Two
Three superheroes pushing wheelchairs raced around the central nurses’ station. Twelve circling laps, then a final straightaway down the sixth-floor pediatric hallway of Beachside Memorial Hospital. The finish line was marked by a stream of toilet paper stretched between the drinking fountain and the door handle to the linen room. Easy to break.
In compliance with the motto of “safety first,” the kids were strapped to their chairs with physical therapy belts. They pumped their arms, shouted, urging Jake Packer, costumed as Captain America, Sam Matthews as Batman, and Joe as Super Zooker to go faster. Running was not allowed. A hospital regulation. So Super Z took giant steps. No rules broken. The galactic bounty hunter edged out the lead.
“Victory is ours!” Super Zooker shouted as his chair turned the corner. One of the RNs winked at him. He winked back. He liked a woman in scrubs. Accessible sex. Drawstring pants were easy to untie. Fast to drop around the ankles. A female physician in nothing but a white lab coat turned him on, too. A fantasy recently satisfied. She’d given him one hell of a physical.
“We’re going to win!” His nine-year-old patient squealed her excitement. Ashley’s face was flushed. Her thinning hair broke from her ponytail. Hanging limp and loose at her shoulders. Chemo had been rough on her. Her happiness meant everything to him. He’d known her for a year, from her initial diagnosis. Lymphoma. She was finally in remission. He gently wobbled her chair, making it more like an amusement park ride and drawing further giggles. She’d be going home soon. A second chance at life. Ashley was one of the lucky ones.
The bounty hunter pressed forward. A challenge was a challenge. The superheroes took winning seriously, even when it came to a walking wheelchair race. His chief competitor was Batman. The caped crusader rode his heels, all heavy-booted steps and flapping cape.
Batman purposely bumped the back of his calves. Super Zooker sneered over his shoulder. Batman bared his teeth. Captain America’s athletic lunges were close to catching up to them.
“Kapow! Wham! Zoom! ” Bat-fight words. “Point your toes!” he encouraged the boy in his wheelchair. David had a broken leg. His plaster cast was elevated on the foot plate. The two could easily take the win, a big toe ahead of everyone else.
Super Z carefully weaved his wheelchair from side to side so that Batman didn’t have room to sneak by. But the caped crusader cheated. He ducked through the nurses’ station, a diagonal shortcut that immediately put him ahead. David pumped his arm.
Super Zooker and Captain America booed him. Loudly.
Batman grinned triumphantly.
A small crowd had gathered. A dozen children emerged from their rooms, assisted by medical staff. It was slow going for most. Several leaned on walkers. Others clutched tall IV poles, supporting medical solutions and health monitors. All wanted to catch the outcome. Only three laps around the station left to go.
Captain America came on strong. He zigged right, zagged left, trying to pass Super Z. The Cap championed Drew, a twelve-year-old boy with a dislocated shoulder, set in a temporary sling. He faced surgery the next day.
Authentically costumed in his patriotic jumpsuit, Captain America embodied justice. He entrusted Drew to hold his disc-shaped shield with a five-pointed star design in its center. The boy strained against his therapy strap, leaning as far forward as his chest would allow. He reached out his good arm, held the shield high. A hand’s advantage at the finish line.
Tension grew as Super Zooker gained on Batman. Soon side by side, they exchanged a short, but significant look. Message received. A silent understanding. Super Z and the caped crusader gave ground, and allowed Captain America to squeeze in between them. A tight fit. The wheels on the chairs rubbed. They walked abreast the last twenty feet down the hallway, keeping perfect pace. The race ended in a three-way tie. Cheers rose. Everyone was a winner.
“Victory lap,” directed Super Z. The champions wound around the nurses’ station one final time to a round of applause.
An elevator door swooshed open, and Carla, a nutritionist, stepped off, pushing a snack cart. She regarded the kids in the wheelchairs. Their eyes were bright. Their smiles broad. Exhilaration pulsed as rapidly as their heartbeats.
“Superhero races,” she noted. “Lucky you. The best day ever. I bet you’ve worked up a hearty appetite.”
“Starving,” said Drew.
David nodded. “Super hungry.”
Sweet Ashley patted her tummy in agreement.
“Let’s get you back to your rooms, then,” she said. “I’ve got apples and PowerBars today.”
Food was motivation. The kids wiggled on their cushioned seats, excited to return. Captain America allowed David to keep his shield. A cool souvenir. Aides came to assist them back to bed. High fives and hugs all around, and the superheroes took their leave. Carla tossed each of them a nutty-fruity health bar. Captain America ate his on the spot. Super Zooker and Batman saved theirs for later.
Dr. Daniels was making his rounds, clipboard in hand. He motioned to the heroes. A tall man with white hair and glasses, he struck up a conversation. “Visitation day?”
Super Z nodded. “Visits and a race.”
