Small Town Superhero Box Set: Complete Series

by Cheree Alsop

I looked at Cassidy. She had orange and yellow paint in her hair and on her face. Her clothes had taken the same assault. I glanced down at mine. There was a giant splotch of orange where Cassidy had thrown her paintbrush at me. It matched the splatters on my pants. I fought back a smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?” Mom pressed.

  “We painted Maddy’s room,” Cassidy explained. She grabbed a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water. She handed it to me, then got another for herself.

  “That’ll be a fun surprise for her,” Aunt Lauren said with a smile. She rubbed her stomach and smiled at Uncle Rick. “We may have found a few painters for the baby’s room.”

  Cassidy nodded enthusiastically. “My skills are much better than they were when we started. Maddy’s going to love her room. We even bought her a new bedspread and cushions to match.”

  Mom’s eyes widened. She looked at me. “You bought cushions?”

  I shrugged with embarrassment. “She likes lots of pillows on her bed. I thought it would make her feel more at home.”

  “You may be the sweetest boyfriend I’ve ever met,” Aunt Lauren said. “She’s definitely a lucky girl.”

  “Is that blood?” Mom asked.

  A chill ran through my body. I glanced down at my chest. A double line of red showed through my tattered gray shirt. “It’s paint from when we did the living room.” I moved quickly to the hallway. “I should shower,” I called over my shoulder. “I’m covered in this stuff.”

  I grabbed a change of clothes and the bag of bandages Dr. Carrison had given me before I hurried to the bathroom. Someone knocked on the door, but I pretended I couldn’t hear them above the rush of the shower water.

  I gritted my teeth and pulled off my shirt. The dried blood stuck to my skin, making it a difficult process at best, and painful when I tugged on the worst of it. The laceration along my back had bled as well. By the time I got my shirt off, I was sweating again. I unwound the gauze, which was another pleasant experience. I finally had a mass of bloody bandages at my feet, along with a handful of Steri-Strips that had peeled away from my chest. There were places along the knife wounds that bled from the strain of painting. I sighed. Perhaps Dr. Carrison should have used the staples.

  I stepped into the shower. The hot water stung the wounds, but it eased the ache in my shoulders. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall. I saw the fight in my mind again. The second copycat rider had been faster than me for sure. I didn’t see how I could have avoided the knives.

  I had fought to the extent of my skill. That gave me a bit of comfort. At least I didn’t have to second-guess whether the death wish that seemed to tag along at my heels had played into the fight. I needed to get better if any of the copycats’ friends were as skilled. I wondered where I could go in a town like Sparrow to get the training I needed.

  I felt worn out, but happy when I shut off the water. I pulled new Steri-Strips from the bag and placed them over the wounds on my chest. My back turned out to be another story. No matter how I twisted, I couldn’t get the strips set right, and twisting pulled the laceration open so it wouldn’t close properly anyway.

  I finally gave up and drew on a clean pair of pants. After a quick peek down the hall to make sure it was clear, I made my way to Cassidy’s room. I tapped on the door, watching down the hall in case anyone appeared.

  “Come in,” Cassidy called.

  I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. Cassidy had changed her clothes and was trying to work a comb through her painted hair. She glanced at me in her vanity mirror and her eyes widened. She spun around on her stool.

  I held up a hand. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “It looks like you got cut with that copycat rider’s knife,” Cassidy replied, rising to her feet.

  I smiled. “Then it’s exactly how it looks.”

  “Kelson!” she scolded. “You said it wasn’t serious. Turn around.”

  I did as she commanded. A gasp escaped her at the sight of my back that was bleeding a bit more from my efforts to bandage it.

  “I just need a little help with the bandaging,” I explained.

  “You need more help than that,” she muttered. She grabbed the bag from my hand. “I can’t believe I kept this a secret. Dad will kill me.”

  “Not if he doesn’t know,” I pointed out.

