“I don’t know. I don’t even know how it happened in the first place.”
Sally shakes her head. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Don’t you feel anything for me yet? Physically?”
“No!” she says loud enough that a few parents look their way. In a lower voice, she says, “Look, I did a little experimenting back in high school, but it was never really my thing.”
“Couldn’t you try? For me?”
Sally rolls her eyes. “Even if we did that, what would we tell Jenny? That Aunt Ally is her new mommy? She’s confused enough already.”
“You’re the one who started this whole aunt thing.”
“What else did you want me to do? I’m supposed to tell her that Daddy is a lady now?”
“It would be better than all this lying.”
“For you maybe. I don’t think it’s better for Jenny.”
“Why do you get to decide everything? I’m her goddamned father!”
Heads turn to them again. One of the caretakers comes over, a middle-aged woman with a plastic smile. “Perhaps you two should continue this discussion outside,” she says.
“I think we were done here anyway,” Allison growls.
“Allison—”
Before Sally can stop her, Allison is halfway around the world.
***
Allison sits in the Paris bar again. This time she wears the remains of her normal clothes and carries the charred lump that used to be her purse. At least the money in her pocketbook is still intact, as is her ID. “Mademoiselle, you’ve come back,” the bartender says.
“I did,” she says. She looks over at the old man at the counter, the same one as before. He sucks at the end of his bottle of wine while he sleeps. Allison gestures to her shredded clothes. “I must look like a mess.”
“Oui, but you are still the most beautiful person in here.”
“That’s not saying much.”
The bartender checks a clock over the bar. “It is almost closing time. Perhaps we could continue this discussion elsewhere?”
“Like at your place?”
“If you would like. It is small but very comfortable.”
She imagines a place about the size of her lab with an ancient brass bed and maybe a battered dresser for the only furniture. The kitchen would consist of a hot plate while the bathroom would be a communal one down the hall. Not the kind of place she wants for her first time with a man.
“Maybe we could get a hotel? I have plenty of money.”
“Yes, of course, mademoiselle. There is an excellent one just down the road. I will show you.”
“That would be very kind of you.”
He gives her a bottle of absinthe to work on while he closes up for the night. This entails waking the old man from his stupor. They argue in French for a few minutes, both gesturing to her now and again. From what she can ascertain, the old man is annoyed the bartender is taking Allison home. He wants her for himself. “What would you do with a woman?” the bartender says. His next insult suggests the bottle on the counter is the closest to a woman the old man has had in fifty years. The old man makes a lewd gesture and then staggers off into the night.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle, for such unpleasantness,” the bartender says.
“It’s all right. It was kind of cute actually the way you two fought over me. I’ve never felt so wanted before.” She means it as a joke, but starts to cry. There is a kernel of truth to what she’d said. Her own family has rejected her and she hasn’t seen any of her friends in weeks.
“Now, mademoiselle, don’t cry. We will go now and things will get better. You will see.”
“I hope so.”
There are still people on the streets of Paris at this time of night, out to observe the night life in the City of Lights. None of them seem to pay Allison any mind. Her tattered clothes aren’t much worse than some of the things that pass for clothes among other people. They probably think she did it on purpose as a fashion statement.
The hotel the bartender takes her to would probably get two stars out of four in a guidebook. It’s the kind of place that caters to tourists who don’t want to spend a lot of money. At this time of night, she imagines it also caters to some less savory clientele as well.
A fat man in a grimy T-shirt mans the desk. He talks with the bartender, who writes his name as Raul Hebert. She chides herself for going to a motel with a man whose name she didn’t even know. If Sally finds out—
Sally is the one who told Allison she should find someone else. So that’s what she’s doing. And if you’re going to look for love, why not in Paris? And why not with an attractive young man like Raul? She could do a lot worse, that’s for sure.
The man at the counter hands over a key. Raul leads Allison up the stairs to the third floor. She’s tempted to pick him up and run them both there, but then they would both need new clothes.
The inside of the room isn’t much better than how she imagined Raul’s apartment to be. There’s a queen-sized bed, a dresser, an old-style pitcher of water and basin, and a television that probably dates from before Allison was born as a man. “Not the most romantic setting,” she says.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle—”
“My name is Allison,” she says. “Dr. Allison Sable.”
“That is a beautiful name. I am Raul Hebert,” he says.
She giggles and says, “I know. I saw the register.” But she does like the way he says his last name as “A-Bear” instead of “He-Bert” like they’d probably say in America.
With a sigh, she kicks off her scorched shoes and then sits down on the bed. From her purse she takes out the bottle of absinthe. Raul fetches two glasses from the dresser and then sits down next to her. “A toast?” he says.
“Here’s mud in your eye,” Allison says. She chugs down her glass of liquor while Raul only sips at his. That’s probably a good idea since he doesn’t have a metabolism like hers. “So what should we do now?”
“What would you like to do?”