Daniels was appreciative. “Your attention to our patients boosts their spirits. I personally want to thank you.”
“We enjoy spending time with the kids,” Batman said.
“Are you in a hurry to leave, or can you spare a few extra minutes?” the pediatrician inquired.
Super Z rolled back the cuff of his black shirt and looked at his watch. Late afternoon. Happy Hour at the Lusty Oyster called his name. Loudly. He wanted to get out of his costume and have a cold beer. The sooner the better. Instead, he asked, “What do you need?”
“The annual Kuts for Kids is taking place on the first floor, near the administrative offices,” Daniels told them. “The event is for children who have cancer or who have lost their hair due to a medical condition call alopecia areata. The nonprofit organization provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children who are suffering from long-term medical hair loss from any diagnosis. We have five volunteer stylists set up in the east wing executive conference room. Out with the table, in with the salon chairs. There’s a long line of women wanting to donate today. There’s also a representative from a hair prosthetics manufacturer on-site.”
“Wigs,” Super Z muttered. Sweet Ashley was hoping for one before she left the hospital.
“The prostheses restore self-esteem and confidence,” added the doctor, “enabling a child to face the world and her peers.”
Captain America scratched the stubble on his chin. “My hair’s not long enough to donate.”
Super Zooker pulled back his brown hair with a leather strip. He ran his hand along the back of his neck, and was about to offer four inches, when the doctor stated, “No haircuts for any of you. Twelve inches are needed for the wigs. Just take a few minutes on your way out to mingle with the donors. I have cafeteria workers passing out iced tea and cookies. Superhero gratitude would go a long way with the ladies.”
Batman widened his stance. He thumped his buff and bulked-up armored chest. “I’m in.”
“Me, too,” agreed Captain America. “I need to make an adjustment first. My rented jumpsuit isn’t sized correctly. It’s too damn tight—”
“You gained weight in the off-season,” Batman razzed.
“—and the material’s pinching my balls, chafing my thighs,” Cap finished. He headed to the men’s room.
Super Zooker nodded to the doctor. “We’re good, as soon as Captain America gets his boys in order.”
The doctor appeared pleased. “Boardwalk photographer Eden Cates-Kane is taking pictures for the local paper. You can get duplicates for the Richmond Rogues newsletter and website.”
Eden was married to third baseman Landon Kane. She owned Old Tyme Portraits, a lucrative shop on the boardwalk. The vintage photos showcased men and women standing behind life-sized cutouts, their faces pictured above vintage swimwear, Roaring Twenties attire, and numerous other frames. She was often called on to shoot events and activities around Barefoot William.
Captain America returned, and the physician said, “Have a good spring training. I have tickets to your weekend games. We’ll see you again soon.” A nurse flagged him down. He left the superheroes at the elevator bank.
Two doors slid open simultaneously. Batman and Captain America charged into one. “Race you to the lobby,” Cap called to Super Z as he hit the DOWN button, and the elevator doors began to close.
Joe shook his head. Men would be boys. The three ballplayers were always in competition, for one thing or another. He punched the outer wall button with his thumb. The doors to their elevator slowly opened once again, which gave him time to dive into the second lift and begin his own descent. He smiled to himself. He’d won this one.
Alone in the elevator, he took a moment to straighten his costume. He tucked his black shirt back into his black leather pants. Then patted down his brown suede duster. He tipped his crown-shaped bounty hunter hat with a braided band over his masked eyes. Went on to skim back his hair and retie the leather strip.
The elevator soon reached the lobby. He exited and looked around as he waited for his teammates. He noticed that their car stopped on every floor, picking up passengers.
Beachside Memorial was aesthetically healing. The entrance appeared more hotel than hospital. Tinted bronze glass curved around the wide, circular lobby. The Gulf view was both peaceful and soothing. The three-story atrium created adjacent to the reception area was spacious and airy. Members of a music ministry played the grand piano several times a week. Calming entertainment for both visitors and patients alike. The air smelled clean and fresh, not antiseptic.
Balloons and flowers brightened the windows of the gift shop. Soft, overstuffed seating eased a person’s bones. The chairs were so comfortable that a patient or visitor could actually fall asleep. An art display of inspirational sayings was on permanent display on the terrazzo floor. He crossed over to look more closely at the one word that stood out to him: heal. Life was all about recovery, whether from illness or from difficult challenges.
The scent of coffee drew his attention to a wide staircase that led to a small balcony café. Murals on both sides of the steps depicted the deep roots of the community. A polished wooden plaque gave an abbreviated history on local founding father William Cates.
Cates had left Frostbite, Minnesota, in early nineteen hundred, a farmer broken by poor crops and a harsh early winter. He’d sold his farm, hand-cranked his Model-T, and driven south, until Florida sunshine thawed him out. On an uninhabited stretch of beach, he’d rolled up his pants legs, shucked his socks and work boots, and walked into the Gulf. He immediately put down roots and called Barefoot William home. He later married. A family was born. The once sleepy fishing village slowly grew into a popular and prosperous resort town.
