The Last Superhero (5 page)

He raises a hand, his brows
furrowing, his eyes focusing elsewhere. “Are you getting
evicted?”

“
That's
a nice way to put it,” I snort. “Look. I like you. Apart
from the murder glares and the mind raping, I think you're an
interesting person. And I'm willing to listen to you all you want,
but I think we should lay down some rules when it comes to the
fantasy thing.”

“
I
understand,” he says. “You fought against it today.”

“
I
tried.”

“
It
worked. That...” he strays. I hold his stare. “No one's
been able to do that to me before.”

“
Well,
there's always a first for everything, isn't there? I don't know,
Steven, I have no idea how I did that.”

“
It
was you who said that people don't meet at random. Maybe us meeting
wasn't a coincidence.”

I look into his face and
can't help my heart reaching out to him.

I want to think he needs to
get laid, bad, and that it is the only reason he's talking to me. Yet
he's so calm, cool, and collected. Maybe he won't say it, won't ask
for it. Maybe he needs a little encouragement.

And I could use the
distraction.

Am I really thinking this
through? Fuck that, just say it.

“
Dinner.
My place. Tomorrow night.” He's about to protest, cut him
quick. “No excuses. I'll pick you up at your house at seven.”

“
Giana...”

“
I'm
not a bad cook.”

Straight face.

“
Okay.
The not-a-bad-cook part convinced me.”

A smile. A gaze. Damn this
man and his sweet eyes, and those lips that curve up...

Get a grip, goddammit, and
walk away before the moment spoils.

5

I'm a bird inside the cage
of my car.

That if birds smoke.

This is my third cigarette
while waiting, parked three houses down from Steven's, for it to be
seven o'clock.

I don't want to be early –
that's desperate.

I don't want to be late –
that's rude.

I want to be just on time.

“
This
is crazy,” I mutter to myself.

Of course it is. It's the
craziest thing I've done since the time that guy my mother wanted to
force me into dating invited me to some twice-removed cousin's house
in The Hamptons. I'd never seen so many drugs put together or horny
twenty-somethings. I stayed with the lesser crowd smoking pot and
lost sight of my date until the next day when I had to drag him from
under some blonde, shove him in the car, and drive him home.

He was the son of this
writer that was the bomb back then. The moment I hailed a taxi after
leaving him sleeping inside his car in his father's driveway, I
thought I should be trying to date the writer, not the writer's brat.

That was three years ago.

This is now.

And Steven's not a writer,
although he's right around the brat progenitor's age.

Which translates to: old
enough to be my father.

“
Fuck.”
Flick the cigarette butt.

I promised myself that would
be the last one. For the night.

Check the time on my phone.
I've got two minutes to chew enough gum to cover it up.

Two minutes to wind down
from the hell the last twenty-eight hours have been.

I've cleaned around the
apartment and managed to conjure one month of rent. Mr. Brownstone
wasn't happy. I'm only buying myself some time. His patience is
running thin and so is mine. And the accountant's, who I'm starting
to think enjoys waving those statements with red numbers at my face
and thrusting the word ‘bankruptcy’ into every
conversation.

We all know the economy's
shit. I read blogs and magazines, but reading doesn't do a thing to
make it better. No, it makes it worse. Makes me feel worse and I
don't need that right now because it's time to spit out my gum and
drive up to that wall with the gate and the ivy.

And the man who comes out
with the leather jacket, the dark gray jeans, and the striped scarf.

UNF.

I reach for the passenger
door and open it from the inside.

“
Hey,”
I say.

“
Hi,”
he says, sliding into the seat.

I'm still reaching over the
center console so he seizes the moment to kiss my cheek.

“
Got
you something.” He lifts a bag made of black fabric, holding
something long inside. “It's not an ever-refilling one, but
it's a start.” A bottle of vodka.

“
Thanks.”

Oh my god. I have to be more
careful if he's going to take what I say so literally.

Or should I?

Go away, dirty thoughts and
memories of books I should've never laid my hands on, much less read.

Drive. Just drive.

“
It's
been long since I got into one of these.” He looks around the
car, especially the dashboard with all its meters and gauges. “A
lot has changed.”

“
You
almost destroyed my door that night.”

He gives the victim a
surveying glance and sees the duck tape over the cracked door panel.

