No Time to Explain

by Kate Angell

  An elevator door swooshed open, and Carla, a nutritionist, stepped off, pushing a snack cart. She regarded the kids in the wheelchairs. Their eyes were bright. Their smiles broad. Exhilaration pulsed as rapidly as their heartbeats.

  “Superhero races,” she noted. “Lucky you. The best day ever. I bet you’ve worked up a hearty appetite.”

  “Starving,” said Drew.

  David nodded. “Super hungry.”

  Sweet Ashley patted her tummy in agreement.

  “Let’s get you back to your rooms, then,” she said. “I’ve got apples and PowerBars today.”

  Food was motivation. The kids wiggled on their cushioned seats, excited to return. Captain America allowed David to keep his shield. A cool souvenir. Aides came to assist them back to bed. High fives and hugs all around, and the superheroes took their leave. Carla tossed each of them a nutty-fruity health bar. Captain America ate his on the spot. Super Zooker and Batman saved theirs for later.

  Dr. Daniels was making his rounds, clipboard in hand. He motioned to the heroes. A tall man with white hair and glasses, he struck up a conversation. “Visitation day?”

  Super Z nodded. “Visits and a race.”

  Daniels was appreciative. “Your attention to our patients boosts their spirits. I personally want to thank you.”

  “We enjoy spending time with the kids,” Batman said.

  “Are you in a hurry to leave, or can you spare a few extra minutes?” the pediatrician inquired.

  Super Z rolled back the cuff of his black shirt and looked at his watch. Late afternoon. Happy Hour at the Lusty Oyster called his name. Loudly. He wanted to get out of his costume and have a cold beer. The sooner the better. Instead, he asked, “What do you need?”

  “The annual Kuts for Kids is taking place on the first floor, near the administrative offices,” Daniels told them. “The event is for children who have cancer or who have lost their hair due to a medical condition call alopecia areata. The nonprofit organization provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children who are suffering from long-term medical hair loss from any diagnosis. We have five volunteer stylists set up in the east wing executive conference room. Out with the table, in with the salon chairs. There’s a long line of women wanting to donate today. There’s also a representative from a hair prosthetics manufacturer on-site.”

  “Wigs,” Super Z muttered. Sweet Ashley was hoping for one before she left the hospital.

  “The prostheses restore self-esteem and confidence,” added the doctor, “enabling a child to face the world and her peers.”

  Captain America scratched the stubble on his chin. “My hair’s not long enough to donate.”

  Super Zooker pulled back his brown hair with a leather strip. He ran his hand along the back of his neck, and was about to offer four inches, when the doctor stated, “No haircuts for any of you. Twelve inches are needed for the wigs. Just take a few minutes on your way out to mingle with the donors. I have cafeteria workers passing out iced tea and cookies. Superhero gratitude would go a long way with the ladies.”

  Batman widened his stance. He thumped his buff and bulked-up armored chest. “I’m in.”

  “Me, too,” agreed Captain America. “I need to make an adjustment first. My rented jumpsuit isn’t sized correctly. It’s too damn tight—”

  “You gained weight in the off-season,” Batman razzed.

  “—and the material’s pinching my balls, chafing my thighs,” Cap finished. He headed to the men’s room.

  Super Zooker nodded to the doctor. “We’re good, as soon as Captain America gets his boys in order.”

  The doctor appeared pleased. “Boardwalk photographer Eden Cates-Kane is taking pictures for the local paper. You can get duplicates for the Richmond Rogues newsletter and website.”

  Eden was married to third baseman Landon Kane. She owned Old Tyme Portraits, a lucrative shop on the boardwalk. The vintage photos showcased men and women standing behind life-sized cutouts, their faces pictured above vintage swimwear, Roaring Twenties attire, and numerous other frames. She was often called on to shoot events and activities around Barefoot William.

  Captain America returned, and the physician said, “Have a good spring training. I have tickets to your weekend games. We’ll see you again soon.” A nurse flagged him down. He left the superheroes at the elevator bank.

  Two doors slid open simultaneously. Batman and Captain America charged into one. “Race you to the lobby,” Cap called to Super Z as he hit the DOWN button, and the elevator doors began to close.