The Rogues team captain Rylan Cates was a direct descendent of William. Generations of Cateses still owned and operated boardwalk businesses. Heritage and family were all-important to them. They shared a closeness Joe had never known. He’d grown up with a father who cheated on his mother and who disciplined his kids with fists. His mom got even with his dad’s affairs by having her own. She used the grocery money to buy clothes. The cupboards and refrigerator were often bare. Not a healthy environment.
The free breakfast and lunch programs at school had fed Joe and his brother. No snacks or supper. He’d worked a part-time job at age sixteen, taking tickets at a movie theater. Minimum wage and buckets of popcorn. He’d filled his belly with cheesy corn. He scored a nightly box of Milk Duds for his brother.
Physically, he resembled his father. Both were big men with trigger tempers. That’s where the similarity ended. His father was a cheater. Joe was not. He’d fast-talked women into his bed. French-kissed them to drop their panties. For him, sex was sex, and relationships were short-lived. No commitments. Every lover was aware that he was hers for only one night. Sunrise showed him the door. He was then free to date someone new the next night. No consequences. No deception. Simple and straightforward. No tears or outbursts.
The shuffle of feet brought Sam Matthews up behind him. “Man, that elevator was slow,” he complained. “I thought we’d never get to the lobby.” His Batman cape drooped, the ends dusting the floor. He tightened the cords at his shoulders, hiked it up.
Pax came next. He bent and tugged his sagging red Captain America boots up his calves. They fell short. He rolled over the leather. “Fat knees,” he grunted. “I need to start jogging.”
“You could run back to the hotel,” suggested Sam.
Voice lowered, Pax said, “Not in this costume. This skintight jumpsuit sucks. I’m tucked and taped. My boys can’t breathe.”
“You’ll air it all out shortly,” said Sam.
Pax grunted. “The sooner, the better.” He eyed Joe. “Where are we headed?”
“The administrative wing. Down the hallway past the gift shop.” Joe led the way.
The three superheroes crossed the lobby, rounded the corner, and found themselves in a wide hallway, crowded with women. All sizes, all shapes, all with long hair. Five orderly lines led to the executive conference room. A woman in a navy suit, holding a clipboard, passed out release forms to the donors for the haircuts.
The men were immediately recognized. “Batman!” “Captain America!” “Super Zooker!” echoed all around them. The ballplayers moved up the line. The ladies smiled, accepting appreciative hugs and light kisses on the cheek from the heroes.
Cafeteria workers, carrying trays, served raspberry iced tea and snickerdoodles. Joe’s favorite cookie. He took two. He and his teammates chatted with the ladies. Complimenting their big hearts and willingness to support sick kids.
They worked their way into the conference room. Their final stop before heading out. Salon chairs spread the width of the room. Joe took in each of the five immediate donors. Three brunettes, a redhead, and . . . a blonde.
His heart stuttered. Stevie. She flipped her sunshine hair over her shoulder and settled on the far chair, nearest the wall. The stylist draped a blue nylon cape over her shoulders, then briefly stepped aside to speak to one of the other beauticians. Stevie sat with her hands clutched in her lap, her gaze lowered. Pensive or praying. He wasn’t sure which.
Joe held back. The simple fact that she was about to cut her hair gave him pause, despite the worthy cause. For some reason, her pose aroused him. Absurd notion; still, his imagination took hold. An erotic teasing. Fantasy unfolding.
He visualized his fingers in the shiny length, as he drew her to him. Slowly. Suggestively. Expectant. Deep kisses and discovering hands. Desire. Need. Readiness. Clothes disappearing. A quick strip. A naked oneness. She’d straddle his thighs. Her hair fanning her body. The strands splitting over her breasts. Peek-a-boo nipples. Topping the hollow of her abdomen. A hint of her belly button. A suggestion of her sex. A natural blonde. So damn hot.
His palms began to sweat. His dick stirred. He mentally shook himself. Returned to reality. Stevie sat in the stylist chair, no longer nude, no longer atop his thighs. She had yet to see him. She stared into a narrow standing mirror, calmly awaiting her cut.
Joe crossed to her, while Sam and Pax divided their time among the other ladies. He leaned over her shoulder, startling her. The mirror reflected his grin and her frown. His superhero outfit made her blink.
“Who—Joe? ” Recognition flashed in her dark eyes. Up came her chin, and her words had bite. “Not again. What are you doing here?”
“Being a superhero.”
“I thought you were a ballplayer.”
“That’s my true identity.”
“You’re into pretend?”
“I like to fantasize.”
The stylist returned with a wink and a smile. Joe recognized her from the Blue Coconut. She’d bought him a beer. They’d slow-danced. Nothing more. “Super Zooker, how’s my favorite bounty hunter?”