“
I'm
so sorry.”

“
Forget
it. How do you run your errands anyway?”

“
I
walk.” He laughs. “Strange thing to do these days when
everyone seems to have a car or two.”

“
But
a smart choice, counts as exercise.”

Red light. We stop.

Don't look at him like that.

He looks back at me and he's
grinning, his eyes glinting.

It'd be very stupid of me
not to guess what comes next.

Green light. Keep going.

He sinks into his seat and
I'm suddenly afraid I'm sending smoke signals under a fire sensor.

“
I
haven’t seen this side of the city in years,” he
whispers, looking out through the windows in amusement. His arms
crossed over his chest, he seems to be trying to hide inside his
jacket.

What if he's some madman and
here I am taking him to my apartment? I should've told Daphne, told
her to text me at a certain time to check if I'm still alive.

“
The
tinted windows don’t let people see who’s inside the
car.”

He seems relieved by that
and pulls himself up again.

I'll text Daphne once we get
there.

We arrive and he's reluctant
about coming in. I rid him of his coat and scarf and perch them on
the rack.

The smell of pot roast has
taken over the still burning scented candles.

“
Nice,”
he says.

I can tell he likes it.

I like to believe I've made
it the coziest chicken coop in the city.

“
Make
yourself comfortable while I check on the food.” I point at the
living room with the sofa and the coffee table and the books and my
laptop.

He hands me the bottle of
vodka.

“
I'll
bring it to you.”

“
No.
It's for you.”

“
Huh?”

“
I-
I don't drink much.”

Ohai, my name is Giana and
I'm a highly functional alcoholic, kthxbai.

“
Okay.
Dinner will be ready any minute now.”

I gift him a smile and go
hide the bottle in the kitchen. Open the oven and make sure the roast
hasn't burned. It smells delicious, by the way. And is not a piece of
charcoal yet.

Text Daphne.

7:15pm:
Steven's
over for dinner. Txt me round midnite.

7:15pm:
WTF?
D: Stalker much?

7:16pm:
I
invited him. :-/

The thing sings and vibrates
in my hands and Steven looks my way.

I show him the phone and
turn my back to him.

“
What
the fuck are you doing?!”

“
Daphne.
I only asked you to text me around midnight.”

“
After
all the stuff we found on him? The news reports. The murders!”

“
Yes,
right. They told me they'd send a shipment soon, didn't think they'd
be so quick.” I'm just checking on the potatoes.

“
What
the fuck?”

“
He's
not a bad person,” I whisper.

“
Where
is he?”

“
Living
room.” I spy on him from my spot, crouched in front of the
oven.

“
What
is he doing?”

“
Touching
my laptop.”

“
Oh
my god, did you delete the browser's history?”

“
Shit!”
UGH. “Wait. I don't think he knows how to use it anyway.”

“
What
if he does?”

“
Dammit,
Daphne.”

I pour a glass of water and
walk as swiftly and nonchalantly as I can towards Steven sitting in
the sofa. The phone in my free hand, still on the call.

“
Here.”
He thanks me for the water with a smile. “I'm sorry for this
mess, let me clear it up.”

There's no mess, but I make
a point of picking one or two books off the armchair next to the
sofa, another from the coffee table, and the laptop.

Send a smile his way. He
looks so adorable. Go to the bedroom, put them on the floor, start
pacing around.

“
Okay.
I hid the laptop.”

“
Don't
hide the laptop! Get
him
out of there.”

“
I'm
not doing that.”

“
No,
Giana. You're not getting it. That man right there is dangerous.”

Why did I tell Daphne? Why
did I trust her with this? Why did I say yes when she decided to
Google him?

Why couldn't I keep the
fucking secret to myself?!

“
He's
not. He's nice and all gentleman-like and I invited him to dinner, on
my own volition. Nobody made me.”

“
What
if he wants something more?” There's an edge to her question
that cuts me like a rusty, almost dull blade.

What if I wanted him to want
something more?

“
That's
a yes, isn't it, G?”

“
He
awaits dinner. Text me around midnight, okay?”

“
Think
of your mother for once.”

“
I
am thinking of her!”
More
than you know!
“She was the person who taught me the man out there, sitting on
my sofa, was a good man, so believe me when I say I
am
thinking of her.”