  Joe shook his head. Men would be boys. The three ballplayers were always in competition, for one thing or another. He punched the outer wall button with his thumb. The doors to their elevator slowly opened once again, which gave him time to dive into the second lift and begin his own descent. He smiled to himself. He’d won this one.

  Alone in the elevator, he took a moment to straighten his costume. He tucked his black shirt back into his black leather pants. Then patted down his brown suede duster. He tipped his crown-shaped bounty hunter hat with a braided band over his masked eyes. Went on to skim back his hair and retie the leather strip.

  The elevator soon reached the lobby. He exited and looked around as he waited for his teammates. He noticed that their car stopped on every floor, picking up passengers.

  Beachside Memorial was aesthetically healing. The entrance appeared more hotel than hospital. Tinted bronze glass curved around the wide, circular lobby. The Gulf view was both peaceful and soothing. The three-story atrium created adjacent to the reception area was spacious and airy. Members of a music ministry played the grand piano several times a week. Calming entertainment for both visitors and patients alike. The air smelled clean and fresh, not antiseptic.

  Balloons and flowers brightened the windows of the gift shop. Soft, overstuffed seating eased a person’s bones. The chairs were so comfortable that a patient or visitor could actually fall asleep. An art display of inspirational sayings was on permanent display on the terrazzo floor. He crossed over to look more closely at the one word that stood out to him: heal. Life was all about recovery, whether from illness or from difficult challenges.

  The scent of coffee drew his attention to a wide staircase that led to a small balcony café. Murals on both sides of the steps depicted the deep roots of the community. A polished wooden plaque gave an abbreviated history on local founding father William Cates.

  Cates had left Frostbite, Minnesota, in early nineteen hundred, a farmer broken by poor crops and a harsh early winter. He’d sold his farm, hand-cranked his Model-T, and driven south, until Florida sunshine thawed him out. On an uninhabited stretch of beach, he’d rolled up his pants legs, shucked his socks and work boots, and walked into the Gulf. He immediately put down roots and called Barefoot William home. He later married. A family was born. The once sleepy fishing village slowly grew into a popular and prosperous resort town.

  The Rogues team captain Rylan Cates was a direct descendent of William. Generations of Cateses still owned and operated boardwalk businesses. Heritage and family were all-important to them. They shared a closeness Joe had never known. He’d grown up with a father who cheated on his mother and who disciplined his kids with fists. His mom got even with his dad’s affairs by having her own. She used the grocery money to buy clothes. The cupboards and refrigerator were often bare. Not a healthy environment.

  The free breakfast and lunch programs at school had fed Joe and his brother. No snacks or supper. He’d worked a part-time job at age sixteen, taking tickets at a movie theater. Minimum wage and buckets of popcorn. He’d filled his belly with cheesy corn. He scored a nightly box of Milk Duds for his brother.

  Physically, he resembled his father. Both were big men with trigger tempers. That’s where the similarity ended. His father was a cheater. Joe was not. He’d fast-talked women into his bed. French-kissed them to drop their panties. For him, sex was sex, and relationships were short-lived. No commitments. Every lover was aw
are that he was hers for only one night. Sunrise showed him the door. He was then free to date someone new the next night. No consequences. No deception. Simple and straightforward. No tears or outbursts.

  The shuffle of feet brought Sam Matthews up behind him. “Man, that elevator was slow,” he complained. “I thought we’d never get to the lobby.” His Batman cape drooped, the ends dusting the floor. He tightened the cords at his shoulders, hiked it up.

  Pax came next. He bent and tugged his sagging red Captain America boots up his calves. They fell short. He rolled over the leather. “Fat knees,” he grunted. “I need to start jogging.”

  “You could run back to the hotel,” suggested Sam.

  Voice lowered, Pax said, “Not in this costume. This skintight jumpsuit sucks. I’m tucked and taped. My boys can’t breathe.”

  “You’ll air it all out shortly,” said Sam.

  Pax grunted. “The sooner, the better.” He eyed Joe. “Where are we headed?”

  “The administrative wing. Down the hallway past the gift shop.” Joe led the way.

