“Cute— Uh, no. Garret.”
“Nice to meet you, Garret.” Nourish-Man had an appropriately deep voice, the sort that could expound authoritatively on truth, justice, and the American way. He was an inch or two shorter than Garret, and his booted footsteps were nearly silent.
Garret’s apartment was on the first floor of a U-shaped complex. During the day, he had a lovely view of some scraggly bushes, but right now he was relieved not to have to deal with stairs. Nourish-Man accompanied him to his door, and only in the yellowish overhead light did Garret see that the superhero’s face was smeared with blood. “You’re hurt!” he exclaimed.
Nourish-Man sniffed. “No big deal. Can I come in? I’d like to check you over and make sure you’re really all right.”
Ignoring the entirely inappropriate thrill that ran down his spine, Garret nodded and fumbled the keys from his pocket. “Sure. Thanks.”
Garret liked to think of his little apartment as spare and orderly, a modern-day equivalent of a writer’s loft. There was his bed, a microfiber loveseat he got on clearance at Cost Plus, and a chest of drawers with his small TV perched on top. He had a table for two that doubled as his workspace, a bookshelf crammed full of tatty paperbacks and second-hand hardcovers, and a tiny kitchenette tucked into one corner. With Nourish-Man’s orange-and green-bulk taking up a good chunk of the space, the apartment looked undersized and devoid of personality, like a display in a furniture store.
“Nice place,” Nourish-Man said.
“Hah.”
“No, really. It’s efficient and really organized.”
Garret wasn’t sure whether the guy was teasing him, so he gently set his bag on the table, wincing when it clattered anyway. “If you want to wash up….” He gestured toward his bathroom.
“Let’s check out those ribs first.”
And before Garret had time to react, Nourish-Man had closed the space between them and was unbuttoning Garret’s shirt. His fingers moved gently but with surprising speed, so Garret hadn’t even made up his mind whether to protest when he found himself holding his arms out obediently, allowing Nourish-Man to gingerly peel the shirt away.
Some red marks and a little swelling were visible on his chest. Nothing too bad, although he figured it might take a while for bruising to show up. He’d probably be pretty sore eventually, but it didn’t hurt very much when Nourish-Man prodded at his ribcage. And it wasn’t pain that made Garret gasp as the other man leaned the side of his head against Garret’s chest.
Nourish-Man pulled his head away but didn’t step back. “Your lungs sound okay,” he said with a small smile. “You could still have a cracked rib, though. Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”
“I’m sure.” Garret took a deep, steadying breath, trying not to become mesmerized by Nourish-Man’s supernaturally deep, soft eyes. But then Garret startled as the other man clasped Garret’s wrists and turned his hands over.
“You might want to put some disinfectant on these,” Nourish-Man said.
Garret was startled to discover that his palms were scraped raw. He must have landed on them when the robbers attacked. Now that he noticed the wounds, they began to sting. “Bathroom,” he said gruffly.
Nourish-Man released Garret’s wrists and followed him across the room. In the bathroom’s bright light, Nourish-Man appeared more brightly colored than ever, a figure magic-markered in green, orange, and red. There was a narrow closet in the bathroom where Garret stored his towels and spare rolls of toilet paper. He kept a first-aid kit in there too—another of his mother’s gifts—and now he retrieved the small plastic box and rustled around until he found some antiseptic wipes. But his fingers were sore, and as he struggled to open a wipe Nourish-Man gently took it away, tore the package open, and rubbed the wipe over Garret’s palms.
“Thanks,” Garret said, the sentiment seeming inadequate. Then, aware of how close he was standing to this stranger, he cleared his throat. “Let me take a look at you too, okay?”
For the first time, Nourish-Man looked doubtful. Then he nodded, twice.
Garret pointed at the superhero’s head. “I’m gonna need the mask off.”
