“We’ve learned something else important. The panels can only come through to you while you’re asleep.”
“If it happened last night, why did I have the dream today? Why not two dreams last night? This is confusing.”
“No idea, except maybe a hiccup in time. But let’s not go there, Chloe. Time travel is only a theory.”
“I don’t like it, but I’m too happy right now to look this gift horse in the mouth.”
“Too right. Enjoy being off the hook.”
“I will, now I’m sure I’m not Typhoid Mary.”
“You’re not lonely in New York City all by yourself?”
Uh-oh. Roland wasn’t content to be my friendly lifeline. “No. Eric Wood has been showing me the town. We’re doing karaoke tonight.” Uh-oh again. Why did I tell Roland?
“Nice of him.” There was frost in Roland’s voice.
“It’s not that way,” I said. “I’m spending time with Eric to pump him for information. For clues.”
I heard a snort on his end of the line. Roland was a sweet guy, but he was a guy. He knew better. “Yeah, I’ll bet there’s some pumping involved.”
“No need to be crude.” Why did I attempt to mollify Roland? He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m jealous and missing you.”
“We broke up, remember?” I said it as gently as I could.
“Yes, but you didn’t mean it. It was all because I got nosy about the mystery comic art.”
“I did mean it. We knew it was over even before my life got messed up.”
Silence.
“We’re friends now, Roland. Not lovers. Can’t you live with that?” I needed his friendship, especially in this confusing situation.
“Okay,” he sighed. I knew he didn’t want to accept it. We clicked off.
I shook off the downer end to our call. I had a couple of hours of free time. Other girls would have gone shopping on Fifth Avenue. Not me.
I started drawing another episode of “Average Chloe.” Of course it was anything but average right now, as I included the cocktail party chat and some big NYC buildings, and Fifth Avenue. Ironic already. I even let my character play tourist in NYC and gaze about in awe. I posted it to the site, feeling more satisfied than I had in two months. “Average Chloe” was doing okay, having an adventure.
I placed another wakeup call request, set my alarm just in case, and settled down for a dream-free nap. I wasn’t afraid to sleep anymore.
I woke feeling more human than I had in weeks. I chose my own wardrobe for the night ahead. No pastels. I found a skinny, shiny black top and some microfiber pants with a leather look. I loaded up on eye shadow and liner. I didn’t aim for Goth, exactly, but I was inspired by the style. I wasn’t an exotic beauty, but I looked good. I’d already done the extra hygiene routine, shaving the legs, packing some condoms in my tiny purse, etc. I hadn’t made up my mind yet, but a girl’s got to prepare for the possibilities.
After last night, I knew what Eric hoped we’d be doing this evening. I was up for it. I’m not a slut, but a woman has needs. I threw Roland out over a month ago, and we had not indulged in any booty calls since. Eric put out all the right vibes that he would be a very good time in bed. If we were both mattress-minded a couple hours from now, I’d go for it. If not, I’d return to my hotel room alone as I did last night.
Another thing. I wanted to see his famous apartment, which was profiled in Wired Magazine, and look for clues.
Anyway, Eric might only take me out to a late dinner and a club, and then drop me at my hotel.
Nah. He wanted me.
*
I dined with Eric at an Asian fusion restaurant. The décor was retro mixed with techno. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. The place had a modern kind of sleek, no-frills elegance. His celeb status got us a fabulous table, and the food was fascinating. Little plates held interesting tidbits, none so spicy that they overpowered the various elements.
People constantly greeted Eric. Both the chef and the owner came to talk to him. I was impressed in spite of myself. I’m used to being anonymous wherever I go. He wasn’t movie star famous, but he was a known celebrity in this big town.
Afterward, we tried for spontaneity again. We strolled around midtown near Central Park, and watched the tourists piling into the horse-drawn carriages. Horses stink. I was never into them the way the other pre-teen girls were. Before Eric suggested we take a carriage ride, the ultimate in out-of-towner tourist silliness, it was time to enlighten him about my background.
