by Asta Idonea
On Saturday, following a difficult night, I confess, I briefly considered writing a letter to Stan Lee, asking for advice. If anyone could help, I was convinced Stan was the man. However, thoughts of other men—ones in lab coats, wheeling stainless-steel tables affixed with leather straps to hold me down—had caused a swift change of heart on that front. Medical guinea pig still wasn’t on my list of favored future prospects.
A faint melody enticed me and I plucked a few strings. I could hear the song in my head. Nonetheless, the notes remained elusive, nothing I played quite matching my mental medley. Usually I had a good ear, but today my head simply wasn’t in the game. I brought down the pick with greater force, determined to wrest a decent tune from the instrument before day’s end, but the melody resisted, and a moment later, the E string snapped, lashing my fingers as it whipped out, drawing from me a pained squawk.
My mind well and truly off my music, I set aside the now-five-stringed guitar and studied my hand. The fingers were a little red, but the wire hadn’t broken the skin. I sucked them into my mouth anyway, which helped soothe the throbbing. The action rubbed my palm against my chin. Although they were not yet fully visible, I could feel the telltale scratch of hairs. It appeared they hadn’t stopped growing after all; they were simply doing so a lot slower than before. Immortality as another side effect of the slime was, therefore, off the cards. Longevity remained a possibility, but only time would tell on that one.
So far, the telekinesis was the only major change. I had noticed increased vigor, but that appeared to stem more from my higher energy levels. There was no substantial increase in my physical strength, nor was I completely impervious to injury. Although, I did seem less prone to smaller hurts, such as paper cuts—before the slime, I reckon the snap of that guitar string just now would have drawn blood—and when I did bruise or ache, the discoloration and pain disappeared far quicker than in the past, often in a matter of hours. This was a handy development for someone prone to walking into things.
I surveyed my hands again, turning them back and forth. All I saw were bitten nails and slight indentations in the callused pads from the guitar strings. I had focused on my hands for the past two days, convinced they held secrets yet to be discovered. On that first night, after the slime scene, I hadn’t only exhibited telekinetic powers, I’d also had flames leaping from my hands. To date, though, my attempts to reproduce that had failed.
I tried again now. I stared at my fingers and visualized flames bursting forth. Nothing. Not so much as a tingle or even a faint warmth. Maybe I had imagined that part. Or perhaps it had merely been the product of whatever chain reaction gave me these powers—expelled and gone forever.
With a sigh, I sank against the chair back-cum-headboard and reached mentally for the can of Coke I’d set upon the chest-cum-coffee table. It wobbled for an instant, then flew into my hand. At least the can and most of the contents arrived. Some of the liquid splashed out on the way and soaked into my bottom sheet. Luckily, the sheets were brown, so once the wet patch dried, no one would see a stain. They were due for a wash soon, anyway. When I summoned enough enthusiasm to visit the launderette, or when I’d eliminated my current supply of clean clothes—whichever happened sooner.
I sipped my drink. However, a second later I spluttered, spraying more soft drink across the bed. A terrifying thought had occurred to me, so hideous it even eclipsed my concerns over my new powers. What was I going to wear on Thursday? My date with an A-list celebrity was due to take place in a mere forty-eight hours, and I hadn’t given a single moment’s contemplation to my attire. An urgent visit to the launderette was now on the cards today, after all.
Chapter Seven
I TUGGED at my collar. It wasn’t buttoned all the way, yet still it strangled me. Why hadn’t I worn a T-shirt? Casual attire was less restrictive. However, even the part of me that detested formal dress had balked at appearing for my first date with Kane Teague in trainers, jeans, and tee. I wanted there to be a second rendezvous, so I’d opted for a shirt and leather lace-ups. The jeans stayed, but they were my smartest black pair, not the faded blue with holes in the knees. I’d even gone so far as to spend half an hour taming my usually unruly locks into the semblance of a style.
Understandably, despite my lengthy personal grooming, I’d arrived both in the town and at our meeting point ridiculously early. The motel didn’t allow check-in until two, but they’d agreed to hold my bag behind the front desk until I returned and could access my room. Now, at five past two, I was already seated in the tiny cafe, doing my best to ignore the waitress’s glares. I assumed she took umbrage over the fact that I’d not placed an order. I had considered doing so, if only to avoid a confrontation; however, I’d worried that having any empty plates or glasses before me when Kane arrived would look rude. Besides, with the worst of the lunch rush over, the place was far from packed. It wasn’t as if I was holding up a table while would-be diners queued out the door.
The minutes ticked by at an agonizing pace. Had I been alone, I might have amused myself by hovering the saltcellar or the small, laminated menu card. As it was, I slouched and worried at my fingernails until the discordant jingle of the bell above the door announced a new arrival.
I rose as Kane walked toward me, but I found myself unable to meet his eye, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. Kane wore a simple jeans and T-shirt combo; I was woefully overdressed.
“Oswell.”
Kane half-raised his hand, then lowered it. There was a moment’s pause—awkward and silent—before he opened his arms and pulled me into a brief, stiff hug. Kane Teague was embracing me. I should have been ecstatic, but I was too nervous to enjoy it.
