His hand never touched me.
A force yanked him back with a furious vengeance. He hit the wall on the other side of the alley and slumped down.
Striker leapt out of the shadows. My heart swelled. I had never been so grateful to see anyone in my entire life.
“Let her go.” His voice was harsh, demanding, furious.
“No need to get all heroic, bro,” one of the men said. “There’s plenty here to share.”
Striker didn’t respond. His gloved hands tightened into fists.
“If that’s the way you want to play it, bro, we’re game.”
The two men jumped at Striker. My knees buckled with relief, and I slid to the ground.
Seconds after that, so did the men.
Fists pummeled flesh. A tooth clinked away into the darkness. Bones snapped like dry twigs. The men whimpered for mercy.
I struggled to my feet. My vision clouded over, and I squinted through the fog. Striker towered over the three men, who curled into fetal positions. The leather-clad superhero stepped over them and came to me.
“Are you okay, Carmen?” His voice sounded gentle, concerned.
“I’m fine, Striker.” For some reason, I felt unnaturally calm. Disjointed even, as though I was standing outside my own body.
“I—”
“I said I’m fine. I’m going to go home now. Good night.”
I grabbed my purse and pepper spray and hobbled down the alley and onto the main street. I didn’t turn around to see if Striker was following me. He was. I could feel his eyes on me. A taxi cruised by. Where the hell had the cabbie been five minutes ago? I lurched into the street, waved my hands, and flagged down the car.
“Are you all right, lady?” The driver stared at me in the rearview mirror.
“Fine. Just drive.” I gave him my address.
I stared at the back of his bald head, thinking of nothing in particular. Lights and streets whizzed by, but I couldn’t quite focus on them. Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up to my building. I paid him and got out. Every movement hurt, stabbing through the strange, calm cocoon that wrapped around my mind. I brushed by the doorman, who gave me a bored look, and got into the elevator. I concentrated on the buttons. Five more floors. Three. Two. One. The elevator pinged open. I cringed at the sound and dashed to my apartment. My hands shook as I put the key in the lock.
I went through the apartment, double-checking to make sure every window was locked. I bolted the door and dragged a chair in front of it. Then, I stripped off my clothes and threw them away. I wanted nothing to remind me of this night and what had almost happened. Nothing.
I got into the shower. The white tile cooled my burning feet. I turned the water on full blast as hot as it would go and scrubbed everything hard—three times. I leaned against the shower wall. The water cascaded over me. The steady hiss blocked out everything. Everything except my memories of the past hour.
I got out of the shower, dried off, and put on a pair of plaid, fleece pajamas. I peered at my face in the bathroom mirror. The would-be rapists had split my lip with their slaps, and a nasty-looking, purple bruise had formed under my right eye. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth. No loose teeth, though. I dabbed some ointment on my swollen face, took a couple of aspirin, and turned out the light.
After triple-checking the door and windows, I padded into the bedroom and put my stun gun and pepper spray underneath my pillow. They hadn’t done me much good before, but I wanted them near. I drew back the comforter, snuggled beneath the soft sheets, and curled into a tight ball.
As I lay there, the rest of my odd calm cracked and flaked and peeled away, like old paint chipping off a house. The alley. The men. Their hands on me. The images invaded my mind, whirling round and round like a kaleidoscope. Then, the tears came, slowly at first, trickling out of the corner of my eyes like a leaky faucet. I did nothing to hold them back. I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to. Soon, my whole body shook with intense sobs and muffled cries. The enormity of what had almost happened hit me like a tidal wave.
I’d escaped being raped, but I would never be the same. Before, I’d roamed around the city at all hours of the day and night, never really worrying about the danger. Getting mugged, getting raped, getting murdered, those things happened to other people. Never to me or anyone I knew. I’d always felt relatively safe. Or at least before Frost and his goons had kidnapped me. Even that had been a fluke, a freakish, once-in-a-lifetime event. What had happened tonight could happen again, to me.
