the red armchair.

“
Did
you read the paper today?”

“
Haven't
gotten my hands on a copy yet.”

“
The
thief's death is there.”

“
I
told you first.”

“
He
murdered him.”

“
Didn't
we discuss this already? He defended me from getting robbed.”

“
Can
he control his power?”

Can he!

“
Yes.
He can.”

She exhales louder than
normal. “Okay.”

“
What?”
Really, what? “You're worried he'll kill me?”

“
You
said he hadn't used his powers in a long time. What if he hurts you
without actually wanting to?”

“
He
can control it, believe me.”

“
Where
did you go yesterday afternoon?”

Now I'm slumping all
unladylike in my chair. “Are you interrogating me?”

“
G,
come on.”

“
Dudette,
I'm sorry. I love you for worrying about me, but I don't see the
need. He's lovely and charming and adorable.”

“
He's
freaking old.”

“
With
experience comes great caution. Once bitten, twice shy.”

“
Did
you read the blog I sent you last night?”

While I was fantasizing
about what'll happen tonight, all hot and bothered in my bed?

“
Didn't
have the time.”

“
Read
it. He was part of a government program, something like that HAARP
thing.”

“
Weather
control?”

“
This
dude says he has evidence of Salvatore Jr. being in the government's
payroll, working freelance for the Department of Defense.”

“
What
the fuck?”

“
Twenty-eight
years locked inside a house? With no money? How did he get food,
supplies, stuff, G? How can you survive twenty-eight years without
any human contact?”

“
He
never said he didn't contact anyone. Fuck that, D. People go by
alternate identities all the fucking time.”

“
A
witness protection program, maybe?”

“
You're
over-thinking again, don't do that.” I open my backpack and
pull out a stack of papers held together by a large black binder
clip.

She sees it, recognizes it,
gives a happy gasp.

“
That's...”

“
Yeah.
Your newest book that won't edit itself.” Leap to my feet,
search for a red pen among all the crap on my desk. “If you'll
excuse me, I'll be half working the front, half diving into this
wonderful thing you call writing. And please remember I'm on a
deadline.”

She gets up, grins, can't
help herself.

Way to lasso her into
submission.

Writers.

Push her out of the office,
the store, into the street, shut the door on her grinning façade,
stick my tongue out at her and off she goes like some ten-year-old
with a lollypop.

Sit behind the cash register
and see she's left the paper with the news on the punk's death face
up.

There's a reward on the Good
Samaritan. FUCK.

Twenty-five thousand
dollars, a bit low if you ask me.

Damn you Agent... What was
his last name again? Ross?

Kenneth Ross.

Kenny.

Don't you always die, Kenny?
Don't you?

Open the manuscript, uncap
the pen with my teeth, let in the feeling of words creeping into my
system, picking my brain, arousing my consciousness. Typo here, typo
there, conjugate that verb to oblivion.

Minutes, hours pass. The
skies darken outside and it starts to rain. Sarcastic. Great.

Did you really mean to say
that, Daph?

In and out come people. I
smile, scowl, smile, frown, smile, smile, grunt. Watch it with those
dripping umbrellas! Stop touching the books if you ain't gonna buy!

This sentence would go so
much better down here and not up there. Oh, Daphne you're a naughty
girl. What? How the fuck did she come up with that?

Slide credit cards, enter
numbers, sign here, have a nice day.

OMG, this character sounds a
lot like me. Gonna kill her for that.

“
Miss
Armstrong?”

Not now, dude! The
protagonist's about to fight her way through a room full of vampire
gangsters with her pack of police werewolves...

Fucking Agent Kenneth “I'm
Too Cool For My Badge” Ross is staring me down, rain on his
coat. He better not leave a pool.

“
Hello
sir, how can I help you today?”

You're still holding that
winning ticket, ya know.

“
Read
the newspaper yet?”

“
As
a matter of fact, I have it right here.” Pull it from where I
hid it. “And yes, I read the piece on the thief's death.”

“
There's
a reward on any information given about the man who killed him.”

He
didn't
kill
him. Well, maybe he did, but it was a chivalrous act, not some plain
ol' murder.

Like a knight without the
shiny armor because it's too tacky these days.

Sly guy doesn't give a damn.

“
I
saw that and, to be honest, now I wish I'd seen his face or anything
that could land me those twenty-five g's.”

His upper lip curves a bit,
not much though.

“
You
still have my card.”

“
I
do, sir.”

“
Very
well.” He gives a look around the empty shop. “Don't
hesitate to call me if you remember anything.”

“
I'll
be sure to pay my nearest police station a visit if anything comes
up.”

“
No.”
That sounded like he got kicked in the balls. “My office is
located somewhere else. I'd prefer you call me and then we can
arrange a meeting.”

Oooooookay. That's strange.

“
I'll
be sure to call then.”

He nods. He turns. He exits.
The wind chime quaking behind him.

I fumble. I stir. I find my
mouth's dry, agape.

Look down at the manuscript
and it's like Daphne's staring back at me.

Damn.

He's no ordinary agent then.

Fuck.

Maybe from some super secret
agency of sorts.

Crap.

Don't panic, whatever you
do, don't panic, just hold onto your towel and stick your thumb out.

Mop the wet floor to help
file the thoughts. Go back to that story only a wicked mind like
Daphne's could concoct.

Before I know it, it's
almost seven and there's a certain sexy ass superhero wearing a
leather jacket and scarf crossing my door.