by Jaide Fox
"Come on," he said. "I’ll take you to the Italian restaurant over on Broad Street. What’s it called?"
"Luigi’s," she said. "But you’re kidding, right? That place is five star. It’ll cost you a fortune."
"You’re worth it."
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me."
He shrugged and looked away.
"You’re really a visiting prof?" she asked. "What’s your research project about?"
"Genetics," he said. "Hormone triggers in dominant and recessive DNA combinations."
"Wow," she said. "Sounds wild."
"You have no idea. So what do you say? Have dinner with me tonight?"
She hesitated, then sighed. Truth was, she loved authentic Italian food. She’d been dying to go to Luigi’s ever since it opened last semester. But with no significant other in sight, she hadn’t quite managed to get there. She might as well go with Dr. Clark Kendall. He was a geek, but hey, it wasn’t like Superman was showing up at her door to ask her out any time soon.
"All right," she said.
He looked stunned. "Really?"
Her gaze drifted to his buttoned-up shirt, then further south to his where’s-the-flood pants. She began to have second thoughts. "On one condition."
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What’s that?"
"Lose the geek clothes."
* * * *
Friday, 1:06 p.m.
One day, ten hours, fifty-four minutes, and counting...
Lose the geek clothes.
Right. No problem. He could do that.
Clark stared at the rack of MegaMart polyester dress suits and heaved a sigh. Give him an FBI mainframe to hack into, no problemmo. Tell him to dress up for a dinner date, and he was up shit creek without a toilet brush for a paddle.
What would Bruce wear? He winced. Now wouldn’t that make a good bumper sticker.
"Need some help, hon?"
He turned to find a fifty-something, big-haired, gum-snapping saleslady hovering at his elbow. She outweighed him by a good seventy pounds. He squinted at her nametag. Lorna Jean.
He stepped back so quickly, he nearly fell over his laptop case. "I’m not sure."
"Well, then, honey, I’m your dream come true. I know all there is to know about dressing men."
"Do you, now?" Clark said faintly.
"Damn tootin’ I do. Got seven boys of my own, you know."
"That’s amazing," Clark said.
She cocked her head to one side. "What you getting all gussied up for?"
"A dinner date," he told her. "At Luigi’s."
Lorna Jean pursed her alarmingly red lips and whistled. "Fancy shmancy. You’ll need the works."
"What do you suggest?" Clark asked, not at all sure he wanted to know, but seeing no way to politely back off from the conversation.
"The Seventies look is right popular these days," Lorna Jean told him. She fished through the rack and reeled in a blindingly white suit, with lapels wider than Clark’s hand. She flung the pants and jacket over one substantial shoulder, then grabbed Clark’s upper arm and manhandled him over to the shirts, where she slithered a slippery black one off a hanger.
Clark guessed the material was supposed to look like silk, but a glance at the price tag told him the garment was made of pure petroleum by-products.
"I’m not sure I--"
"Sure you are," Lorna Jean said, shoving him into the dressing room. "Didn’t you see Saturday Night Fever?"
"No, actually I--"
The louvered door slammed. "Don’t make me come in there and dress you myself," she called.
The threat was enough to scare Clark right out of his boxers. With a sigh of resignation, he set down his laptop case and got to work. He emerged a few minutes later, shaking his head. "I don’t know..." He looked into the full-length mirror. "Are bellbottoms really back in style?"
"Honey," Lorna Jean said, "if you don’t know the answer to that, you ain’t got a fashion bone in your body. Them pants are just the thing. Your gal’s gonna love you." She draped a heavy gold chain around his neck and winked. "Trust me."
* * * *
Friday, 6:41 p.m.
One day, five hours, nineteen minutes, and counting...
Perhaps his trust had been a little misplaced, Clark thought as he tried to catch Blossom’s gaze across the intimate table for two at Luigi’s. His date didn’t seem too taken with his new clothes. Her gaze kept roaming, as if it were painful to look at him.