At any time.
In any city.
Now, I would always look over my shoulder and wonder who was walking behind me, what they might want to do to me. Malefica and Frost’s tubs of radioactive goo had frightened me. Now, their threats seemed petty, almost cartoonish, in comparison to the attack tonight.
Suddenly, a quiet stillness filled the room. He was there watching me have a nervous breakdown. And probably enjoying it immensely.
“Go away,” I said through my sobs, embarrassed and ashamed of my cosmic meltdown.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. Now please, go away. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?” Striker asked in a gentle tone.
“Frightened, weak, crying my eyes out. I must seem so pathetic to you.” I closed my eyes, squeezing back the tears. I wouldn’t cry again until he left. I would not.
Striker sat down on the edge of the bed. It dipped with his solid weight. “Superheroes aren’t perfect, you know. Just because some of us have superstrength doesn’t mean we never get scared. We have fears and insecurities and worries too.”
I rolled over to look at him. “Fear? What fear? I didn’t see any fear in you tonight. You took out those guys like it was nothing, just like you took out the drug runners a few weeks ago.” Just like you made love to me.
“I was afraid tonight. Afraid for you. I saw the men chase you into the alley. I was afraid I wouldn’t be quick enough to save you, fast enough to stop them.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, it is.”
I let out a snort. “You almost sound like you care.”
His eyes locked with mine. Some emotion I couldn’t quite identify shimmered in the silvery depths. “I do.”
“Then why haven’t I seen you since…that night?” It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times. A thousand times.
He dropped his eyes. “I’ve been around. I just—I didn’t know—I couldn’t—”
Striker reached out. He hesitated, then put his hand on my head. He stroked my damp hair. The image of my would-be rapists flashed through my head. Instead of Striker’s gentle touch, I felt their cruel hands marching all over me.
My stomach churned, and I rolled away from the superhero. “Please just leave.”
Striker didn’t listen. Instead, he lay down on the bed next to me and drew me into his arms. I let him. I was weak and scared and terrified, so I let him hold me.
The tears came back. For the second time that night, I did nothing to stop them.
Chapter Eleven
I woke up early the next morning. I opened my eyes, and the room slowly came into focus. The last thing I remembered was crying my eyes out while Striker held me. Was he still here? I heard nothing over the sound of my own quick breathing. I rolled over.
Striker was gone. Only a slight indentation in the bed revealed he had ever been there. Relief washed over me. Mornings after were always tricky. I had never known what to say to Matt or any other man in my bed first thing in the morning. What could I say to the superhero whose secret identity I was trying to uncover after he’d just saved my life? What could I say to someone who could give me incredible pleasure one night, then hold me so gently the next?
What the hell could I say to a man I’d come to care about?
Nothing.
Carmen Cole, reporter extraordinaire, superhero-ubervillain exposer, cou
ld never say anything to Striker.
Never.
I got out of bed. My vision blurred, and the room zipped around. I sat back down. After a moment, my head cleared. I was really going to have to stop falling down and getting the stuffing beat out of me. I padded into the bathroom to assess the damage.
I stared into the mirror in horror. Malefica wouldn’t have to work too hard to turn me into a monster. My lip had doubled to twice its normal size. A few cuts and scrapes slashed across my face, and a lovely purple bruise had taken up residence high on my right cheek. The bruise went along nicely with my puffy, bloodshot eyes. The faces of my attackers popped into my head. Imaginary hands brushed my body.
My cell phone rang, chasing away the horrid memories. For now.
“Hello?”
“Carmen, it’s Henry. Are you okay? You don’t sound too good.”
I didn’t feel too good either. Every muscle ached, my head throbbed, and my stomach still churned with fear. “I’m fine, Henry. What’s up?”
“I got your message. I don’t know what happened. It must have been a glitch in my computer program, but I left off the last two names. I didn’t save a copy of the information though. If you still want it, I would have to go back through and recompile it.”