“That’s a good question.” She rolls on her back to stare at the water spotted ceiling. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
He puts a hand on her stomach and in a breathy voice says, “Then do what feels natural to you, mademoiselle.”
She doesn’t want to admit that what feels natural to her at the moment is to run back home and beg Sally’s forgiveness. Allison never experimented with guys. She never even thought about it. When she’d seen Ellis kiss other men, she had always turned away, embarrassed.
But she’s a woman now and women are supposed to like men. If she just gives it a try, maybe she’ll discover she likes it. Maybe nature will override all her psychological foibles and allow her to like it. There’s only one way to find out.
She sets her glass of absinthe aside and then begins to work on taking off her clothes. It’s pretty easy with her clothes being so shredded and full of holes. She discards the remains on the floor slowly, hoping to entice Raul.
When she’s fully naked, she asks, “See anything you like?”
“Very much.” He leans down to kiss her and run a hand through her hair. “You are a very beautiful woman.”
“I’m sure you’ve had better. I mean, I’m just a frumpy girl from Oregon.”
“The beauty is not all on the surface.”
“I see. I have inner beauty.” She smiles at him. “That’s a line you give ugly girls.”
“I am sorry, mademoiselle. I did not mean to offend.”
“It’s all right. For what it’s worth, I think you’re very handsome.”
She leans up enough to kiss him on the mouth. She hopes she’ll feel some spark, some surge of emotion to ignite an animal passion, but there’s nothing. She might as well be kissing her grandmother. That image prompts her to shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“Just a little. Maybe we should get under the covers.”
“A good idea.”
Once he pulls up the covers, she turns off the lights. As he starts to kiss her body, she says, “There’s something you should know. I’ve never been with a man before.”
“Never? That is impossible.”
“I was saving myself,” she lies.
“Then I am glad you chose me.”
“What should I do now?” she asks.
“Lie here and look as beautiful as you do now. I will take care of everything.”
“Oh, all right.” She closes her eyes as he enters her. It hurts more than she imagined. Is that what it felt like for Sally her first time? Was it like that for Cherie, Alan’s girlfriend in high school, the first girl he ever made love to?
Raul bangs away on her for a few minutes. Other than an occasional gasp, Allison doesn’t make any sound. He finally asks, “Are you all right, mademoiselle?”
“I’m fine. Just keep going.” She tells herself that once he finishes, everything will be different. She’ll be able to move on from Sally and Jenny, maybe start a new family. She could do it here in Paris, maybe even with Raul, if he’s willing; if she’s not another notch on his belt.
He’s still working on her when she hears the phone in her purse ring. From the ominous ringtone, she knows it’s Major Dalton calling. It could be something routine, but she doubts it. “I really need to get that,” she says.
“But mademoiselle, we are so close.”
“I’m sorry, but the fate of the world could be at stake.” She leans over as much as she can to grab the edge of the bag. She rummages around until she finds the phone.
Dalton’s face is deadly serious as she says, “I need you at base on the double. We’ve got a problem.”
“I’ll be right there.” Allison turns off the phone and then kisses Raul. “I’m sorry about this. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“It is all right, mademoiselle. I understand. You must put others in front of yourself.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she says. She smiles at him. “I really do want you to be my first. I promise when this is all over, I’ll come back and we can pick up where we left off.”
“I will be waiting.” He kisses her hand and then she’s off.
Chapter 22
Starla waits in front of the club dressed in a short white dress with matching heels Kate encouraged her to buy three days earlier. They’re supposed to go to the club tonight so Starla can show off the outfit and her recently permed hair to the male population of Atomic City. It’s not a proposition Starla is looking forward to.
The only problem is Kate hasn’t shown up yet. Starla checks her watch again. Kate is already an hour late. Starla looks down at her feet glumly. She remembers back in college when she’d waited three hours in a restaurant for Jackie Kearney to show up, but she never did. Starla had finally tired of eating free breadsticks and left.
She’s being stood up…again. The worst part is knowing it’s her own fault. Apex Girl had taken down a drug smuggling ring three hours ago. Kate is no doubt at the office, working feverishly on the story that Starla will have to edit before the morning edition.
She takes her phone out of her tiny purse. The least Kate could do is give her a call to say she has to work late on a story. That would only be polite, instead of leaving Starla here on her own, to feel like the kid no one wants to pick in dodgeball.
Someone jostles Starla’s elbow. She looks over to see a woman even taller and bulkier than her. “Those are some great falsies,” the woman says. “Where’d you get them?”
“Excuse me?”
The woman gestures to Starla’s chest. “They look so natural.”
Only then does Starla notice the “woman” wears a wig and has an Adam’s apple. Her face turns warm as she says, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
The bouncer looks her up and down. With a nod he lifts up the velvet rope so she can go inside. She pushes her way up to the bar and sits at a stool. The bartender is a girl who looks like a slightly older version of Robin Holloway, possibly not old enough to serve drinks. “What can I get you?” the girl asks.