  She glared at me. “He should know.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” I replied with what I hoped was a winning smile. “It doesn’t affect him directly, so he shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “If his nephew drops dead from blood loss, it will most certainly affect him directly,” Cassidy replied.

  “I’m not going to die from blood loss; not now, at least,” I told her.

  She rolled her eyes, but the worry in them was clear. “How do you really know, Kelson? You have so many scars and bruises, it’s like they’re holding you together.” She stepped behind me with the bandages. I watched her in the mirror as she shook her head again at what she saw.

  I shifted my feet uncomfortably at her insight. “Remember when I got sliced at that gas station robbery and wrecked my bike in the driveway getting back here?” She nodded, her expression in the mirror unreadable. “That was too much blood loss,” I told her. “The same thing happened after the gang hit the school. By the time I got home, there was a low rushing in my ears like I was standing next to the ocean and everyone was speaking, but I couldn’t make any sense of it.” I stopped, wondering why I told her so much.

  She met my gaze in the mirror. “Sometimes I wonder if being the Black Rider is going to kill you.”

  My voice was soft when I replied, “Sometimes being the Black Rider is the only time I really feel like I’m alive.”

  We were silent, watching each other as the words settled around us like autumn leaves. I had never admitted so much to anyone besides Madelyn. She understood because she had seen my darkest depths. Cassidy was on the outside—at least, she had been until the last few events pulled us closer together. I wondered whether it was a good thing that she knew so much about me. The shine of moisture in her eyes said otherwise.

  “I worry about you, Kel,” she said.

  I dropped my gaze. “I know.”

  She pressed a Steri-Strip gently along the wound. “I know Zoey would be worried about you,” she said softly.

  My chest tightened at her words. There was so much truth to them that I ached. “I know,” I repeated in a whisper.

  I sat down on the stool she had vacated. She was quiet when I dropped my head in one hand. “She should have been the one to live,” I said quietly. “She could have done everything here so much better than I am. As hard as I try, I feel like I’m always falling short.”

  Cassidy set a hand on my shoulder. Her palm felt cool against my skin. “Zoey would be proud of you,” she said. “Though she might worry, she would be proud of what you’ve done and the people you’ve helped. You’ve made a huge difference here in Sparrow. You’re far braver than anyone else I know. I think Zoey gives you courage.”

  I gave a small smile at the thought, and tipped my head to look at her in the mirror. “Sometimes courage and stupidity look a lot alike.”

  She smiled back. “Just be sure you know which one you’re using.”

  I laughed. “I’ll try.”

  She put on another strip. I held still as she took off the rest that had moved and placed new ones. “He should have used staples,” she said.

  I looked at her in surprise. “How do you know about staples?”

  “Chewbacca got tangled in a barbed wire fence once. Staples held him together until he healed.” She met my gaze. “You could definitely use some staples. I’m surprised Dr. Carrison didn’t suggest them.”

  “He did,” I replied. “I promised him I would take it easy.”

  She shook her head. “Since when is painting a room taking it easy?”

  I grinned. “Since my other option is fighting b
ad guys and riding my motorcycle.”

  “Good point,” she replied.

  I stood and pulled on my shirt. She helped me get it over the bandages. I was amazed at how sore I was from both the fight and the painting. “I think I’ll call it a night,” I said.

  “You probably should,” she agreed.

  I smiled and left the room.

  MONDAY MORNING FOUND ME at an early tutoring session with Martin before school. Thanks to the principal’s discretion, Martin apparently assumed I was just another idiot in need of some serious help in order to graduate. Unfortunately, I played the part well.

  “Sixty-six grams,” I answered.

  Martin shook his head. “You have to use the conversion to change moles of ethane to moles of carbon dioxide. That way, you can use the mole-to-mole conversion factor in both calculations.”

  My brain hurt. “So I have to do two separate equations?”

  Martin nodded. “When arbitrary quantities of two reactants are given in a problem, you have to solve the problem twice.”

  “Each reactant has to be solved separately,” I replied, catching on.