“By the way, Eric, I don’t need to do all the tourist cliché stuff,” I said.
He turned and looked down at me. “You’ve been here before?”
“I grew up in Queens.” I smiled. It was a one-up kind of smile, I admit it.
Eric got the joke. “All right. Scrubbing my plan to overwhelm the country girl with my big city ways,” he said, with a smile in his voice. He shrugged off the loss of his insider’s edge. He linked his arm with mine and we strolled down Fifth Avenue.
I immediately shivered. The sexual attraction was there, all right. He knew it, too.
With the commuter crowds long gone, the city sparkled. Fifth was its faceted jewel. The people walking so briskly surely led exciting lives. They didn’t stay home and watch TV shows. They lived the lives portrayed on TV.
Eric held my hand and acted the charming date. Our unspoken attraction hummed. We looked in a window with a display of toys. As I glanced at him to see his reaction, I noticed again how unhandsome he was and yet how compelling. Roland was a cute boy. Eric was a man. He hadn’t bothered to improve his scarred face surgically. He towered over most men. If I understood the male pecking order correctly, by sheer height alone Eric automatically was the alpha of any group. Eric certainly was the commanding type. He oozed confidence.
But women were not as impressed by height as men were. Women liked clear skin because they themselves were held to that standard. Getting girls must have been a challenge for Eric before he obtained power and fame. Getting me wasn’t going to be. Not with all the electricity surging between us every time we touched.
Eric was determined to show me a good time first, though. He took me to two different karaoke bars. One was filled with Japanese tourists who liked doing Elvis imitations. They were endearingly goofy. The second bar contained people interested in comic books, singing very silly songs. We joined in for a while. It was fun, but I couldn’t recall a single tune later. By midnight I might have been blitzed, since of course we had drinks in each bar. I giggled and sang a silly jingle about a marching society as we stumbled out of the second bar after 1 AM.
“We’re near my place,” Eric said as we stood on the sidewalk to catch our breath. “C’mon, you wanted to see it,” he said.
I waggled a finger at him. “Sneaky. No, I did not agree.” I could see the wheels going around in Eric’s head as he sought another way to con me into going to his apartment. Guys could be so obvious. Even the sophisticated, successful ones. There still was a streak of the Ohio boy in Eric.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll come see it, but only because I heard your co-op is a designer showcase. Lucky you.”
“Took me months of negotiating with the co-op board,” Eric said as we started walking.
“I hear they can be very picky.”
“I marshaled many experts to prove my plans weren’t trashy.” He made a noise of remembered frustration. Here was the artistic side of Eric, insisting his apartment be decorated in an exceptional manner, so noteworthy it caused a fight and even was profiled in a hip magazine. His victory over the co-op board was another demonstration of power. What an interesting method of showing both his taste and his strength.
The walk to his building was maybe a dozen blocks, practically around the corner in New York terms. Once I was inside his place, I understood the controversy.
“Wow.” I looked around. The theme of the co-op was crazy one-of-a-kind piec
es of art, all sorts. Modern comic book drawings mixed with Flemish and Italian masters from centuries ago. He had paintings. He had floor-to-ceiling murals in vivid colors. There were framed art backdrops for the amazing, clearly custom-designed and manufactured items I eventually realized were tables or chairs. A waterfall or three. Various light displays giving the main room an almost kaleidoscope feel. There was a couch, too, though it seemed suspended in midair on mere strings. Colors were equally unrestrained, with deep reds and bold purples mixing in unexpected and delightful ways. A tour de force that completely expressed Eric’s personality. The boldness. The sense of play. The complexity.
“How can you bear to let anyone see this?” I searched his face. “It’s appallingly intimate.”
He in turn searched my face. His gaze was intent, curious. “Most people don’t get it.” He slowly smiled. “But you do, don’t you?” The challenge was open. Like the room. Eric was laying aside all pretense. We didn’t have to verbally fence for a half an hour, or have another drink. We could get right to it.
