In this case, though, it had exactly the effect she’d wanted. Stomper dropped to his knees, giving her the chance to hop down before he fell the rest of the way. He was unconscious before he had made it halfway to the ground.
It was unfortunate that he had vomited all over Whipper Will’s beautiful costume on the way down, but she didn’t see that it could be helped.
Hustle was already beside Whipper Will, but he spared a moment to tell her. “Wicked, Bright Eyes. One punch to drop Stomper.”
She grinned once then went to the fallen cape. “How are you?”
“Ow,” he replied piteously. “My leg.”
She had no doubt. It was obvious that his femur was not properly in his hip socket, and on closer inspection, his ankle was probably shattered by Stomper’s grip.
“You’ll be okay,” she said. It would probably be quite a bit of physical therapy, but he looked fit enough to recover.
“Not a great debut, was it?”
She locked eyes with Hustle. He’d been doing this longer than she had. He might know a way to do this delicately.
“Mistakes happen.” He said gently. “You were doing pretty good there at the beginning.”
“But?” moaned Whipper Will.
“But this isn’t a business with much time for a learning curve. You’re probably feeling that right about now.”
She took up the cue. “For one thing, whips are dramatic, but they’re not very practical.”
Hustle nodded. “You don’t have anything like an electrical pulse you can send through the whip after you wrap someone’s arm in it, do you?”
Whipper Will looked at them as if to say it was a thought that had never occurred to him, and that he had no idea how someone would do such a thing.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Etherya put a hand on his arm, carefully avoiding the vomit. “Your heart is obviously in the right place, but you’d need a lot more training before you can pull this off. And…” She looked down at his swollen leg, sadly realizing that the hospital would have to cut the leather pants off of him. “… it’s just possible that this is a sign that this isn’t the lifestyle for you. Maybe there’s another way for you to help people.”
The ambulance arrived just then.
“I hate fliers.” Hustle said fifteen minutes later as they sat on a rooftop a few moments later.
“Fliers?” she asked.
“It seems like I run into them every couple of years. They’re capes who can fly but can’t do anything else.”
“Flying seems pretty awesome.”
“As part of a set of powers, sure, but by itself, it’s kind of minor league. I’ve seen too many fliers get hurt trying to box outside of their weight class.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re cute when you mix metaphors.”
He grinned at her. “Well, the EMT’s have taken off his mask by now. I have a feeling we’ve seen the last of Whipper Will.”
He was wrong about that. Nine months later, they went to the circus. Whipper Will was a featured act, and he made a point of telling the audience that half the proceeds he raised went to charity.
There were all kinds of superheroes.
✽✽✽
To no one's surprise, Hustle arrived at Molly’s house first.
Heather had been exposed to Frank while he was dressed in his Hustle uniform on one other occasion, but she had never seen his unmasked face. When they arrived at Molly's home, he was waiting inside in full costume. She’d given him a key months ago. Buster sat on the couch, something he only did when there was a human to pet him, meaning Hustle had just stood up to meet them at the door.
There was a mental discipline to keeping from inadvertently revealing another hero’s identity. Even though Heather had figured out Hustle’s first name, it would be better if Molly could think of him as Hustle, not Frank, while he wore the mask.
Heather had the blanket from Molly's car wrapped around her split skirt. Hustle met Molly's eyes first, assessing. Then he turned to Heather and stuck out his hand.
“Hello again, miss.”
If Heather noticed that Hustle apparently hadn’t remembered her name, it didn't seem to offend her. She smiled up at Hustle and held out her hand to shake. Hustle did so with a perfectly bland smile. Molly checked instinctively, and she was happy to note that he wasn't even sneaking a peek at the considerable cleavage Heather had on display.
Hustle gestured for Heather to go sit down, then draped an arm over Molly's shoulder. “So what's with the scary clown makeup?”
Molly pouted. “I'm a harlequin.”
He grinned at her and leaned in for a quick kiss. With his fast metabolism, his body temperature was higher than average, and Molly sighed as his heat spread across her lips and seemed to travel down her neck. Before it could travel anywhere interesting, he pulled away and whispered softly into her ear.
“I thought you'd be taking your friend back to her place first.”
Molly shot him a reproachful glance. She didn't bother to keep her own voice down. “Heather was just rescued by the new cape in town. I thought she might be able to help us identify him.”
Heather regarded them from her seat. “Um…”
“Don't say you don't remember anything.” Molly's voice was stern, but she smiled reassuringly at Heather. “If you say it, it probably becomes true.”
“But I'm not sure…”
“What color were his eyes?” Hustle interrupted.
“Green,” Heather answered reflexively, and immediately blushed. Molly’s instincts flashed a small warning. Before she could think too much more about it, though, Hustle pressed on.
“What about his skin tone? I don’t know what kind of mask he was wearing, but could you see anything?”
Heather sat on the couch and gratefully started petting Buster. “Caucasian, I think,” she said after a pause. “I saw a little around his eyes.”
“Facial hair?”
Heather shook her head. “Maybe a goatee if it was short, but I definitely didn’t see a moustache under the mask.”