  He nodded.

  At his exasperated look, I asked, “What?”

  He shook his head. “Do you even study at night?”

  “I try,” I replied. “But my nights are, well, busy.”

  He sighed. “Try harder. If you want to walk at graduation, you’ve got a ton of work to do.” He flipped through the folder on the table. “The way things are, I can’t understand why Principal Dawson is so keen to see you graduate. It looks like summer school would be a good thing for you.”

  “Are you going to summer school?” I asked pointedly.

  Martin nodded with enthusiasm. “I’m a teacher’s aide. I always go to summer school.”

  “Of course you do,” I muttered.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll do what I can to get you to graduate on time.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Just when I was beginning to think Martin Carrison was a decent guy, the bell rang, summoning everyone to class. I reached English in time to see the Bulldog Bulletin on everyone’s cell phones. The headline proclaimed, “Black Rider Double Terror.”

  The girl to the right of me saw me looking at her phone and passed it over. I skimmed the article quickly. “Not only has the Black Rider taken on a partner in his ride of torment, but he brings along a knife and a bat in order to ensure that the damage they incur is extensive. No one is safe while the Black Rider is on his rampage. Did we do something wrong? Does the Black Rider feel Sparrow hasn’t appreciated his help? Or has he tired of being a hero and decided to ride like the devil his color choice embodies?”

  I sat back in my chair, feeling sick to my stomach. Perhaps Dr. Carrison had been right. If Martin knew the truth, he could help me save the Black Rider’s name. I may choose never to ride again, but I hadn’t bled for the town for nothing.

  After school, I drove the four-wheeler to the junkyard. Jagger came out along with his ferocious little Chihuahua, Mick. Mick bounced around my ankles without barking this time. I bent down and was surprised when the dog actually let me pet him.

  “Somebody missed ya,” Jagger noted in a level tone.

  “It’s been a while,” I replied apologetically. “Things have been busy.”

  Jagger nodded. “I ‘eard. I was wonderin’ if you’d decided to ride again.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I’ve got to do something. Sitting and waiting is driving me crazy.”

  He smiled and ran a hand down his beard. “I thought I knew ya better than that. But Sally’s ‘ad ‘er doubts. She says we don’ deserve ta Black Rider no more after all that’s been writ.” When he mentioned the name of the woman at the bar he frequently visited, a hint of red crossed his cheeks.

  “I’m glad you’re still seeing her,” I replied. “She sounds like a nice woman.”

  “She’s not,” he said. He then chuckled. “I think that’s why I like ‘er.”

  I laughed. “I’ll have to meet her sometime.”

  He nodded. “After ya fix this Black Rider nonsense.”

  “I’m leaving right now to tell Martin who I am.”

  Jagger stared at me in surprise. “You mean the writer of ta articles for the Bulldog Bulletin?”

  I nodded.

  “Ya think that’s the best move?” he asked, his shaggy eyebrows raised.

  I pulled on the bulletproof vest Jagger insisted I always wear, then drew my riding jacket over it. “So much damage has been done to the Black Rider’s name that I’m not sure anything can save it, but I’ve got to try.”

  “What about ta fake riders?” he asked.

  “Two of them are locked up. I’m hoping an article on it might discourage the rest, however many there are.”

  “I’m hopin’ yer right,” Jagger said, his expression troubled. “Because somebody went through a lot a trouble and expense ta put a black mark on ta Black Rider’s name.”

  I slid my helmet on. “I’m planning to find who’s at the bottom of it. In the meantime, I need the town to know that the Black Rider isn’t against them. They need to know he’s still on their side.” I pushed the starter on the black CBR.

  “Good luck,” Jagger called over my motorcycle engine. “Take care a yurself, kid.”

  I waved and drove up the dusty road away from the junkyard.