“Hunting cosmic criminals is hard work, Capri.”
She lowered her gaze. “You look good doing it, my man. Nice leather pants.”
His lingering thoughts of Stevie had left him hard. There was no hiding the bulge beneath his zipper, despite shaking out his legs and shuffling his feet. He mentally talked his dick down. His dick was not a good listener.
“Are you here for support or just for show?” Capri inquired.
“Dr. Daniels requested we make an appearance.”
“Women love superheroes.”
“Not every woman,” he muttered, eyeing Stevie. She glared back.
“Step aside, Super Z,” the hairdresser requested. “You’re welcome to stay and watch, but I need room to get around the chair.”
Joe spoke to Stevie before retreating. He gently skimmed her hair behind her left ear, lowered his voice, asked, “Are you sure you want to cut your hair?”
“You’re questioning my decision?”
“You’ll look—”
She sat up straighter on the chair. “What? Like a boy?”
“No one would ever mistake you for a guy.” Truth.
“So, what’s your problem?”
He liked women with long hair. Plain and simple. Pretty selfish on his part. He wasn’t dating or involved with Stevie. They’d just met, and weren’t even close to being friends. Why should he care? A total puzzler. He thought of sweet Ashley and her chemo treatments. The loss of her hair, and her need for a wig. “No concerns. Your call,” he managed.
“Thanks, since it’s my hair.”
“Have you ever worn it short?”
“Not since the day I was born.”
“Hair grows back,” said Capri, as she nudged Joe aside, making room for photographer Eden Cates-Kane.
Eden of the frizzy hair, freckles, and easy smile arrived with her Nikon. “Stevie, I’m Eden,” she greeted. “I have a proposition for you. We’ve got an ideal photo op if we have Joe pose with you, combining two community events. The pictures could be used by the hospital, local newspaper, and the Rogues website and newsletter. What do you think?”
“Love the idea,” Capri approved.
Joe nodded. “Fine by me, too.”
Stevie was slower to agree. She side-eyed him; scrunched her nose. Indecisive. Her dislike of him was evident. Silence held. Tension built, until she finally sighed, gave in. “Okay.”
“Excellent.” Eden was pleased. “Let me check out the angles and frame my shots. We’ll get started shortly.”
In the ensuing seconds, Batman Sam and Captain America Pax made their way to Joe. “Super Z, what’s happening?” asked Pax.
“Eden’s about to photograph Stevie and me,” he told them.
The ballplayers hugged Eden, then turned their attention to the seated woman with the waist-length hair. “Stevie?” Pax and Sam questioned at the same time. She nodded. They introduced themselves, then eyed her with interest. Their attention annoyed Joe. For some unknown reason.
He hadn’t planned on presenting his teammates to Stevie, but the men bookended her now. They were at their most charming. Stevie was all smiles, which irritated Joe even more. She praised their superhero costumes and admired their dedication to the children. Sam and Pax ate it all up. Joe swore Sam even smacked his lips. There’d be no prying them off her.
Excluded from the conversation, Joe leaned against the wall. Frustration had him scuffing his boot on the polished gray tiles. He left a mark—the only smudge on the pristine floor. He hunkered down and rubbed it clean with his thumb.
Pax had the plums to take off his gloves and stroke Stevie’s hair. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t dissuade him. The strands slipped through his fingers like rays of sunshine. Annoyance slid bone-deep. He’d never resented his teammates until that moment. But Joe couldn’t call them out; he had no valid reason. He clenched his fists instead. So tight that his knuckles hurt.
Possessiveness was the death of a man. He had no designs on her, although she did wear his garter. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend or forever lover. Yet despite his lone-wolf status, he didn’t appreciate the guys’ disruption. He felt left out. Difficult for a man used to being the center of attention.
Eden was professional, precise in her shots. There was no hurrying her. He’d wanted her to take the photo before the guys arrived. Too damn late. He was stuck on the outside, looking in. He felt like a Triple-A player.
Eden circled the stylist chair, came to him. Helped him hold up the wall. She studied him with her narrowed photographer’s eyes. “Scowls scare people off. You won’t photograph well.”
“I’m not scowling.”
“Your death stare and the tic in your jaw muscle say otherwise. You’re grinding your teeth.” Amusement curved her lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Not a chance.”
She shrugged. “What do I know?”
“You know nothing, Eden.”
“Not one thing.” Her tone was teasing. “I’m here to take photos, not make observations. I want to take a few shots of Stevie and Capri during the cutting process. Then the superheroes and Stevie.”
“All the heroes?”
“Groups are always nice.”
“What about—” He had a hard time finishing the thought.
“Pairs?” she guessed.
A sharp nod.
She gave him a long look. “I was about to suggest just that. You have a good eye for composition, Joe.”