  The three superheroes crossed the lobby, rounded the corner, and found themselves in a wide hallway, crowded with women. All sizes, all shapes, all with long hair. Five orderly lines led to the executive conference room. A woman in a navy suit, holding a clipboard, passed out release forms to the donors for the haircuts.

  The men were immediately recognized. “Batman!” “Captain America!” “Super Zooker!” echoed all around them. The ballplayers moved up the line. The ladies smiled, accepting appreciative hugs and light kisses on the cheek from the heroes.

  Cafeteria workers, carrying trays, served raspberry iced tea and snickerdoodles. Joe’s favorite cookie. He took two. He and his teammates chatted with the ladies. Complimenting their big hearts and willingness to support sick kids.

  They worked their way into the conference room. Their final stop before heading out. Salon chairs spread the width of the room. Joe took in each of the five immediate donors. Three brunettes, a redhead, and . . . a blonde.

  His heart stuttered. Stevie. She flipped her sunshine hair over her shoulder and settled on the far chair, nearest the wall. The stylist draped a blue nylon cape over her shoulders, then briefly stepped aside to speak to one of the other beauticians. Stevie sat with her hands clutched in her lap, her gaze lowered. Pensive or praying. He wasn’t sure which.

  Joe held back. The simple fact that she was about to cut her hair gave him pause, despite the worthy cause. For some reason, her pose aroused him. Absurd notion; still, his imagination took hold. An erotic teasing. Fantasy unfolding.

  He visualized his fingers in the shiny length, as he drew her to him. Slowly. Suggestively. Expectant. Deep kisses and discovering hands. Desire. Need. Readiness. Clothes disappearing. A quick strip. A naked oneness. She’d straddle his thighs. Her hair fanning her body. The strands splitting over her breasts. Peek-a-boo nipples. Topping the hollow of her abdomen. A hint of her belly button. A suggestion of her sex. A natural blonde. So damn hot.

  His palms began to sweat. His dick stirred. He mentally shook himself. Returned to reality. Stevie sat in the stylist chair, no longer nude, no longer atop his thighs. She had yet to see him. She stared into a narrow standing mirror, calmly awaiting her cut.

  Joe crossed to her, while Sam and Pax divided their time among the other ladies. He leaned over her shoulder, startling her. The mirror reflected his grin and her frown. His superhero outfit made her blink.

  “Who—Joe? ” Recognition flashed in her dark eyes. Up came her chin, and her words had bite. “Not again. What are you doing here?”

  “Being a superhero.”

  “I thought you were a ballplayer.”

  “That’s my true identity.”

  “You’re into pretend?”

  “I like to fantasize.”

  The stylist returned with a wink and a smile. Joe recognized her from the Blue Coconut. She’d bought him a beer. They’d slow-danced. Nothing more. “Super Zooker, how’s my favorite bounty hunter?”

  “Hunting cosmic criminals is hard work, Capri.”

  She lowered her gaze. “You look good doing it, my man. Nice leather pants.”

  His lingering thoughts of Stevie had left him hard. There was no hiding the bulge beneath his zipper, despite shaking out his legs and shuffling his feet. He mentally talked his dick down. His dick was not a good listener.

  “Are you here for support or just for show?” Capri inquired.

  “Dr. Daniels requested we make an appearance.”

  “Women love superheroes.”

  “Not every woman,” he muttered, eyeing Stevie. She glared back.

  “Step aside, Super Z,” the hairdresser requested. “You’re welcome to stay and watch, but I need room to get around the chair.”

  Joe spoke to Stevie before retreating. He gently skimmed her hair behind her left ear, lowered his voice, asked, “Are you sure you want to cut your hair?”

  “You’re questioning my decision?”

  “You’ll look—”

  She sat up straighter on the chair. “What? Like a boy?”

  “No one would ever mistake you for a guy.” Truth.

  “So, what’s your problem?”

  He liked women with long hair. Plain and simple. Pretty selfish on his part. He wasn’t dating or involved with Stevie. They’d just met, and weren’t even close to being friends. Why should he care? A total puzzler. He thought of sweet Ashley and her chemo treatments. The loss of her hair, and her need for a wig. “No concerns. Your call,” he managed.