She, on the other hand, looked great. She was wearing a sleek, rust-colored, off-the-shoulder dress. It dipped a bit in the front, showing the slightest bit of cleavage. Classy, but not flashy.
Clark tugged at the collar of his faux-silk shirt. Was it getting hot in here? He wished he had a few days to ease into this assignment--feel his way around, so to speak.
But he didn’t. Lex Loser’s bomb was set to go off--he glanced at his watch--in twenty-nine hours, seventeen minutes, six seconds, and counting. It was do or die, Geek Man.
Literally.
"How’s your ossobucco?" he asked.
Blossom’s gaze focused. "What? Oh, fine. Very good. How’s your calamari?"
He gulped down some Pinot Grigio. "Interesting."
"You’ve never had it before?"
"No." And he’d ordered it before reading the fine print on the menu. Squid. Ugh.
Manfully, he forked another dangling, suction-cup covered tentacle into his mouth. He swallowed without chewing, then washed the whole disgusting mess down his throat with more wine. Damn if it wasn’t getting hotter in here by the minute. And he had an itch on his ankle. Surreptitiously, he inched his foot to one side until it came into contact with his laptop case. He rubbed it up and down. The relief was fleeting.
"So how long are you in town for?" Blossom asked.
"Uh, not too long," Clark said.
"Where did you move from?"
"Newark."
"Oh."
If the conversation went downhill from there, at least it hadn’t had far to fall, Clark thought as he walked Blossom home. Trouble was, he’d never in his life asked a woman out with the goal of getting her into bed. Well, not on the first night, at least. It just didn’t seem respectful. He believed in the getting-to-know-you stage. Which led to the falling-in-love stage. Which led to the hot monkey sex stage.
Not that he’d ever had hot monkey sex personally, but he’d seen pictures of it on the Internet. And he’d be more than willing to give it a try with Blossom. He sidled a glance in her direction. She was walking a step in front of him, her head up, high heels clicking on the sidewalk. Her cute round bottom swayed back and forth enticingly.
Don’t panic, he told himself. He could do it. He had to. After all, the fate of the world hung in the balance. He was going to have to make a move. Tonight.
They reached Blossom’s apartment door. "Can I come in?" Clark asked, shifting his laptop case from his right hand to his left. "I’d like a glass of water." Ah, hell. Another smooth line. He was full of them tonight. He wasn’t kidding about the water, though. He was parched. And damn if his back didn’t itch like crazy. He shifted his shoulders, trying to get some relief without being too obvious.
Blossom hesitated. "Well, okay. For a minute."
She fished her house key from her purse. It dangled from a Superman key chain.
Cool, Clark thought. He rocked back on his heels as she unlocked the door, then followed her over the threshold. She flicked the light switch.
He blinked, sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. He put down the laptop, took off his glasses, checked them for smudges, and put them back on again. No, he wasn’t hallucinating. The keychain was the least of it.
Blossom’s apartment was a veritable shrine to Superman.
Every square millimeter of wall space was dedicated to the Man of Steel, in all his various comic, TV, and movie incarnations. Vintage comic books, professionally framed and mounted, hung abo
ve the sofa. Posters of George Reeve, Dean Cain, Christopher Reeves, and Tom Welling marched along the opposite wall. A Superman lunchbox perched on a shelf in the kitchen. A revolving Daily Planet desk lamp adorned the table near the door.
Incredible.
"You got a thing for Superman?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, giving him a sheepish grin. "Pretty weird, huh?"
"Not at all," Clark said quickly. "I think it’s great. I’m a Superman fan myself."
"You are?"
"Yeah. Because of my name." He resisted scratching a fierce itch on the inside of his elbow. "I collect Superman comic books, mostly. I have a complete set of Golden Age Action Comics from 1947 through 1956." He frowned. "Well, except for #158. I tried to buy that one on eBay Wednesday night, but someone snatched it right out from under my nose."
Blossom’s blue eyes went round. "You ran up that bid? You jerk! You cost me five hundred dollars!"