“It’s great to see you again. Shall we order?”
I nodded, relieved to be doing anything that didn’t involve finding something to say.
We settled at the table and Kane picked up the menu. The waitress appeared beside us so fast, I wouldn’t have been surprised had someone told me she’d teleported across the room. Luckily, I’d made my selection half an hour prior, so I rattled off my order while Kane perused the list of offerings. Once he’d read off his own choices, the waitress flashed a beatific smile at him and flitted away. This change of attitude told me that Kane Teague’s appearance in the establishment had more than made up for my earlier table-hogging, nonordering antics. The waitress confirmed that theory a moment later when she returned brandishing complimentary fruit salads to accompany our sandwiches and drinks, after which she asked Kane to sign one of the cafe’s plain white serviettes, simpering and then scurrying away with a delighted expression once he’d done so and handed it back to her.
“So,” Kane said when we were at last alone, “how’s things? What have you been up to since last week?”
The mundane question was easy to answer, and some of the tension left my shoulders. “Nothing exciting. Killing time mostly, though I also worked on some songs.”
“You’re a musician?” Kane’s grin highlighted his sharp cheekbones and displayed a row of neat, ultrawhite, perfect teeth.
I kept my own lips firmly pressed together as I returned the smile. “Musician is probably too generous. I’m no rock star, and a Grammy is forever out of reach. I suppose you’d say I’m a keen amateur. I play because I enjoy thinking up lyrics and picking out a tune on my guitar. I don’t dream of topping the charts.”
“Do you ever perform?”
“Nah.” I barked out a laugh and studied the tabletop. “It’s just for me.”
“Perhaps I can persuade you to play one of your songs for me someday.”
I looked up sharply, caught by both his interest and the reference to future days together. “You’d really want to hear them?”
“Of course.”
Conversation ceased as Keeley—I’d finally spotted her name on her badge—set down the rest of our food and our drinks. Assured twice that there was nothing else we needed, she left, and we got stuck into our light meals. I noticed that Ka
ne wolfed his down. They must have worked him hard, with few breaks, during the morning shoot. I polished off my own repast at speed, too, without tasting a single bite. How could I concentrate on cheese and pickle encased in bread when a tight-fitting tee hugged the body of which I’d dreamed for years barely a meter from me? I wish I could assert that I was more concerned with Kane’s personality than his pecs, but in that moment, my libido was well and truly in the driver’s seat, strapped in and unwilling to switch and ride shotgun. The world can sue me if need be; I’m only human.
In my defense, I did drag my mind from the gutter once we’d emptied our plates and Keeley had whisked them away. I nursed my mug between my hands and gave careful thought to the direction our discussion should take.
“So, Kane, how does it feel to be a superhero?”
His laugh was gloriously gleeful. “Actually, it’s great.” He leaned closer. “Don’t tell anyone, or my agent will kill me, but I really only took the role for the exposure. Comic book franchises have done wonders for other actors, and my agent convinced me to get on the bandwagon. I didn’t expect to get much out of the role, either emotionally or artistically, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”
“Well, your arse does look great in those tights.” I would have slapped a hand over my mouth if I hadn’t thought that would make it worse. I settled on a swift apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It sounded pervy, didn’t it?”
Kane waved away my concerns. “Don’t worry. I think my agent is rather counting on that reaction too. He’ll be pleased to hear it’s a go. The costume’s not all it’s cracked up to be, though. It may look cool on the outside, but you wouldn’t believe the number of wedgies. If I look constipated or pained in any of the shots, you’ll know why. But then, you’ll find out for yourself tomorrow.”
“I will?”
“Yeah. All the extras will be wearing copies of my costume. Wardrobe rushed them out during the week. Barry’s trying some weird psychological scene in which I face myself, or my inner demons—he can’t seem to make up his mind on that point. It all sounds a little out there to me. Still, I have one thing to thank the scene for.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
He gave a crooked smile. “You, of course. The opportunity for this date.”
I wasn’t mentally prepared to address a comment like that yet, so I flashed what I hoped was a thankful, but not cocky, smile of my own and took another sip of my drink. Being anyone’s point of focus in this sort of situation always aggravated the natural shyness I constantly strove to overcome. The fact that Kane Teague was that person made it worse. A change of conversational direction seemed in order.
“If you hadn’t made it as an actor, what would you have done?”
Kane accepted this new topic with good grace. “Honestly? I haven’t a clue. I went straight from high school to drama school. It never occurred to me to do anything else. If I suddenly found myself out of work, I’d be lost. I save, though, and try to live frugally. Aside from some classy suits for premieres—and many of those come from sponsors—and other such necessities, I invest as much of my earnings as I can, ready for a rainy day. What about you? What would you do if you weren’t an actor?”
My sigh was heartfelt and uncontainable. “I think you’re being overly generous, yet again, to say that I’m acting now. I only get two or three roles a year, and one of those is usually a Christmas panto. The rest are nameless crowd parts. I’ve never had a single film credit.”
“You will now.”
“Maybe, but it’s hardly a stellar career. I did complete a degree before drama school. However, an upper second in English Literature doesn’t exactly equip me for anything.”