Composition? He knew nothing about photography. His pictures chopped off heads and cut his subjects in half. Eden was being kind. But she’d relaxed him. “Thanks,” he muttered.
“Welcome.” She grew thoughtful. “I’ll shoot you and Stevie last, after her haircut. The final impression of the day. Work for you?”
“Works for me.”
Relieved, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He’d never had his photo taken with just one woman before. He’d always been surrounded by beach and boardwalk babes. His party posse. However, singling out Stevie for the final photo felt right. Just one shot like that wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t crimp his reputation as a “ladies’ man.” At the end of the day, it was all about the promo, not the girl. Or so he tried to convince himself.
“Let’s do it,” Eden announced. She crossed over to the chair. “Stand up a second, Stevie. I want to capture the full length of your hair.”
Stevie complied, rising and shaking out her hair. The strands shimmered, sleek and shiny, skimming her waist. Pax whistled. Sam moaned low in his throat. Joe shifted his stance. Eden focused her Nikon, then did what she did best. She captured the moment on film.
Stevie turned in a full circle before sitting back down. Eden gave her a thumbs-up. Next she instructed, “Superheroes surround her.” Pax stood to the right, Sam to the left, and Joe moved behind the chair. Eden crouched, took in all angles, and clicked away. Soon she straightened. “Fantastic. Now, heroes, please move aside.” They did so, and Eden then motioned to Capri. “Your turn.”
The stylist selected a thin scrunchie from her collection of bands, then slipped into the camera frame. Joe listened closely as Capri explained the process to Stevie. “I’ll be putting your hair up into a ponytail, then cutting it off one inch above the band. I’m going with a braid, because it’s so long. Makes it much easier to handle. The length of your hair can be processed for two, maybe even three wigs. You’ll make several little girls very happy.”
Joe cleared his throat, then asked, “Can I make a request for one of the wigs? There’s a young girl, Ashley Hammond, on the sixth floor. She’s a cancer survivor and soon to be released. She’s in need of a hair prosthetic. She’s blond, too. I’d like her to be a recipient of Stevie’s hair.”
Stevie twisted, faced him. Their gazes locked. She softened to him, compassion showing in her eyes for all of a second. “I’d like that, too,” she said, then turned away.
Capri pointed to a stack of forms on a nearby table. “Fill one of these out,” she told Joe. “Speak privately with the manufacturer on-site.” She scanned the room. “The man in the blue suit by the cookie table is David Harkness. He works closely with Dr. Daniels and the children’s parents. I’m sure a superhero would have some pull.”
Joe could use his powers for good. The image of Ashley in a shoulder-length wig warmed his heart. It was a cause worth investigating. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Capri finished braiding Stevie’s hair. Eden continued taking photos. Every second was documented.
Capri then picked up a pair of scissors and air-snapped the blades together. Snip, snip. Stevie’s shoulders tensed slightly. Pax and Sam gave involuntary jerks. Both men covered their groins with their palms. Joe grinned at them. “It’s a haircut.” His teammates protected their balls.
“We still good to go?” Capri asked Stevie, giving the donor an opportunity to back out, not wanting her to have any regrets.
Stevie was ready. “Go ahead.”
With a swift, concise snip, Capri cut off the ponytail. The stylist then put the braid into a sealed plastic bag with rubber bands at both ends. She set the bag aside, eyed Stevie, then said, “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll give you a free trim.” She returned the scissors to a sectional case on a rolling stand and withdrew a smaller pair. “Bangs, a little feathering. A new you,” she predicted.
Joe glanced at his watch. Ten minutes edged toward fifteen, and a crowd began to gather. People gaped, eyes wide, at Stevie’s transformation. Even the custodian, sweeping the floor, now leaned on his broom handle and stared. Stevie’s profile was facing Joe, and it wasn’t until Capri unfastened her cape and turned Stevie directly toward him that he got the full effect. The change was so startling, so stunning, he sucked in air. Dry mouth, tight throat, constricted chest. Sweaty palms.
Gone was the woman with the long hair. Its length had been weighing down her delicate features. Her shortened hair brought out her dark eyes, sharpened her cheekbones, and emphasized her full lips. She was a total knockout.
Capri held up a hand mirror, allowing Stevie a close-up view. “Sunlit, flirty, pretty,” she complimented.
“Damn,” from Pax.
“Babe . . .” Sam muttered.
Joe had no words.
The crowd began to clap, and the applause only grew louder as Stevie dipped her head, and color crept up her now-visible, very pale neck. Being the center of attention embarrassed her, but her modesty only endeared her more to the packed room.
* * *
A steadying breath, and Stevie Reynolds glanced up, meeting Joe’s gaze. Seeking reassurance. His face was closed, his expression hard to read. Those gathered approved her cut, but he’d remained quiet. Too silent for a man who’d come on to her on the boardwalk, and again crossed her path at Kuts for Kids.