Starla looks around at the bar to see what the other patrons are having. A woman next to her has something green in a martini glass. “I’ll have one of those.”
“One appletini coming up.”
While she waits for the drink, Starla wishes invisibility were one of her powers. She has never felt like such a loser in her entire life. Why does Kate keep blowing her off like this? They always seem to have a good time when they are together. Shouldn’t that make her enough of a priority to at least warrant a call?
The bartender sets her drink down in front of her. Starla sips at it; she would need about a gasoline tanker full of it to erase all her bad feelings and memories. This is stupid. There has to be something for Apex Girl to do. If not in the city then in the rest of the world. There’s always someone who needs to be saved.
But who’s going to save her? The thought has bubbled up in her mind from time-to-time, usually after a nasty scrape with a supervillain. To most people she might seem invulnerable, but she’s not. What happened with the Feminazi proved that. The ease with which Apex Man had been subdued had been mind-boggling. If not for Midnight Spectre, who knew what would have happened to them?
“Something wrong, honey?” the bartender asks.
“I’m fine,” Starla mumbles. She pulls out some money from her purse for the drink she barely touched.
She’s about to leave when she hears someone call out, “Miss Marsh?”
She turns to see Billy making his way through the crowd on the dance floor. “Billy?” she asks. This is about the last place she would expect to see a naïve kid like him. Then again, it’s the last place she would expect to find herself either. “What are you doing here?”
“Bachelor party for my future brother-in-law,” he says. “What about you? Are you and Miss King hitting the town?”
“Actually I’m solo tonight.”
“Oh. Well, you could always join me and my friends. We got plenty of room.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” What she means is that she doesn’t want to be the only woman at a table with a bunch of drunk guys.
“I understand,” he says, but there’s a sadness in his eyes and his lip trembles like she just ran over his puppy.
“Fine, just one drink won’t hurt.”
He takes her hand to lead her across the dance floor. The other four guys at Billy’s table are as nerdy and out of place as he is. She can’t imagine what possessed them to think this was a good idea.
“Guys, this is my friend Starla from work,” Billy says. She shyly nods to them. He pushes out a chair for her to sit on, between him and the man of the hour she assumes from the paper crown on his head. “This is my future brother-in-law Carter. And that’s Dave, Mike, and Gary.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. They stare at her like she’s an alien, which is technically true, but they don’t know it. She turns to Carter. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
He has a picture on his phone of a chubby girl with brown hair and glasses. “That’s Liz. My one and only.”
“She’s very pretty,” Starla says.
Billy flags down a waitress and orders a round of beers. Starla shifts uncomfortably in her seat. This is as awful as she imagined, only in a different way. The men aren’t slobbering all over her; they just stare at her, terrified. She desperately wants to leave, but doesn’t want to hurt Billy’s feelings.
“Starla’s a copy editor at the paper,” Billy says as the waitress shows up with their beers.
“You spell check the whole paper?”
“A lot of it. It’s not too difficult now with computers and word processors and everything.”
“She’s just being modest. It’s an awful lot of work.”
“Not as much as taking all those pictures, I’m sure,” she says, trying to deflect the attention.
“It’s a lot less expensive that’s for sure,” he says and laughs too har
d. “I’m going to be taking pictures at the wedding tomorrow. You want to come? I haven’t used my plus one yet.”
“It’s a little sudden,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not going to be too fancy. It’s outside, on the bluffs upstate.”
“I’ll probably have some work to do.”
“Oh, sure,” he says and gives her the hangdog expression again. “Most everyone from the paper is going to be there, even Mr. Black.”
She wonders if Kate will be there. Not if there’s a big story for her to chase. The scoop is always the most important thing to her. More important than her friends even. She wipes at her eyes again.
“I’m sorry, Miss Marsh. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not your fault. I was just thinking of something else. Excuse me.”
She gets up and then pushes her way through the dance floor traffic. She hurries into the nearest alley that’s empty except for a sleeping vagrant. It’s awkward to change into her costume while crouched behind a dumpster, but she manages it without waking the bum even.
Then she takes off.
***
The door to the Crystal Lair is still locked. There’s no physical key to get inside; she has to put one palm against a sheet of ice. She’s not sure if the scanner will be able to identify her fingerprints and DNA now. She figures those didn’t really change because of the Feminazi’s weapon, but she isn’t positive.
Finally the door to the Lair slides open. “Welcome Gor-Bul,” a mechanical voice says in Starla’s native language. A robot shuffles forward to meet her. “Do you require anything, sir?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
The robot buzzes. “Error. Voice print not identified.”
Her fingerprints and DNA might be the same, but of course her voice is different now. She’ll need to take some time to reprogram the service drones so they can understand her. The drone eventually pulls away to go about its maintenance of the Lair.
She wanders down a corridor of ice to the main room. Kate had called it the throne room when Apex Man had brought her here years ago. There’s a chair made of orange crystal in the center of the room, but it isn’t a throne. It’s a computer.
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