I hadn’t fallen for a line, and I wasn’t blinded by lust, but the tension between us spiraled up until I thought I would burst with it. Something lodged in my throat and kept me from speaking. Eric saw it in my eyes. He walked over and stood directly in front of me, so close we were almost touching. He waited.
Sex only. An evening’s pleasure, nothing more. I swayed and then leaned into his chest. His arms came up to hold me securely against the heat of his body, the thud of his heart. My own thudded in response. It was too much. I should break away. I couldn’t do this. I had to do this.
“I won’t care,” I muttered.
Eric held me closer. His thighs pressed against mine.
I shuddered in response.
“I promise. Only some fun.” All the while, as he said those short, choppy words, he lied. He kissed my eyes, my eyelids, my eyebrows, my forehead, my hair, my nose, every inch of my half-hidden face he could reach. Slowly. The tenderness undid me. My body sagged. Still I tried to fight, to bury my feelings.
“Just fun, you hear?” I began to kiss him, great big nasty kisses meant to be full of selfish lust and no feeling. I couldn’t keep it up, because with each kiss I took, he gave and gave, roughly and gently, until he swallowed me whole, until I was surrounded by him.
*
Two hours later, I crept from his bed. Eric was asleep. I had to get away. I didn’t dare hang around to be trapped talking about what had happened between us. Or even letting it show on my face. I was too confused.
I shouldn’t trust Eric. He was too interested in the whole mystery supervillain thing. He was involved somehow. I should not fool myself that we shared anything tonight beyond sheer hedonistic sex. Yet something had happened. I needed to think, or I might get in too deep.
I also didn’t dare fall asleep here and have one of my dreams. What if a comic panel appeared on the nearest computer—his? No, I had to get back to my hotel.
I brought my hand up in what had become an automatic soothing gesture for me. All I encountered was my bare chest. My pendant was gone.
I found my pendant entangled with my camisole, stuffed in a corner of the bed. Quickly donning both, I finished dressing.
I was looking for my shoes when I heard it. Eric muttered in his sleep. As I turned back to the bed, he called out.
“I’m flying…the portal…amulet.”
My eyes opened wide. What did he see? Who was he in his dreams? I didn’t want to stay to find out. I ran.
Chapter 7
Friday
The second day of taping was impossible for me to wrap my mind around. I’d gotten back from Eric’s amazing co-op a complete emotional wreck. I’d spent a couple of hours berating myself for having sex with him and betraying my buddy Roland. Which was a waste. As much as I would bet my life on Roland’s loyalty and I did not trust Eric on the surface, something happened between me and Eric, something deep and profound and important and so ineffable I couldn’t find words for it. It scared me far more than the dreams and the crazy supervillain stuff.
I was acting like a girl from a very old-fashioned romance, weighing the merits of the boy next door, Roland, versus the glamour guy from the city, Eric. In those old romances, the heroines invariably chose the loyal and safe boy next door. I no longer wanted Roland that way. I wanted his friendship. Eric offered nothing specific beyond a good time in bed. Yet he’d already given me something else. I tried desperately to pretend I felt nothing.
Every girl ought to come to the big city and have a sexy evening with a rich, successful guy who lived in a splendid apartment. It didn’t have to mean anything. I wouldn’t even consider wanting a relationship with him. Too old school. Leave fantasies to the girlie girls who wore pink by choice.
Eric had talked in his sleep, and that spooked me in a different way. His words might have been related to the dreams I’d been having. It was too much of a coincidence that the city tour he took me on visited the very places the supervillain had attacked. If Eric was interested in me because he had some connection with the artwork mystery, or with the masked supervillain himself, it explained his push to see me constantly. As highly as I liked to think of myself, I still wondered why a man of his power, fame, and money could be interested in little old me, the indie webcomic artist. The only audible click between us was sexual, which didn’t count. Or did it?
*
Did I dream before the early morning wake-up call? No. I allowed myself to sleep for less than an hour.