She heard the click of the camera, and realized that Eden was still shooting. “I’d like a superhero to be in the final photo, too. Super Z, close in,” she said to Joe.
A surreal freeze-frame. Stevie watched him approach, all slow swagger and sex appeal. Yet his gaze was straightforward. One corner of his mouth lifted. A flash of teeth. Then, lowering his voice, he approved. “Nice, Stewie.”
She shouldn’t have cared what he thought, but she did. Her heart skipped a beat. “I don’t look like a boy? Peter Pan?”
“You look more feminine now than you did before.”
His compliment deepened her blush. She heated from the inside out. Her skin had never felt so warm. She fanned herself with her hand.
“Make this last photo memorable,” Eden called over to them.
“What do you mean?” asked Stevie.
Eden gave them a small, almost secretive smile. “I’m sure Super Z can come up with something.”
That “something” made Stevie nervous.
Eden sensed her apprehension, and added, “PG rating, dude.”
Stevie stilled as he leaned in. He kept his hands to himself, but his nearness intimidated her with its sexual charge. His kiss was familiar, warm and whisper-soft on her brow. Identical to the earlier kiss on the boardwalk, when he’d saved her from Security. His reward.
“Excellent,” Eden praised them, winding down. “Superhero, super cut. Thanks, everyone.” She waved on her way out.
“My chair is open.” Capri motioned to the next donor in line. “We’ve a lot of cuts yet to go before we close the doors.”
Stevie shouldered her hobo bag, then looked toward the door.
“I’ll walk you to the entrance,” Joe offered.
“I can find my own way.”
“Big hospital, you could get lost.”
“There are plenty of signs and staff members around to guide me.”
He shrugged, stepped back, and let her go. She moved on.
Pax pushed past Joe. “Done here. I’ll follow you out.”
“Behind you, too,” said Sam. “Time to get out of my costume. I’m itching in places I didn’t know could itch.”
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” came from Joe. “I need to speak to the hair prosthetic manufacturer on Ashley’s behalf.”
“Happy hour?” asked Sam.
“The Lusty Oyster.”
“Catch you there,” said Pax.
The glass door seized Joe’s reflection as Stevie left the conference room. He stood alone. Tall, built, and dangerous. His gaze narrowed on their departure. She watched him watch her as she and his buddies started down the hall. Distracted, she bumped into the door frame as she made her escape. She staggered back a step. Pax curved his hand over her shoulder, steadied her. She intuitively knew without looking that Joe had just smiled. Jerk.
They reached the foyer, passed through the automatic doors, then stood beneath the wide awning. She rummaged through her hobo bag for her cell phone. Once she found it, she texted Lori for a ride. There was no immediate response from her friend. A cement bench provided a place for her to wait. She sat down.
Sam took off his Batman cowl and mask. He ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up. Went on to ask, “Need a lift?”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” she said—or so she hoped. Stevie was always punctual, often arriving five or ten minutes early. But time meant little to Lori. She was known to get easily sidetracked. Forgivable, yet annoying at times.
Pax removed his Captain America cap, untied his mask. Questioned, “You free tonight?”
She had no immediate plans. But partying with the Rogues went against her promise to her cousin. DJ was in town for several weeks, and he’d asked her not to associate with the ballplayers. He had his reasons, which she understood and accepted. She would abide by his wishes.
She’d been sharp and sarcastic with Joe from the moment they’d met. Totally disagreeable. It was her only defense against her attraction to the man. She’d expected him to back off, to drop his pursuit of her. But instead he continued to pull her in. She would redouble her efforts. Strengthen her mind-set.
She passed now. “Sorry, I’m busy.” She would spend time with her aunt instead.
“I figured you’d have a date,” said Pax. “Never hurts to ask, though. We’re in the moment, and it’s pretty last-minute. Stop by the Oyster if your schedule changes. We’d show you a good time.”
She bet they would. Both handsome guys, full of themselves, and out to party. Women would go wild for them. “I’ll keep you in mind,” she assured him.
Each man gave her a smile meant to entice. Pax arched an eyebrow, flashed his dimples. Sam’s boyish good looks, crooked grin, and amazing blue-violet eyes were hard to resist. The hue should’ve been effeminate, but instead it only enhanced his contrasting masculinity.
They left her then, crossing the street to the parking garage. Disappearing into the darkened lot, all stealth, strut, and a flapping bat cape.
Stevie folded her hands in her lap and sat quietly. A sturdy seawall separated the hospital from the beach. The coastline was deserted. The day was winding down, the sun less intense. It was now low tide, and the surf gave way to the sand.
Hunger crept up on her. She should’ve had a snickerdoodle when the tray was passed. She texted Lori a second time. Then a third. Sighed. She didn’t have the money to hail a cab. Walking seemed to be her only other option.
“You waiting for me? ” Male voice, warm breath on her neck, and Joe appeared behind her.