Nourish-Man bit his full lower lip. “You won’t… you won’t reveal my secret identity, will you?” Garret would have laughed, except the other man looked seriously worried about Garret’s response. Maybe it should have occurred to him earlier that guys who wandered around in the middle of the night wearing superhero costumes might be a little unbalanced. Oh well, he concluded, too late to stress over it now. “Won’t tell a soul,” he responded, wondering whether he should throw in the Boy Scout sign for good measure.
But Nourish-Man nodded again and carefully peeled the mask away. He kept the bit of fabric clutched tightly in his fingers and tried a tentative smile. “I go by Brandon when I’m… incognito,” he confessed.
Brandon was gorgeous. His face was broad, with prominent cheekbones and a strong, straight nose. He had thick black eyebrows and his dark curls were already springing back after their captivity under the Spandex. He wasn’t a kid; faint lines creased the corners of his eyes and a few white hairs were sprinkled among the black.
“Hi Brandon,” Garret said.
One of Brandon’s eyes was a little swollen after the scuffle, but the blood on his face came from a split lip. He stood very still with his eyes closed as Garret dabbed his face with a damp washcloth. Only when Garret tossed the cloth away did Brandon look at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. “Looks like we’ll both live to fight another day,” he concluded.
“Um, I guess so.” They both stood there awkwardly, nearly touching in Garret’s miniscule bathroom, until Garret said, “Do you want something to drink?”
Brandon smiled. “Thanks. That’d be nice.”
Garret strode into the kitchenette, talking over his shoulder. “I’ve got Heineken, Coke—”
“Alcohol and soft drinks aren’t healthy.”
Brandon seemed rather adamant about his pronouncement, so Garret shrugged. “Orange juice?”
They ended up seated across from each other at Garret’s table, each of them with a glass of OJ in hand. Garret noticed that little droplets of blood had splattered on the front of Brandon’s costume. Did blood wash out of Spandex, he wondered. He hoped the guy had a spare at home. But that line of thought raised a question he was almost afraid to ask. “Brandon? What the hell were you doing running around in costume in the middle of the night?”
“Patrolling for evildoers, of course,” Brandon replied, deadpan.
“Um… really?”
“Of course! It’s my obligation. With great power—”
“I thought that was Spider-Man’s line.”
“He won’t mind if I borrow it.”
Garret took a sip of juice, wincing when it stung a previously undiscovered cut inside his mouth. He knew he should drop the subject, but he couldn’t help worrying it, like poking his tongue at a sore tooth. “You, uh… you do know you’re not really Nourish-Man, don’t you? I mean, he’s a fictional character. Probably made up by some TV hack trying to appease pissed-off soccer moms.”
Brandon appeared unruffled. He grinned and flexed his muscles. “I guarantee you, I’m real.”
Garret goggled appreciatively for a moment and then shook his head. “But… but superpowers!”
“Sure. Super speed, super strength. It happened when I was a teenager. The government was doing experiments with radioactively enhanced vegetables. My dad worked at the secret labs and he was giving me a tour one day. I accidentally—”
“Accidentally ate an enhanced carrot. Yeah, I saw that episode.”
“So then you know already.”
A head injury was seeming increasingly likely—for which of them, Garret wasn’t sure. “But that was just a cartoon. A crappy cartoon.”
Brandon looked sad. “I know. I’d hoped for better production values, but…” He sighed.
“If you’re really a superhero, why a
re you posing with tourists for cash?”
“Even a superhero has bills to pay. I was working in construction, actually, but with the downturn in the economy, well, that didn’t work out. Besides, this way I can spread the message of the importance of good nutrition even more. I can’t imagine a better place to do it. Do you see what kind of junk those kids eat?”
Garret opened his mouth to argue some more, then shut it. If Brandon wanted to believe he was a superhero, what was the harm in it? He’d saved Garret’s ass. “Oh God,” Garret moaned, suddenly remembering. “My laptop.” He pulled the messenger bag over, unfastened the buckle, and reached inside. He almost cried when he felt broken bits of plastic.
