by Asta Idonea
“Is that a yes to the party, then?”
“I suppose so. As long as you realize, I’ll need to pay you back in some way afterwards.”
I hadn’t intended to make the last statement sound so suggestive, but my husky, turned-on tone gave it that edge. Before I could clarify, or Kane could answer, though, a kerfuffle near the door drew our attention.
Lost in our own exchange, we’d missed the start of the altercation, but from the looks of it, the security team had wrestled someone to the ground and was in the process of escorting him from the premises. I didn’t get a good view of the guy, but the guards dragged him, kicking and screaming, to his feet and carried him to the door.
“An overzealous fan, most likely.” Kane shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t use so much force. I’m sure the fellow didn’t mean any harm. Still, I guess they have to think of safety first.” He peered through the glass doors. “Oh, looks like Colin’s made his entrance. Come on. We’ll head into the auditorium and find our seats.”
The movie was a blast. Perhaps the plot was a tad farfetched at times, but what spy film wasn’t? Colin lacked Kane’s emotional subtlety, but he made an engaging action hero and had great onscreen chemistry with his costar. The stellar cast and impressive special effects more than made up for the occasional flight of fancy in the storyline, and the celebration that followed was likewise enjoyable and not as intimidating as I’d imagined. Yet it was also less exciting than I’d envisioned.
When I’d imagined such events—so many of my idols dancing and drinking together—the scene in my head had always seemed unreal, impossible. To my mind, it was the film industry equivalent of a fairytale ball. I’d assumed there would be a special aura about a party in which so many big names and famous faces gathered, but in the end, it was no different from any other I’d attended. Just as I didn’t see Kane in terms of his celebrity anymore, I also came to view the others in a new light. Colin Cromwell, for example, turned out to be more practical joker than stalwart action hero in real life. On screen, he was all serious concentration and manly glowers; off screen, his laughter constantly rose above the clamor, filling the room.
Kane introduced me to several actors and actresses with whom he’d worked, but I noticed that he focused his attention mainly on producers and directors. One, Paul Roswell, eyed me carefully and declared I had the perfect look for a sci-fi fantasy he had in the works. Did I object to some light prosthetics around the nose? No? Well, then he’d definitely be keen to see me read for the part when the time came. I gave him my agent’s details, and a beaming Kane whisked me away.
“There, you can’t say that was down to me. All I did was introduce you.”
“Yeah, but I’d not have met him if not for you. It amounts to the same thing.”
“It’s all about who you know in this business, Os. I thought you’d have come to that conclusion by now. Talent matters—of course it does—but talent means nothing until you get your foot in the door and can display it in front of the right people.”
“I know. I do. Still, it would be nice to think that those who make it do so on talent and drive alone.”
Kane pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I love your idealism. I hope you never lose it. It’s one of the reasons I fell for you—all that sincerity and truth in a world that thrives on fakery.” He trailed a hand down my arm, but my shiver was more due to his words than his touch. “You ready to get out of here?”
We returned to Kane’s place and made love until we were both utterly spent. Nonetheless, while Kane quickly drifted off to sleep, I lay awake, listening to his soft, intermittent snores.
I supposed Kane was right: in some ways I was still innocent and naïve. I was not yet deep enough into show business to have grown disillusioned by it. Maybe, despite my love for it, acting wasn’t the right industry for me. Kane loved me for who I was now. If I achieved stardom and changed because of it, would he still want me? Why had I pursued it as a career, anyway? Was it truly in my soul, or was it simply a means to combat my shyness? That was certainly how it had started. The question was, did I still need it for that?
What, too, of my superhero plans? A few weeks ago, I’d wondered if that was my calling, but so far, my efforts in that regard had failed to come to fruition. Like most of my other dreams. In light of the distinct lack of crime to combat, not to mention the need to be ready to strip at a moment’s notice whenever I was with Kane, I’d folded the costume and tucked it beneath my T-shirts, out of sight and out of mind. Did I even still have my powers? I’d scarcely thought about them in weeks, and since Kane’s return, there’d been no further incidents of nighttime object floating. As far as I could tell.
As a test, I reached out with my mind. At once, I sensed all the items around me, down to their tiniest molecules. That question answered, I floated over a glass of water from the bedside table, took a sip, then returned it in the same manner. Despite the lack of recent practice, my control was perfect—not a drop spilt.
What was I going to do with my life? What, aside from Kane, did I want from it? Earlier in the year, I’d been certain of my direction. Now I was plodding blindly onward, with no destination in sight. It was a big decision that required careful contemplation. I needed to make a choice soon… but I didn’t have to make it right this minute.
I told myself that several times; however, I couldn’t relax enough to fall asleep and was still engaged in open-eyed pondering when the first rays of sunlight filtered in around the edges of the curtains, heralding the start of a new day.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS during a shift at the restaurant a week later that my life took another unexpected turn. The evening had started like any other. It was midweek, so we were pretty busy, but not rushed off our feet, and most diners were already tucking into their meals, the guys in the kitchen enjoying a moment’s respite. I stood beside one of the tables, chatting to a few of the regulars in the form of pidgin English, accompanied by frequent hand gestures, at which I was by now a true proficient, when car tires screeched outside. This was loud, but louder still was the crash of breaking glass that followed.