“Waiting on Lori.”
“Your friend seems to disappear a lot.”
“She’ll show,” Stevie said with conviction.
“When?”
“Soon enough.” Her stomach growled.
“You hungry?”
“I missed lunch.”
“I have a health bar we can share.” He reached into the side pocket of his suede duster, scored the nutty-fruity snack. He circled the bench, came around to sit down beside her, purposely close. He bumped her hip, brushed her thigh. He split the bar, giving her the smaller half. She peeled back the wrapper, ate it in two bites. She wanted more.
She noticed Joe had yet to finish. He was a slow chewer. He held a decent-sized piece between his fingers. He sensed her stare, cut her a look. “You’re drooling.”
She touched her fingers to the corners of her mouth. “Am not.”
“You checked.”
She’d already had crumbs on her lips earlier in the day. She would hate to drool in front of him now.
“You want the last piece?” he offered.
She nodded. Lips parting. He fed her. His gloved thumb lingered, gently pressing her bottom lip. Raw leather. Soft mouth. Mesmerizing. Seductive.
Lost in the moment, she swallowed hard. The piece of health bar went down whole. Lodged in her throat. She coughed, choked.
Joe thumped her on the back. Hard.
She recovered, squeaked, “I’m fine.”
He hovered over her, concern in his eyes. The bar settled heavily in her stomach, yet his nearness bothered her more. She rose, began to pace. A stiff breeze off the Gulf blew her skirt between her legs. Up her thighs. She tugged it down. Where was Lori?
Joe’s, “You still wearing my garter?” stopped her in her tracks.
Obnoxious question, but one she was forced to answer. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on earlier in the day. There hadn’t been time following the bridal event for her to return home and change. To remove the garter. Kuts for Kids took priority. Lori had dropped her off—then disappeared.
“No garter.”
“I saw a flash of blue.”
“In your dreams.”
“Prove me wrong.”
“Take my word for it.”
He grinned, knowing she lied. He relaxed on the bench, tilted back his head, squinted through his mask, and looked at the sky. His out-of-the-blue comment—“You don’t like me much”—was more statement than question.
“Life isn’t a popularity contest,” she returned. “Not everyone has to like everyone else.”
“Whom do you like?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just trying to figure you out.”
“I’m not complicated. What you see is what you get.”
“Play with me.”
“Play what with you?”
“A favorite game of mine. How Well Do You Know Me?”
“We only met this morning.”
“Doesn’t matter. Some things you can intuitively recognize in a person.”
What did he know about her? Curiosity got the better of her. “Who plays your game? Women you date, lovers? ”
“It started as a bar game and worked its way into my bed,” he said matter-of-factly.
She wouldn’t be sleeping with him. Ever. But she did have time to kill. She slowly walked back toward him. “The rules?”
“We make assumptions about each other. The person being asked answers either ‘true’ or ‘false.’ But you have to be completely honest.”
She could handle that. “How many assumptions in this game?”
“Twelve.”
Too many. “Less.”
“Ten, then. The winner scores the most points.”
“What do I win?”
“That’s yet to be determined,” he said. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart. You haven’t won yet.”
He removed his bounty hunter hat and hooked it over his knee. Off came his mask, revealing rugged features. His hard stare homed in on her. She settled on the bench, a significant distance from him. Her skirt rode up slightly. The cement warmed the backs of her thighs. She started with, “You play professional baseball.”
He shook his head. “Too obvious. Dig deeper.”
“You’re sexually active—”
“Common knowledge. Still doesn’t count.”
She bristled. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m so possible.”
She went back in time, imagined him in elementary school. A kid who was often in trouble. Tattered blue jeans. Torn T-shirt. Fights and mouthing off. A holy terror. “By fifth grade, you’d spent more time in the principal’s office than you did in the classroom.”
“True. Discipline and I never got along. I had a permanently assigned desk in detention. I called the principal by his first name behind his back.”
“One to zero.” She was pleased with herself. “I’m ahead.”
“Barely.” He curbed her excitement. “We just got started. You were always the teacher’s pet. Goodie Two-Shoes.”
“True. I was helpful. Respectful.” One-one.
“I’d have pulled your ponytail on the playground.”
“Why?” she asked, curious.
“To remind you that not everyone’s as perfect as you.”
“My cousin DJ would’ve punched you for me.”
“Brave, huh?”
“My best guy friend. He’s always had my back.”
“I’d rather have your front.”
Never. She side-eyed him, then resumed their game. “Your high school yearbook? You were most likely to have scored with half the girls in your senior class.”
“Not really a category.” He chuckled. “But still true. Although it was closer to sixty percent.”
She believed him.
His brow creased. “Your yearbook? You were most likely to succeed.”
She couldn’t help but sigh. “Yes, but I haven’t been all that successful.”
He surprised her with, “Success isn’t always measured in high profiles and salaries. Personal growth counts, too.” Insightful.