Molly chimed in. “How tall would you say he was?”
“I was kind of at the wrong angle, but I’d say he was about your height.” She was looking at Hustle. Sadly, Hustle was all of one-half of one inch taller than the national average for a man.
Their momentum having just been cut off at the knees, Molly tried again. “Anything else you can remember? Could you hear or smell anything distinctive?”
“He smelled like… like my stockroom.”
“What?” Hustle was confused.
Molly caught on. She had helped Heather inventory her stockroom on a few occasions. “Do you mean his clothes smelled brand new?”
“Yes.” It was a realization. “But his pants were too wrinkled to be so new.”
Molly and Hustle linked eyes. “Backpack?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Cold weather. Might fit in a coat pocket.”
“What?”
Molly turned back to Heather. “It’s kind of a classic, especially with a costume like his which fits over the top of clothes instead of under them. Stuff the costume in a big pocket…”
“Or a backpack.” Hustle said a little peevishly.
“Or a backpack, or a briefcase, or anything you can carry without attracting attention,” Molly conceded.
“Is that what you did?”
Molly rarely spoke about the specifics of her old life with Heather, despite the other’s insatiable curiosity for every last detail. In this case though, since the topic had already been breached, Molly felt to deny her friend would have been simply rude.
“I was more likely to wear my costume underneath. The closer my clothes are to my skin, the easier it is for me to ghost.”
“And you?” Heather was looking at Hustle.
“I still use the backpack, but then again I can be in and out of a costume before you could stand up from that chair.” He smiled. “That’s
probably enough about my modus operandi for the time being, though.”
Heather gulped, not comforted by Hustle’s smile in the least. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Not an issue,” he replied dismissively. He stepped in closer to her. “Last question, Heather.” He waited until she was looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you know who was under that mask?”
Molly hadn’t known Heather’s eyes could get quite so wide.
“What!?”
“You’ve lived in Capetown most of your life. This guy is probably local, and I just thought maybe you know who it is.”
“I don’t. I swear.” Heather looked positively frightened. Molly was about to intercede, but Hustle kept on talking in his firm but unthreatening voice.
“What if you had to guess? Maybe your instincts are already pointing you in the right direction.”
Heather seemed to like that idea. Her chest swelled with pride thinking she might have the answer to the puzzle right in the back of her mind. It was only an instant before her look of concentration became a frown of disappointment.
“No,” she said without room for debate. “I don’t know this guy. I mean, I might know his face outside of the mask if he’s local, but he’s not in my circle of friends.”
If Hustle was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Thanks for trying.”
The conversation had just shifted into awkward silence. Molly put a hand on Hustle’s shoulder and addressed Heather. “I’ve got a couple of skirts that might fit you, or you can borrow my dad’s old sweat pants. Do you want to take a shower?”
“Can I?” Heather smiled. “Do you still use that soap you bought at the craft fair?”
“I haven’t been, but there’s a bar in the medicine cabinet that I haven’t unwrapped yet. You go right ahead.” The soap smelled wonderful, but it had been drying her skin out. Molly saw no reason to mention that in front of Hustle.
Heather shifted Buster, stood up and went to hug Molly. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Anything.”
Heather looked between Molly and Hustle. “I know the grownups need to talk now, but…” She swallowed. “Do you have to shut him down?”
“No one said anything about that,” replied Molly.
Heather shook her head. “I know, but the look on your faces doesn’t exactly say ‘welcome wagon.’”
Molly pursed her lips. She needed to be careful in what she promised Heather. Hustle, perhaps inevitably, was first to respond.
“We’re all looking for a happy ending, Heather. We’ve been in this situation before. Just let us figure out what needs to happen.”
Heather didn’t look happy with that response, but she nodded. She shot a pleading glance at Molly and scampered up the stairs to the shower.
When Molly turned back to Hustle, his index finger was suddenly covering her lips. “Wait until the water starts.”
Molly frowned at him. “What are we supposed to do until then?”
She should have expected the kiss.
It felt as normal as breathing. Kissing Frank – mask or no mask, she couldn’t think of him as Hustle while attached to his lips – was like a well-choreographed dance between two talented partners. Of course, Frank was very good at the occasional improvisation which kept her on her metaphorical toes.
When the water started running, they pulled apart. Molly flashed him a shy smile. “Back to business.”
Hustle nodded at her. “So, Heather?”
“Completely smitten,” she confirmed. “Damsel in distress syndrome. Right now, she wants to give him a very special kind of thank you.”
“Hard to do if she doesn’t know who he is. I didn’t get the sense she was lying about that.”
“She’s not. I know her too well.” Molly went to sit on the couch. “So I wonder how we go about finding this guy before he gets hurt.”
Hustle pursed his lips and sat down beside her. “I have a thought. We don’t.”
He responded to her raised eyebrow by holding up his hand. “Hear me out. I’m not trying to belittle your town, but how dangerous can it really be for this guy? A flier in the city is a problem, but with no super villains…” He shrugged.
Molly frowned. “He can fly. He can’t block bullets. Even in Capetown, people own guns.”