The discordant, earsplitting sound registered before anything else, and I twisted toward it. By then the glass was already flying. A piece struck my face, and I gasped at the slash of pain. Something hot and wet trickled down my cheek. I didn’t have time to worry about that, though. Not when other, larger shards still hurtled toward us. I ducked as one piece shot overhead. Shouts filled the air. A few patrons dropped out of their seats, some injured, others seeking refuge beneath the tables. For a second or two, I was ready to join them, but at last my mind kicked into gear. I wasn’t helpless. I could fix this.
I reached for the glass. Latching on to it, I willed it to stop, but to my horror, it resisted. I’d never experienced anything like it before, and I steadfastly clung on, exerting my will. Then I flung out my hands. The physical gesture did nothing by itself; however, it helped to reinforce the command in my mind, and the resistance I’d encountered weakened and snapped. No longer propelled forward, the glass came to an abrupt stop and dropped to the ground.
Panting from my efforts, and with what felt like a tap dance troupe pounding away in my head, I stumbled a few paces and collapsed against the wall. Only then did I notice Phúc Lành. He stood across the room, staring at me openmouthed. Shit. He’d seen me stop the glass. My cover was blown and I wasn’t even in costume. I’d simply reacted; I hadn’t stopped to think about who might witness the act.
Groans and cries for help drew me back into the moment, and having caught my breath, I rushed from table to table, checking on the customers. Those who could walk headed outside. I aided those who couldn’t make it alone. Behind me, I heard Phúc Lành on the phone. He wasn’t speaking English, of course, but I imagined he was explaining the situation to a friend, asking them to call for help. Once he’d hung up, he joined me in assisting the others. Many of them had cuts and scrapes, but thankfully no one appeare
d seriously injured, beyond the need for some plasters, and maybe a stitch or two in the worst cases.
Everyone stood or sat on the pavement by the time the two ambulances and a police car arrived. A crowd had gathered about us, phones flashing in the night, but the bulk of them dispersed, albeit with obvious reluctance, once the emergency response teams pulled up nearby. The paramedics rushed from their vans, kits in hand, and began to assess the injured. Meanwhile, the two policemen approached at a more cautious pace, studying the carnage behind us. Both coppers settled their gaze on me. It wasn’t surprising really; ethnically, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
“You the owner?” The first officer—the elder of the two—gave me his best authoritative tone.
“No, Phúc Lành is.” I pointed him out. “But he doesn’t speak much English, none really, so you’ll need an interpreter if you want to ask him anything.”
“You speak Chinese?”
“He’s Vietnamese, but no.”
“You do work here, though,” the second officer said, casting a look at my apron.
“Yes.”
“How’s that go, if you can’t speak to one another?”
I shrugged. “We manage. Carrying plates from the kitchen to the tables is straightforward enough. It doesn’t take much lengthy communication.”
Apparently satisfied on that front, at least for now, the first policeman resumed the lead and changed the line of questioning. “What happened here?”
“I don’t know exactly. I heard a car—its tires screeched—then the glass shattered. It blew inward, like an explosion of some sort.”
“Any idea why someone might target the restaurant? Any disgruntled customers?”
“No, on both counts. As far as I can tell, everybody loves Phúc Lành.”
“But you don’t speak the language to know what they’re actually saying to one another in there?”
“No.” I considered arguing the case for tone of voice and body language, but I was too tired and headachy to get into a debate over it. Nor did I want to draw any extra attention.
A paramedic hurried over. She looked me up and down and then turned to the policemen. “This man needs medical attention. You can talk to him further once we’ve patched him up.”
The first officer grimaced but nodded. “We’ve nearly done for now, anyway. Just one more question.” He looked at me. “Got any ID on you?”
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “My wallet’s in there. I can get it.”
“No. No one goes back in there until we’ve secured the scene and our guys have gone over the place.” He reached into his pocket and produced a pad and pen. “Can you write down your name and contact details for me, son?”
I took the pad and scrawled my name and number on the top sheet. When I handed it back, the officer passed me a business card. “I’m PC Denton. This is PC Stokes. We’d appreciate it if you’d swing by the station tomorrow to make a formal statement.”
“Sure.”
“In that case, you’re free to go.”
The paramedic introduced herself as Sally and led me to one of the ambulances. I followed on autopilot. My headache was easing, but it still distracted me with its insistent throbbing. It was only when she applied something to my cheek and I hissed at the sting that I even remembered I had other injuries.
“It’s only a scratch,” Sally said in a conciliatory murmur. “You won’t need stitches, but I’m sterilizing the wound and covering it to keep it clean while it heals. Leave this dressing on for a couple of days and don’t get it wet. By the weekend you should be right as rain. Unfortunately, you won’t even have a sexy scar to impress the ladies. Any issues, see your GP. Were you hurt anywhere else?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I offered a reassuring smile, but the action pulled at my cheek and made me wince.
Sally patted my arm. “You got someone who can pick you up, get you home?”