My brows knit together. Henry saved everything, even old gum wrappers, by the looks of his overcrowded desk. What was going on with the computer guru?
I walked into the kitchen and looked at the calendar on my refrigerator. Two days to go until Malefica’s deadline. The two missing billionaires weren’t going to save me. Nothing could. “No, that’s okay. Never mind. It’s not that important.”
“Well, okay. I guess I’ll see you at the benefit tonight then.”
“Benefit? What benefit?”
“The benefit for Yee-haw!, the therapeutic riding program.”
I groaned. That couldn’t be tonight. I glanced back at my calendar. Sure enough, there it was spelled out in big, blue letters.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” One of the biggest social events of the year, and I looked like death warmed over.
“Lulu invited me to go with her,” Henry said in a shy tone. “We had dinner last night. We really hit it off. I’m glad you gave her my number.”
“That’s nice, Henry. Really, it is.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound kind of tired.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m tired. I had a rough night last night. Couldn’t sleep a wink.” It was partly true.
“Okay, well, I’ll let you go. See you tonight.”
“Bye, Henry.”
He hung up. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, pull the covers up, and never come out again. I couldn’t do that, though. I owed Lulu, and I’d promised her I would cover the benefit and write a wonderful story. I wanted to pay off my debts before my meeting with the Triad. This would be the last opportunity I had to write an article about the riding program. Hell, it would probably be the last story I wrote for the society page. No more flat champagne, no more moldy cheese, no more dealing with the likes of Fiona Fine.
That was a little something to look forward to before Frost turned me into a female version of Bigfoot.
* * *
Several hours and a couple of pounds of makeup later, I arrived at the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art. Located across the street from the library, the museum was the crowning jewel of art and culture in Bigtime. Wide marble steps led up to the entrance, which was framed by massive columns. The building itself towered several stories into the air. An enormous banner draped over the entrance read: Yee-haw coppers! Benefit for Bigtime’s finest tonight.
After I gave my engraved invitation to the doorman and showed him my wrinkled press pass, I entered the museum and made my way to the main gallery. I paused at the entrance. The museum always took my breath away. White lights ran up the shining marble columns and lent a soft glow to the enormous room. Cherub angels played and danced in the frescoes on the ceiling, while paintings splashed the walls with vibrant colors. Classical music whispered in the background. Everything gleamed and glistened as if it had been personally spit-shined.
People dressed in designer tuxedoes and glittering gowns clustered around long tables set up in the middle of the gallery. Pricey watches, diamond rings, concert tickets, movie roles. All were being auctioned off for charity. Waiters distributed champagne and fancy finger food to the crowd.
A motor whined, and Lulu zoomed up with Henry in tow.
“Sister Carmen, good to see you,” Lulu said. “Nice dress.”
“Thanks.” I’d forgone my basic black for a lovely lavender ball gown with a poofy skirt. It was the only thing that looked halfway decent with the outrageous purple eye shadow and thick makeup I’d slathered on to hide my bruised, battered face. “You look nice too.”
Lulu had chosen a vivid blue dress with silver trim that was one of Fiona Fine’s more restrained designs. The color brought out Lulu’s flawless pale skin and accented her dark eyes. And the neon blue streaks in her hair.
“Why, Henry, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a tuxedo before.”
“It’s only for special occasions.” He tugged at his bow tie, probably wishing it had polka dots on it. His silver glasses gleamed in the soft light.
“Well, it looks wonderful. The two of you make quite the dashing couple.”
They both blushed and exchanged shy smiles. Henry took Lulu’s hand. I grinned. So far, my inner voice had been right on target. At least I’d done something good these past few weeks.
“If you’ll excuse me, Sister Carmen, I have to mix and mingle with all these society types and remind them to open their checkbooks before they leave.”
Lulu and Henry moved off into the crowd. I dug my notepad and camera out of my purse. Time to go to work.