She was the mystery bidder? "You didn’t have to go so high," Clark told her. "You could have dropped out."
"No way was I going to wimp out. I’ve been looking for that issue for a year."
"So have I," Clark said, then laughed. "But if I had to lose, I’m glad it was to you."
Blossom smiled. "Really?"
"Yes," said Clark, resisting the urge to claw the niggling itch on his thigh. He moved close, daring to brush his fingers over the freckles on Blossom’s cheek. She didn’t move away. His heart tripped up a beat, then settled in double time.
He started to sweat. Should he try to kiss her now? God, it was hot in here. Didn’t she have air conditioning? His gaze dropped to her lips. They were full and lush, a little pouty. An itch hit him on the neck. He ignored it and leaned closer, until their lips were only inches apart.
Her eyes closed.
Was it his imagination, or was she swaying toward him? Emboldened, he framed her face in his hands, threaded his fingers through her hair. His heart beat so loudly in his chest it sounded like a car alarm.
Their lips touched. Clark felt the contact all the way to his toes, and in a few strategic places in between. He angled his head a little, to get his glasses out of the way of the kiss. He really should have thought to take them off earlier.
Blossom trembled a bit. Her hands came to rest on his arms. His thigh itched again, distracting him. He shook off the intrusion and kissed her again, a little harder and longer this time.
Was it too early for tongues?
Maybe, but he really didn’t have time to waste. He decided to go for it.
He wrapped Blossom in his arms, urging her closer as he stroked her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. She sighed, opening her mouth and going all soft in his arms. An invitation? He hoped so. His tongue slid inside. Stroked in and out.
Oh, yeah. This was it. His little Man of Steel was so ready to save the world.
But the back of his neck itched like hell.
He moved one hand around Blossom’s torso, toward her breast. Easy... Easy... He didn’t want to scare her. After all, he knew for a fact she’d never had a memorable sexual experience. She was probably shy about things like this.
His fingers found their goal. Closed on soft, quivering flesh...
Blossom swatted his hand away. He tried an evasive maneuver. She attempted a block. He circumvented it.
She knocked him on his ass.
He lay flat on his back on the carpet, staring up at her. "Wha...?"
"Self defense class," she said, looking startled, yet satisfied.
"Jeez." Who would have thought?
"You have some nerve," she continued, hands on hips. "Trying to cop a feel on a first date."
He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry."
Blossom pointed toward the door. "Out."
"Hey," he said, jumping to his feet. "Don’t you think that’s a little hasty?"
"No," she said. "I mean, it’s not like I’m going to see you again or anything."
"Not see me--" Hell, that didn’t sound at all encouraging. He wriggled to evade a sudden itch on his hip. "Why not? I thought we were getting along great."
"We were," Blossom said, "but that’s not the point."
Even if he lived out the average superhero lifespan of two hundred and three, Clark would never, ever get the hang of female logic. "All right. I’ll bite. What is the point?"
"The point is you look like John Travolta’s scrawnier brother," she said. "I couldn’t possibly go out with you again."
"I don’t even like this outfit," Clark said, ignoring the negative comment about his physique. "A saleslady picked it out."
"And you let her," Blossom muttered. "That’s even worse. Look, I spend all day and most nights surrounded by geeks like you. No offense, but I don’t think I can go twenty-four seven with it. It’s too hard on the eyes."
Clark eyed the collage of superhero muscle on her walls, his heart sinking. He had a pretty good idea what Blossom was looking for in a lover. No matter how you sliced and diced it, he didn’t have it.
Still, he couldn’t give up. Not with Lex’s bomb set to blow.
He tried to reason with her. "Looks aren’t everything. Didn’t you say that yesterday?"
"Did I?" Blossom said. "I must have been out of my mind. Looks are huge. Ninety percent of the information humans receive from their environment is visual. For me it’s probably more like a hundred and one percent." She sighed. "Look, I’m sorry, Clark. I just can’t help how I am. You’re a great guy and all, but--"
But. Clark hated when a woman said that word. In his experience it was usually followed by...