  I traveled along streets I had seldom visited on my motorcycle. My tires ate up the asphalt with effortless ease. I allowed the distance to clear my mind, freeing me from the cares that had been piling up since the first copycat rider appeared. I loved the path that spread before me, forever humming beneath my tires. I could stay on my motorcycle. I could just ride, taking whatever direction met my whim, and not stopping until my past was merely a rumor that would also fade with time.

  I toyed with the idea of driving to Warrell to visit Madelyn. Four hours didn’t seem far enough to keep me away from her; I could get back in the early hours of the morning. I imagined her face if I pulled up. Warmth flooded me at the thought of her warm hazel eyes and the way her fingers touched my jaw when we kissed. I missed her so badly. Waiting for the Spring Festival the next weekend felt far too long.

  It was with great effort that I eventually turned my tires back toward Sparrow. I had to finish what I had set out to do. The setting sun cast the town in a silhouette of old structures that warred with the new. A few establishments had been built in the last couple of years that stood out in stark contrast to the patterns and architecture of old city life.

  I realized I liked the older structures better. I didn’t want Sparrow to change. The old-town feeling and archaic ways had driven me crazy when I first moved to Sparrow; now I balked against change just like the established citizens did. Somehow, I had found myself a part of Sparrow’s tradition, and I needed to fix what was broken to make it right again for all of Sparrow, including myself.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the tiny pizza house that took up about the same amount of space as the living room at the Ashbys’. When I stepped inside, all eyes turned to me. It wasn’t hard to spot Martin in the corner with the usual large pizza he ordered for himself. At my appearance, his gaze went wide behind his glasses.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” a tall girl with freckles on her nose said from behind the counter.

  I glanced over. The owner, a big man with an apron tied around his generous middle, stood near the back with his arms crossed and flour on his fingers. He had been kind to me before; it hurt to see the distrust on his face.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” I told the girl at the counter.

  When she glanced over her shoulder at the owner for guidance, he nodded, his expression searching.

  I looked back at the tables behind me. “Martin Carrison, I need to talk to you.”

  The students on dates and sitting in big groups turned to look at the school reporter. He shrank in his corner as if hoping to disappear behin
d his pizza.

  “Come on, Martin. I just want to talk.” I thought of the time I had agreed to let him take pictures of the Black Rider before a football game to show support of the team. “You owe me that much.”

  “C—can we talk here?” Martin asked.

  I shook my head.

  He rose reluctantly from the table. As he made his way between the other diners, he glanced back at his pizza as though worried it would be the last time he saw something so wonderful. I left through the door without waiting.

  I heard his footsteps as he ran to catch up to me. I swung my leg over the motorcycle. “We need to go somewhere private where we can talk.” I nodded toward the pizza house windows where everyone peered out into the gathering darkness. At my attention, they quickly withdrew.

  Martin nodded. “We can, uh, go to my house,” he suggested.

  I shook my head. “I know too many of your family members already.” Surprise touched his gaze, but I continued, “The old farm equipment display in the park. Meet me there.”

  He hesitated. “Can I grab my pizza?” At my nod, he headed back to the pizza house.

  “Martin,” I called.

  He paused.

  “Don’t call the cops. They know what’s going on and don’t need to be bothered with this.”

  It took a minute, but he finally nodded and began walking again.

  The park was only three blocks away. I drove there and hid my motorcycle in the shadows behind the display. I studied the old tractors as I waited for Martin to arrive. Someone had spent a great amount of time restoring the equipment and painting the items bright green, yellow, and red. There was an old plow, a regular tractor, and several other pieces I didn’t know.

  I heard Martin’s car pull up, and turned around as he was crossing the lawn. A smile broke across my face, hidden beneath my helmet. Martin had gained some courage since the pizza house. He stomped with each step, his right hand clenched in a fist while his left held what looked like a recorder. The angry glare on his face was laughable with his small stature and overly large glasses. I maintained my composure with some difficulty.

  “How dare you inflict destruction on our town?” Martin demanded when he drew near. “How is Sparrow supposed to trust its guardian and hero when everyone’s worried he’s going to destroy their means of living while they sleep?”