  “Thanks, since it’s my hair.”

  “Have you ever worn it short?”

  “Not since the day I was born.”

  “Hair grows back,” said Capri, as she nudged Joe aside, making room for photographer Eden Cates-Kane.

  Eden of the frizzy hair, freckles, and easy smile arrived with her Nikon. “Stevie, I’m Eden,” she greeted. “I have a proposition for you. We’ve got an ideal photo op if we have Joe pose with you, combining two community events. The pictures could be used by the hospital, local newspaper, and the Rogues website and newsletter. What do you think?”

  “Love the idea,” Capri approved.

  Joe nodded. “Fine by me, too.”

  Stevie was slower to agree. She side-eyed him; scrunched her nose. Indecisive. Her dislike of him was evident. Silence held. Tension built, until she finally sighed, gave in. “Okay.”

  “Excellent.” Eden was pleased. “Let me check out the angles and frame my shots. We’ll get started shortly.”

  In the ensuing seconds, Batman Sam and Captain America Pax made their way to Joe. “Super Z, what’s happening?” asked Pax.

  “Eden’s about to photograph Stevie and me,” he told them.

  The ballplayers hugged Eden, then turned their attention to the seated woman with the waist-length hair. “Stevie?” Pax and Sam questioned at the same time. She nodded. They introduced themselves, then eyed her with interest. Their attention annoyed Joe. For some unknown reason.

  He hadn’t planned on presenting his teammates to Stevie, but the men bookended her now. They were at their most charming. Stevie was all smiles, which irritated Joe even more. She praised their superhero costumes and admired their dedication to the children. Sam and Pax ate it all up. Joe swore Sam even smacked his lips. There’d be no prying them off her.

  Excluded from the conversation, Joe leaned against the wall. Frustration had him scuffing his boot on the polished gray tiles. He left a mark—the only smudge on the pristine floor. He hunkered down and rubbed it clean with his thumb.

  Pax had the plums to take off his gloves and stroke Stevie’s hair. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t dissuade him. The strands slipped through his fingers like rays of sunshine. Annoyance slid bone-deep. He’d never resented his teammates until that moment. But Joe couldn’t call them out; he had no valid reason. He clenched his fists instead. So tight that his knuckles hurt.

  Possessiveness was the death of a man.
He had no designs on her, although she did wear his garter. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend or forever lover. Yet despite his lone-wolf status, he didn’t appreciate the guys’ disruption. He felt left out. Difficult for a man used to being the center of attention.

  Eden was professional, precise in her shots. There was no hurrying her. He’d wanted her to take the photo before the guys arrived. Too damn late. He was stuck on the outside, looking in. He felt like a Triple-A player.

  Eden circled the stylist chair, came to him. Helped him hold up the wall. She studied him with her narrowed photographer’s eyes. “Scowls scare people off. You won’t photograph well.”

  “I’m not scowling.”

  “Your death stare and the tic in your jaw muscle say otherwise. You’re grinding your teeth.” Amusement curved her lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

  “Not a chance.”

  She shrugged. “What do I know?”

  “You know nothing, Eden.”

  “Not one thing.” Her tone was teasing. “I’m here to take photos, not make observations. I want to take a few shots of Stevie and Capri during the cutting process. Then the superheroes and Stevie.”

  “All the heroes?”

  “Groups are always nice.”

  “What about—” He had a hard time finishing the thought.

  “Pairs?” she guessed.

  A sharp nod.

  She gave him a long look. “I was about to suggest just that. You have a good eye for composition, Joe.”

  Composition? He knew nothing about photography. His pictures chopped off heads and cut his subjects in half. Eden was being kind. But she’d relaxed him. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “Welcome.” She grew thoughtful. “I’ll shoot you and Stevie last, after her haircut. The final impression of the day. Work for you?”

  “Works for me.”

  Relieved, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d never had his photo taken with just one woman before. He’d always been surrounded by beach and boardwalk babes. His party posse. However, singling out Stevie for the final photo felt right. Just one shot like that wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t crimp his reputation as a “ladies’ man.” At the end of the day, it was all about the promo, not the girl. Or so he tried to convince himself.