“Do you know he can’t block bullets? You might not have seen the full display of his powers.”
She tried, honestly tried, not to roll her eyes. “If you have powers other than just flying, you don’t name yourself The Aerialist. And what happens when he starts feeling like he isn’t doing enough here in Capetown? Then he flies over to the city and tries to take on the Green Scorpion.”
“Granted,” Hustle replied, “but you’re not going to stop that no matter what you do. You know how these young bucks are. The only way to teach them they aren’t immortal is to come close to killing them.”
He had a point. If The Aerialist was determined to try to be a force for good, it would be hard to convince him not to do so for the sake of his own safety. Overwhelming evidence that a person had no chance of success didn’t mean anything to that mindset.
Molly also wondered if she was being a teensy bit hypocritical, but she shut that mode of thinking down as quickly as possible.
“So we do nothing?”
Hustle shrugged. “If we could find him, we could talk to him. Let him know the dangers he’s facing. He won’t listen to us, but at least we’ll have done what we can.”
Molly sighed. He was right. The Aerialist would be looking for two superheroes – well, one and an ex at least – to give him tips and encouragement, not suggest he retire before even beginning.
“Or maybe,” Hustle pondered, “Max can help.”
That bore some thinking. Major Maximum, David Donaldson in his civilian identity, had been a cape for longer than either she or Hustle. Among capes, he was like everybody’s uncle, and Molly had lost count of the heroes he’d mentored. It was a club she belonged to herself.
Hustle continued. “I figure even if he’s too busy, he might have some helpful suggestions.”
“That qualifies as a plan. I’ll give him a call.”
He wasn’t on her speed dial, but Molly knew his home number by heart. Four rings later, a feminine voice picked up.
“Hello?”
“Linda, it’s Molly.”
Linda Donaldson, David’s wife, had a smile Molly could hear over the phone. “Oh, hey. I was going to call you. We heard back from Reverend Woodbury. We are going to be able to do both Christenings in one day.”
Linda was a Methodist, but David was from a family of Irish Catholics. Neither family was willing to let Meredith, their newly adopted baby, be raised in only one church. As godmother, Molly needed to attend both celebrations.
“That’s great, Linda. Thank you. Is David around?”
The pause was made significant by Linda’s change to a grim tone. “Is this business?”
“Afraid so.”
Linda made a sound of frustration. “I’m sorry Molly. David’s out. I don’t know exactly when he’ll be back.”
Something in Linda’s voice had Molly dreading the answer to her question. “When you say ‘out’?”
“Neptune.” She paused. “The planet, not the capital of Atlantis. I sometimes wish I lived a life where I didn’t need to specify.”
Molly sighed. “I understand.”
“I might be able to get word to him… somehow.”
Molly shook her head even though it was a phone call. “If he’s gone interplanetary, I imagine he’s got bigger problems than anything I’m dealing with.”
“He said something about the Star Hive.”
That was enough to cause Molly to gulp. The Star Hive was the intergalactic equivalent of the Mongol hordes. The Defender Squad had taken them on three times while Molly was a member of that team. The battles had been hard fought, and Molly had missed being left behind on an enemy space station by about twelve seconds.
&nbs
p; “Okay, that definitely puts my problems on the back burner. If he gets back in the next couple of days, let him know I called.”
“Are you going to be all right, Molly?”
“Peachy. I have an issue, but it’s only a two on the crisis meter.” Molly pursed her lips before adding, “It sounds like you have enough to deal with. Don’t worry about us.”
“Us?” Molly could hear Linda’s wry tone. “Hustle is there with you?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Well, I’ll let you go then. I’m sure you’re in good hands.” Over the past few months, she and Linda had grown much closer, and Linda had taken a decided stance in her opinion about Molly’s love life. She was Team Hustle all the way. The idea of having another wife of a superhero to talk to was simply too appealing for the woman who had more or less pioneered the position.
“No luck, then?” said Hustle after she hung up.
“Neptune,” she replied. “Star Hive.”
Hustle winced. “Well, that’s as definitive a no as we’re likely to get. There shall be no Deus Ex-Maximum for us. What’s the next step?”
There was a knock at the door. From outside, Sean’s voice came out as a command. “Molly, open the door.”
The next step, apparently, was for things to get awkward.
Chapter Three
“Hello, Detective Cedar.”
Sean said nothing at all, merely staring at Hustle over Molly’s head as she held open the door. She watched for the oncoming chaos like the helpless bystander she was. She found herself counting her heartbeats in idle fascination.
It took seven heartbeats for Sean’s face to complete the change. What started as shock quickly morphed to bitter disappointment, followed by a glimpse of a rage that stopped her breath. Sean had told her of an incident in his past where his temper had gotten the better of him, and someone close to him had been badly hurt. She had not believed he could be capable of such a thing. She did now.
Still the change continued. As it so often did when Sean became angry, his face went completely limp. He put on an expressionless mask which made him look as calm and unemotional as an oak tree.
Ex-Cape | Book 2 | Ex-Cape From A Small Town Page 3