“I don’t suppose your superpowers extend to fixing electronics?” he asked sadly, dumping the mangled remains onto the table.
“No. Sorry. Did you have something important on there?”
“Only my life’s work.” Not all the scripts he’d written, but the last several, the best ones, the ones he’d sweated over for countless hours.
“Maybe if you took it to a shop they could salvage the files.”
“Maybe,” Garret replied, but the twisting feeling in his gut told him it was hopeless. He sighed, started to sink his face into his hands, then stopped when his palms stung. “Doesn’t matter. They were crap anyway. Nobody wants to buy them.”
Brandon leaned over the table and set a big hand on Garret’s shoulder. Garret wondered when the other man had removed his gloves. “It’ll be okay. I know it will. Are you a good writer, Garret?”
“I… I used to think so.”
“Then have confidence.” Brandon squeezed Garret’s shoulder. “If you find the right story to tell, people will want to hear it.”
Maybe it was the fact that it was past four in the morning, or that Garret had worked twelve hours and then was jumped by a couple of thugs. Maybe it was just the sparkle in those brown eyes. But sitting at his little table in his little apartment, these comforting words from a lunatic made sense. The right story. All this time Garret had been writing scripts that he thought might sell, not words that came from his heart. Maybe that was his problem.
“Thank you,” Garret said. “For saving me, I mean. If you hadn’t come along—”
“It’s what I do.”
Brandon finished his juice and stood, then walked to the kitchen sink and rinsed his glass. His cape was wrinkled and a little dirty. “Do you live nearby?” Garret asked.
“I rent a room in Burbank.”
“And your car?”
“Superheroes don’t need cars,” Brandon replied with a grin. “Super speed, remember? And the exercise is healthier.”
Garret imagined Brandon trekking to Burbank through early morning traffic. Commuters would stare at his costume, would probably have a good chuckle over him while they drove and texted and ate their breakfast burritos. He stopped Brandon before he made it to the front door. “It’s late. Or, you know, really early. You got all banged up on my account. Why don’t you crash here?” He added, a little sheepishly, “I can sleep on the couch.”
Brandon raised an eyebrow. “With your chest bruised like that? I don’t think so.”
Which was how Garret ended up in bed next to a naked superhero. It turned out that Brandon did not pad his tights. It also turned out that his powers extended to the ability to make them both come—twice!—despite their wounds and exhaustion. And it turned out that he snored, but Garret didn’t mind.
Still awake in his bed, Brandon’s arm curled protectively around him, Garret had an idea for a movie about an ordinary guy who thought he was a superhero—and who managed to make others believe as well. Because Garret wanted to believe in superheroes, just like he wanted to believe a guy from Bartonville could make it big in Hollywood. He fell asleep still planning the opening scene. Act One, Scene One: A lonely shoe salesman trudges to work under a bright blue sky….
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KIM FIELDING is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time. She also dreams of having two perfectly-behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.
Kim can be found on her blogs: http://kfieldingwrites.blogspot.com/ and http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog and on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Kim-Fielding/286938444652579. Her email is [email protected].
Bulldog and Smash
THEY found themselves one atop the other, on wet pavement, behind one of LA’s most famous landmarks. It never rains in southern California on Academy Awards night except, of course, when it does.
There were only two thin layers of damp, body-hugging, muscle-and-other-bulge-accentuating nylon and spandex between their hard, naked bodies—bodies Smash had deemed off limits to one another.
“Ssh,” Bulldog warned.
Smash huffed, trying to figure out where to rest his hands. He finally settled on Bulldog’s butt.
“Fresh.”
Smash rubbed a hand up and down.
“Mmm,” the dog purred like a cat.
“Stop that! What are you wearing?”
“We’re at the Oscars. The question is, ‘Who are you wearing?’,” Bulldog joked.
“You’re a riot. Are those tights?”
“I am. And they are.”
“The League gave you a suit?”
“Yup. I’m now a registered, trademarked superhero.”