I dragged myself to the studio, pained by the bright daylight of a blue sky morning. I could swear I saw a purple aura surrounding the building, but likely my exhaustion was playing tricks on me. Purple was becoming a color I feared.
Inside, everyone had arrived and was bustling about to make up for the time lost the day before. The wardrobe lady made quick work of me, getting me into another all-American girl outfit. I was so limp she had to push me over to the makeup guy.
“What have you been doing at night, girlie? You look like an armadillo combed your hair,” he said. He was a wizened little man in his forties who sported earrings and piercings to liven up his neat, restrained style.
“This is what a very good time looks like,” I replied deadpan.
“Right,” he nodded knowingly. He tsk-tsked and fixed me as best he could before sending me out to play my role as webcomics princess for the last time. I was in pink again. What a world.
Jerry arrived, surrounded by a protective entourage as usual. I pushed my way through to him. My last chance.
“Jerry. Could you look at something for me?”
“Sure. What is it?” He was his usual benign grandfather personality.
I pulled out my copies of the mystery drawings from my backpack. “Do you recognize the artist of these?”
“It’s you, Chloe. This is the page you submitted to the contest.”
“No, I didn’t draw it. It’s a long story.” There was no time. The assistant director was only a few feet from us, impatient to herd us to our places. “Doesn’t the art style remind you of anybody else’s? Or even the influence of anybody?”
“I don’t keep up with all the new artists. I’m too busy marketing the older material and the classic superheroes.” He shook his head.
“Doesn’t this purple-garbed supervillain look classic to you?”
We were out of time. The assistant, respectful of Jerry’s icon status, murmured politely in his ear while throwing me a nasty look for delaying him. The assistant’s arm was around Jerry to lead him to the set.
“Please, Jerry,” I begged, trailing along. “It’s very important. Please think about who could have drawn this art.”
Jerry’s eyes revealed his confusion. “Sorry.”
The assistant shook me off and led Jerry away.
I had failed again. I had not explained myself well. I stood alone as several people helped get Jerry set up with his microphone and his stool.
I had
a nasty feeling that something bad was about to happen, but I couldn’t seem to convey my sense of urgency to anyone else. Even Eric hadn’t really taken me up on it yesterday. He had his own agenda of questions. He hadn’t responded to mine.
Eric arrived. He gave me a distant nod. He didn’t smile or acknowledge our night together in any way. Maybe he thought I’d go up and slobber all over him and hump him on the spot. No. Cheap shot. He wouldn’t worry about me suddenly showing excess affection to him in a public place. Still, what was I supposed to think, except the obvious? He’d snubbed me. Fine. I got the message. It was a one-night stand after all, what I’d signed up for. I could coldly nod him right out of my life too, if that’s the way he wanted to play it. Done. Eric was over.
We played our roles through another inane reality TV show episode. We all made smiley faces at the cameras and each other as requested, and mouthed stupid lines the writers had made up with no sense of logic. Writing leaden dialogue, now there was a great job. Oh, how I wished I could go home. Not that I had a home now.
The torture was well underway when suddenly a purple haze surrounded Jerry. Was it an effect of special lighting? But the cameras were focused on the contestants.
Nobody else seemed to notice. Not even Eric, who had been on the alert all morning, watching like a hawk even though he never looked directly at me.
The purple haze intensified just as Roland burst into the studio. How had he managed to get through the intense security of 30 Rock? It was guarded like Fort Knox. Yet there he was, running, heading straight for Jerry, exactly as the purple haze condensed into a purple-garbed figure in front of Jerry. Of course it was the same bad guy as in my dreams.
Nobody screamed. Everyone must have thought it was a publicity thing or some newly decided cinema vérité segment. We had plenty of actors in costume, offering a wealth of possibilities for hammy superhero action.
The supervillain grabbed Jerry around the collar. “Where is it, old man? Tell me where the amulet is or I, the Purple Menace, will kill you.”
Temporary Superheroine Page 6