I planned to make my own way, but she didn’t need to know that. “Uh, yeah, I do.”
Released from medical clutches, I retrieved my phone, thankful I’d left it in my back pocket, rather than my locker, and called Kane. I’d only wanted to let him know I’d be a little earlier than planned and needed to stay the night (my keys being in the out-of-bounds back area, along with my wallet), but once I’d explained why, it took several minutes to calm him and assure him that I was all right to take the Tube and didn’t need him to arrange a private car to pick me up. I walked as we talked, and reached the entrance to the Tube station moments before I hung up.
After descending into the station’s depths, I arrived on the platform in time to make a dash for the train that was about to depart. I shot through the doors just as the frantic beeping announced their closure and found a seat at the far end of the carriage. Only now, when I was relatively alone for the first time, did the full extent of the incident finally hit me. Remembrance of the sight of all that glass flying toward me made my hands shake. I had to pin them between my thighs to prevent the trembles from extending to the rest of my body.
Unwillingly, I replayed the scene in my mind, over and over, unable to stop. What a night! Thank God no one had been killed or maimed. Thank heavens, too, that I’d not needed further medical attention. It only now occurred to me that, had they taken me to hospital, any tests they’d conducted might have revealed my secret. Damn. I could probably never have another blood test! I hoped they hadn’t taken samples of any from the scene. Some must have dripped to the ground when the shards cut me. What the hell had even caused the explosion of glass?
Something about the scene nagged at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. In the forefront of my mind was the memory of Phúc Lành’s stare and the fact that I had to go to the police station tomorrow. What could I tell them? How much should I tell them? What if their investigation showed that the glass had stopped suddenly and inexplicably? Would they question me about it? Would they learn the truth from Phúc Lành?
When I reached Kane’s house, he pulled me into a fierce hug before I even made it through the front door. He fretted over me so much, anyone would have thought I’d lost a limb. It wasn’t all bad, though. I couldn’t deny his attention was pleasant, and once I’d persuaded him my only injury was a small scratch, and he moved from fussing to fucking, I quickly forgot all my worries. By the time Kane was done with me, I drifted straight off to sleep in his arms.
THE FOLLOWING morning, a glance beneath the dressing stuck to my cheek confirmed that the cut was already almost healed, so I swapped the thick gauze and tape for a small plaster. Even that probably wasn’t strictly necessary, but I saw no point in advertising my superfast healing. That dealt with, I dressed and prepared to depart for the police station. Kane had offered to accompany me, but I hadn’t wanted to embroil him in the drama and insisted on going alone. I did promise, however, to call him as soon as it was over.
In the station, three-quarters of an hour later, the officer on desk duty asked me to take a seat. When I sank into the plastic chair, it groaned and tilted under my weight. I made a concerted effort not to move a muscle, intent on not adding “damage of police property” to the list of charges I might be facing. Was “unregistered superpowers” even a thing?
After a few minutes’ wait, I caught movement in the corner of my eye. Three people walked down the corridor toward me. I glanced across at them, and my heart lodged in my throat. Leading the group was a stern-looking policeman, and behind him came Phúc Lành and his English-speaking nephew. Damn. Phúc Lành had beaten me to it. What had he told them about me? As the group passed, Phúc Lành caught my eye. He smiled and nodded. What did that mean? Was he just being polite, or was he trying to give me a message?
I didn’t have long to ponder either the action or its implications because, having seen Phúc Lành and his nephew out the door, the police officer turned to me.
“Oswell Outterridge?”
I nodded.
“I’m PC Haywood. Come with me, please.”
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Outterridge. We have a few questions about the events of last night.”
“Um, do I need a lawyer? Or a phone call?”
“Christ!” PC Haywood loosed a raucous laugh. “The problems those procedural TV dramas cause us! You aren’t being charged with anything, Mr. Outterridge. We simply need to take your witness statement to help us find out what caused the incident at the restaurant.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Unless there’s anything you want to confess before we start. An unpaid parking fine, perhaps?”
I gave a vigorous shake of my head. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then relax. Don’t worry. It’s a common enough sensation. Something about a police station makes even the innocent feel guilty, and all those crime shows on the telly don’t help matters—makes everyone think they’re an expert on procedures and legal points. Now, start from the time you arrived at the restaurant and tell me, in your own words, what happened.”
I rehashed the evening, answering PC Haywood’s questions as they arose.
“So when the glass came flying, I ducked out of the way, and then it was over. A few minutes later, the paramedics and you guys arrived. I think Phúc Lành got someone to call them.”
PC Haywood referred to a notepad in front of him. “That’s right. He called his nephew. Says here that, while he was on the phone, you helped get the customers outside and made sure that everyone was all right.”
“I only did what anyone would do.”
“Not in my experience. A lot of selfish folks inhabit this world, Mr. Outterridge. Makes your actions last night heroic.”
I forced a tight smile. If PC Haywood noticed my discomfort, he didn’t comment on it. Perhaps he attributed it to excessive modesty.
“Well then, I think that about covers it. We’ll get your signature on your statement. After that, you’re free to go. We may call you if we have any further questions.”