This night, I went well beyond my usual spiel. I talked not only to the major power players but to every single person I could corner. This was more than likely going to be my final story. I wanted to make it one of the best I’d ever written, even if it was going to end up buried on the back page of the society section.
I finished my last interview and grabbed a glass of champagne. I wandered out of the gallery and looked at the various pieces of art housed in the adjoining areas. Paintings by the likes of van Gogh and Renoir adorned the slick marble walls, while bronze sculptures pondered what they meant from the middle of the floor. I roamed into a room devoted to medieval weapons and suits of armor. I strolled past the displays. Silver swords glittered on the walls, reminding me of Striker.
Why had he been so kind to me last night? Had he really been concerned about me? Did he actually care about me? Or was comforting weeping and wailing women just part of being a superhero? Did I mean anything at all to him?
“Fascinating, aren’t they?” a deep voice said.
I turned. Sam Sloane stood a few feet from me. Reclusive billionaire, eligible bachelor, and all-around, It-on-a-stick Sam Sloane.
“Don’t you think?” he asked.
I glanced around. There was no one else within earshot, no one else in the entire room. He must be talking to me.
Sam Sloane talking to me?
“Um, yes. Fascinating.”
“The craftsmanship is incredible.” He pointed to one of the swords and explained the process by which blind Tibetan monks handcrafted the instrument.
I paid little attention to what he was saying. I couldn’t get over the fact I was actually standing next to Sam Sloane and that he was talking. To me, of all people.
My inner voice chirped. Why would Sam Sloane deign to talk to me? He hated reporters, especially ones from The Exposé. I frowned. And where was his supermodel of the evening? Usually, nothing could tear Sam Sloane’s dates off his arm, not even buckets of free champagne. The idea of becoming Mrs. Sam Sloane was far more intoxicating.
“Is something wrong? You’re frowning.”
I snapped out of my rever
ie. “Oh no. Everything’s fine. I was just thinking how hard it must be to make a sword if you were blind. I imagine you’d cut yourself quite a bit.”
Amusement lit up his eyes. “Yes, I imagine you would.”
High heels clicked on the floor, and a tall blond sashayed into the gallery. I stifled a groan. Not her again.
Fiona Fine flounced up to us. The fashion designer wore a gown of shimmering silver beads that brought out every curve of her perfectly perfect body. Her eyes flicked over me, and she put her hand on Sloane’s arm. I immediately got the message.
“Sam, what are you doing in here?”
“Just looking at the swords.”
The two of them exchanged a long, tense look. I could have cut the air between them with a dull spoon.
“We really must get back to the benefit. Chief Newman was looking for you,” Fiona emphasized.
Sloane’s pale eyes darkened, and he turned to me. “Please excuse me.”
“Thank you for telling me about the swords,” I said.
Fiona shot me another nasty look and led Sloane away as fast as she could in her towering high heels. I frowned. What was that all about?
Although I’d gathered more than enough information for my story, I stayed at the benefit and kept an eagle eye on Sam Sloane. He shook hands, greased palms, and worked the room like the business tycoon he was. He seemed equally comfortable talking to ancient widows as he did flirting with their twenty-something granddaughters. Sloane charmed everyone. Well, almost everyone.
Joanne James didn’t seem very impressed with the businessman. At one point, Sam tried to engage her in conversation, but Joanne ignored him, downing another glass of champagne. Then again, Joanne was hard to impress. She was one of Bigtime’s wealthiest women—and the black widow of the society circuit. The forty-something, multiple divorcée was always on the lookout for her next husband.
From the way she went from man to man, I’d always thought that Joanne had to have some sort of seductive superpower. And that she was really an ubervillain in disguise—maybe even Malefica herself. Joanne had the same sort of fantastic body as the ubervillain, and she was about the right age. I stared at Joanne, wondering if she was the one threatening to drown me in radioactive goo unless I did her bidding. She could do it. Joanne was someone you didn’t mess with. She hadn’t gotten to where she was today by being the shy, retiring, wallflower type.
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