“Describe it.”
“It’s standard issue, pretty much. Holds in all the bad stuff. Draws attention to all the good stuff.”
“What colors?”
The junior recruit wore copper to highlight his reddish-brown hair and atypically ginger bronzed skin.
“And I have a wide, burgundy belt with a huge bulldog face as the buckle.”
“I can’t believe they fucking coordinated our outfits,” the other, head-to-toe in the same wine color, complained.
“We are a team.” Bulldog shifted slightly.
“Only professionally.”
We’ll see about that, Bulldog thought.
“Ow! Your buckle’s poking me in the nuts!”
“Or am I just happy to see you?”
AN ENTIRE crowd of cinematic greats, plus, for some odd reason, a gaggle of Kardashians, was mingling on the other side of a brick wall, gathered for the Academy Awards. Also among the throng: one sick, sadistic motherfucker of a crazy chick, hellbent on revenge.
Bulldog felt a stirring around his canine head.
“Stop moving… that,” Smash snarled.
“I can’t help it,” the mini hunk responded. “It has a mind of its own.”
Apparently, Smash’s cock did too. As much as its owner objected to Bulldog’s throbbing schlong twitching against his, the fact that said Smash schlong grew thick and hard proved the theory that sex matters over mind.
Bulldog was the shorter of the two, by several inches. He was compact and cut, not unlike his namesake breed. His face was just as fierce, and, to some, also as gosh-darned adorable.
They had been thrown together—one might claim discarded, really—after a pair of unfortunate events threatened to end their respective superhero days altogether. When the head of the League of Protection, Jack Monterey, assigned the pair to a stupid awards show, Smash saw the assignment as one step above rescuing damsels tied to railroad tracks by mustache-twirling scoundrels.
“This is bullshit!” he’d balked. “I’ve worked national-security detail. I’ve rescued people from mineshafts, planes, and sunken submarines! Now you want me to stand guard and make sure the fucking paparazzi don’t get too close to the cast of Harry Freakin’ Potter? Why not just put me out to pasture entirely?” the thirty-year-old had moped.
>
His partner for the evening shifted again, dislodging his package from Smash’s, rubbing it against a steel-muscled thigh instead. He was just happy for a second chance—at being a superhero, and to be on top of Smash.
SOME people believe in guardian angels. Some believe in superheroes. It’s okay to believe in both. Both do actually exist.
Six Weeks Earlier….
THE fire started on the ground floor of the old colonial house. The family was sound asleep upstairs. Bulldog tended to the children first.
“I don’t really know what happened,” thirteen-year-old Tommy Wallace told the reporters. “I felt like I was lifted from my bed. Someone carried me to the window, but then there was no one there. Maybe I just wasn’t fully awake.”
The boy’s petit savior had great speed and strength. His keen senses—hearing, sight, and smell—tipped him off to the fire three neighborhoods away. He got there before the smoke alarms on-site had even sounded. He roused the parents and all four children, even placing the Wallace family dog in shivering Tommy’s arms, all without really being seen, before the fire spread upstairs.
“What about Boots?” Littlest Kylie cried. “She’s scared. She was sleeping on my bed when the angel came and woke me. She runs from strangers. He scared her under the bed!”
Kylie’s parents shared a sad, resolved glance. The house was engulfed in savage, orange dancing light. There was no way anyone could get back inside for the no-doubt petrified cat.
One look at Kylie’s face, though, left Bulldog determined to try.
Beyond three of five super-senses, any powers he possessed were more intellectual than mighty. Had he been able to fly, if he could orb and materialize from one spot to another, Boots’s rescue might have gone without a hitch.
Bulldog made his way inside, fighting the heat, smoke, and flames, fighting horrific memories of another boy, another fire, many, many years ago. He found the feline scrunched in a corner, under a bureau in the hall. He coaxed her out. And though she fought him all the way, he managed to get her to the window. He set her on a tree branch just outside.
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