The sudden press of Kane’s hand atop mine made me jump. His skin was warm and soft, and the contact sent tiny sparks racing up my arm.
“Don’t give up. Not yet. You have so much depth. You understand the human condition. Not all actors can claim that.”
“You really think so? But you hardly know me.”
“Maybe not. Not yet. But I could tell that much from your letters. Others dwell on my hair, my eyes”—he winked—“or my arse, but you wrote pages of careful commentary on the characters I’d played. It made you stand out. That’s why I remembered you. Stick with it, Oswell. You never know what’s around the corner.”
A tear threatened, so I resorted to humor. “Knowing my luck, a steamroller.”
We shared a laugh, and for the first time, for a moment, I forgot that I was sitting with a screen star and saw Kane only as an approachable and down-to-earth man. His handsome face still resulted in some feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness on my part, but he seemed less godlike and more human.
Keeley brought us a second round of drinks and then a third. When the cafe closed at four thirty, we shifted to a nearby pub. Installed in the darkest, most private corner of the shabby establishment, we sipped pints and continued our conversation, undisturbed by either the publican or fellow punters.
As to what we discussed, I suppose I would describe it as everything and nothing; we simply chatted about whatever subjects came to mind. We compared childhoods, we rated our favorite movies, we exchanged book recommendations and music tips, and we got to know each other, just as Kane had desired.
I’d believed myself already an expert on Kane Teague, having been a dedicated fan for several years. However, I soon discovered how little I knew. Until that day, I’d never realized that Kane was allergic to horses and had been on medication to combat his symptoms throughout the filming of his 2014 Western. I hadn’t known that his favorite color was really pale pink. His agent had advised him to say “blue” whenever asked because he’d feared that if Kane admitted to pink, it would make Kane come across as too camp. Likewise, Kane’s change of agent early in his career had not been due to commission rates, as posited, but because the original agent had refused to countenance Kane’s coming out, claiming it would destroy his budding career. On that note, I was thrilled that Kane had proved the man wrong.
“I hate dishonesty,” Kane said, fingering his glass. “Even the tiny thing over my favorite color irks me. There was no way I was going to lie about something so important.”
Kane’s willingness to open up and share these little secrets and anecdotes caused a pleasant tightness in my chest. He had to like me to tell me so much, and he had to trust me to do so without fear that I’d blab to one of the tabloids the second we parted. It made me long to trust him in return, and I did to an extent, speaking of my hopes and fears and relating some embarrassing past exploits, many of which brought forth another of his delightful, joyful laughs.
On one point, however, I held back: my physical reaction to the slime. Several times it was on the tip of my tongue to mention the incident, but I always changed my mind at the last moment. To speak of foolish university pranks was one thing. To share something so cataclysmic was a different ball game. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Kane to keep my secret… or maybe it was. After all, nothing he’d told me could have resulted in his incarceration as a lab rat. Even the favorite color thing was unlikely to cause more than a brief media frenzy before another story caught the world’s attention. Same with the revelation about his former agent—a few days trending on social media and it would all be forgotten.
A nugget of paranoia awoke inside me and whispered that maybe the whole point of this date was to charm a confession out of me. It would explain why someone like Kane Teague would express an interest in someone like me. That was ridiculous, though. Had they wanted to force an admission, there were easier means than making Kane take me out to lunch. Besides, though a consummate actor, nothing about Kane’s words or actions had seemed unnatural or forced. Mocking myself for my ludicrous suspicions, I banished all such thoughts and set about recapturing my earlier enjoyment as daylight dwindled.
After four pints we called it a night since we were both due on set in the morning and needed dinner and sleep. We stepped out into t
he cool evening air and set off toward the high street. The stores had closed and only a few people passed us on our walk, heading in and out of the town’s handful of restaurants and bars.
We had almost reached the market square, where our paths would diverge, when Kane grasped my hand and tugged me sharply to the right, down an unlit alleyway between two shops. There, in the semidarkness, he pulled me close and kissed me.
I was too taken aback to react for a moment, but then I sank into his embrace. The kiss was tentative and tongue-free. It can’t have lasted more than a few seconds; however, to me, it felt like an eternity. By the time we parted, I was half-hard, my heart racing. Had I needed anything else to convince me of Kane’s sincerity and put any lingering doubts to bed, that kiss would have accomplished it.
“I want to see you again.” Kane’s breath was hot against my tingling lips.
“Well, tomorrow we’ll—”
“Not on set. I mean like this, alone.”
The last thing I wanted was to ruin the mood or come across as reticent or, worse, uninterested, but it behooved me to remind Kane of one simple and highly pertinent fact.
“You leave for LA on Saturday.”
The expletive that passed his lips was one I’d never heard from him outside of a script. “I’ll be gone nearly four weeks on this damn tour. I’m back in London for a while after that, though, so we can meet then. Will you give me your number?”
We exchanged contact details there in the alley, the light from our phone screens the only illumination, casting an eerie glow over our hands and faces as we typed. That done, Kane graced my lips with one last, chaste kiss.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