"--can’t we just be friends?"
"Of course," he said, going for his standard reply.
The itch on his neck grew unbearable. Weighted down by Blossom’s rejection, he finally cracked. He gave in and scratched.
The itch darted to his solar plexus. His fingers followed it. After that, it split, attacking both shoulders at once. Then it reached flashpoint, racing across his chest, down his arms and legs, up over his face...
"Are you okay?" Blossom asked. "Because, you know, you don’t look so good."
Clark dropped to his knees, knocking over his laptop case on the way down. He tried desperately to reach a spot right in the middle of his back. But the itching was the least of his problems. It was getting hard to breathe. Little red spots swirled into his vision.
"Call 911," he gasped, just before he blacked out.
Chapter Five
Friday, 11:22 p.m.
One day, thirty-eight minutes, and counting...
"Hives and anaphylaxis," Clark told Blossom when he emerged from the emergency room cubicle, looking beat. "The doctor thinks it was the calamari."
She jumped to her feet. "You scared me half to death. I’m still shaking. You could have died."
"Look on the bright side," Clark said. "If I get bored tonight, I can play dot to dot on my chest."
She giggled. Then sobered as her gaze dropped. The top two buttons on Clark’s shirt were, for once, unbuttoned. Angry red welts covered his skin, looking horribly uncomfortable.
"Does it itch bad?" she asked.
He grimaced. "Bad enough."
She clucked in sympathy, and looked at his chest some more. It might not be superhero material, but it wasn’t really that scrawny. Suddenly, she felt a little ashamed at how she had treated him during their date.
"I’m sorry about what I said earlier," she told him.
"Which time?" he asked. But he was smiling when he said it. He had a nice smile. And he was so at ease poking fun at himself. There was something very appealing about that.
"When I said you were scrawny," she said.
"Oh, that." He glanced down at his chest. "No apology needed for the truth." He caught her gaze and held it. "I’m the one who should be apologizing. My behavior was less than gentlemanly."
"Forget about it," Blossom said, coloring. "No offense taken." The truth was, she’d enjoyed kissing Clark. Too much. T
hat, more than anything else, had caused her to back off. She just couldn’t bear the thought of a geek boyfriend.
"The doctor gave me a shot," Clark was saying. "It’ll take a few hours to work." He gave a half laugh. "I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight."
"I’m a night owl myself," Blossom said. "You know..." She stopped herself, suddenly uncertain.
Just friends, she reminded herself.
"What?" he asked.
Why did it seem so hard to breathe all of a sudden? "As long as we’re both going to be up," she said, "I was thinking maybe you’d like to come back to my place. We could..." She hesitated. No guy she’d ever dated had wanted to do what she was about to propose. Would Clark be shocked? Dismayed? Worse, would he laugh?
She drew a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.
"...watch some 1950s Superman TV episodes. I have a pretty big collection on video."
"Cool," said Clark without hesitating a beat. "Do you have the one where an asteroid gives Superman amnesia?"
Blossom’s heart gave a funny little jump. "Episode #38. Panic in the Sky. Yep, I have it."
"Great," said Clark. "That’s my favorite."
* * * *
Saturday, 5:59 a.m.
Eighteen hours, one minute, and counting...
Clark woke up slowly, every muscle protesting. Somehow he’d twisted himself into a pretzel on a couch that was way too soft to offer much support to his back. He blinked up at the wall and frowned at the four-color hammered tin image of a vintage Superman, chest muscles bulging as he tore apart a heavy chain with his bare hands.
Where the hell was he?
Oh yeah. Blossom’s living room.
They’d had a great night, despite the residual itching from the calamari. They’d watched episode after episode of classic Superman, laughing over the cheesy special effects, but loving the stories all the same. Blossom had changed from her dress into a comfortable oversized T-shirt and men’s boxers. She’d made popcorn and poured soda, and they stayed up until four a.m.