Two to two.
“Most time in the locker room,” she assumed.
“Most time in the library,” from him.
They both nodded. Three all.
“I loved to read. To learn,” she disclosed.
“You look brainy.”
His observation surprised her. “You seem street-smart.”
“I’ve known gutters.”
General remarks. No points.
“Most organized,” he continued.
She liked an orderly life. “Most competitive.”
“I go after what I want.”
She bet he did. Four to four. “Biggest—”
“What?” He had the nerve to grin.
“Ego.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “The world revolves around me, right?”
“So you think.”
“Biggest ballbuster.”
“Who, me?” Snarky innocence.
“Yeah, you.”
“No way.”
“Way, sweetheart. I’m taking the point. Five-five.” He lowered his gaze to her chest. Lingered on her breasts. “You follow your heart.”
Her gaze touched on his leather pants. “You lead with your—” The word dick caught in her throat.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Six all,” she updated the score.
He ran one hand down his face. Rubbed the back of his neck. “No tattoos for you.”
“You’re right.” Rogues had tats. Lori had shared that fact. Inked at their groin. Team tradition. Third baseman Landon Kane had a sword with the word Invincible scrawled along the blade. Right fielder Halo Todd went with Caution: Hard and Hot. Who’s on First? reflected first baseman Jake Packer’s position. Joe, rumor had it, went with a hellhound, a mythical black dog with red eyes. Tenacious and vicious. A testimony to his baseball skills.
His hellhound was renowned. Publicly visible among his fans, party posse, lovers. She refused to admit that she knew about his ink. She purposely lost a point by saying, “Daffy Duck on your butt?”
His expression called her crazy. “No ass duck.”
Six to seven, his favor.
He knuckled his chin. Scruff shadowed his jawline. “Bet you karaoke.”
“I . . . have. But not well. I choose easy songs that make me look good.”
“‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams?”
How did he know? She nodded.
He calculated, “There are about eighty words in the lyrics but they feel like ten. Minimal effort, maximum crowd-pleaser.”
“Bet you can’t recite a nursery rhyme.”
“Name one,” he challenged.
“I’m a Little Teapot” was the first to come to mind. “You can stand up and do the movements, too, if you’d like.” That would be entertaining.
“No dancing,” he muttered under his breath before he lowered his voice, sing-songed, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle, here is my snout. When—”
“’Snout’?” she burst out. Was he serious? “Try ‘spout.’ It’s a teapot, not a pig.”
He shrugged. “I lost the hearing in my ear as a kid. Some words aren’t always clear.”
“No one corrected you?”
“My teacher thought I was being a smart-ass.”
That made sense to her. He’d mistaken her name in the noisy crowd on the boardwalk. “Stevie” had sounded like “Stewie” to him. She cut him some slack. “‘Wheels on the Bus’ might be easier for you.”
“‘Go ’round and ’round.’”
“I’ll let you slide. Seven-eight, you lead.”
“Around your house,” he presumed. “You shout at appliances.”
She blinked. Wanted to deny his assumption, but could not. “Once or twice, and only when the timer on the microwave sticks and burns my bag of popcorn.”
“I have a toaster that makes its own decisions,” he admitted. “All selections brown too dark. It hates bagels. I’ve raised my voice, too.”
“Watching TV, you call out referees.”
“That I do,” he confessed. “Refs miss calls. I set them straight.”
Eight to nine. She gave great thought to her tenth and final assumption. She studied his face. Rough, with several scars. His nose . . . “You broke your nose in a fistfight,” she presumed. “Twice.”
He touched his forefinger to the bumps on his nose. Grew silent. She wasn’t sure he would even answer. He finally did. “One fistfight, defending my younger brother against a neighborhood bully. The second was a door slammed in my face.”
“You were slow in moving out of the way?”
“My dad was faster.”
“Oh . . .” She felt awful, but doubted that he would accept her sympathy. Saying nothing seemed better than saying something that might offend him. She kept it light. “Do I get a half a point for the fistfight? It was a two-part assumption.”
“I’m easy. Take it.” He took his sweet time with his own last impression of her. “You like me more than you’re willing to admit.”
That gave her pause. “We barely know each other. I don’t dislike you, but I do find you annoying.”
“Annoying, tolerable, close enough. I find you a challenge.”
“I’m not a game or a competition.”
“If you were, I’d already have won.” Arrogant man.
“Don’t bet on it.”
“I’m a sure thing, Stewie.”
“I’m not, Joey. You lost the point.”
“I won overall. Nine to eight-point-five. My prize?”
“That I played the game with you.”
“That’s it? I was hoping for more.”
“Less is often more.”
He pulled a face. Snorted.
The hardness of the cement bench forced her to her feet. Her bottom felt numb. She needed to stretch. She strolled to the curb, searched the road for approaching vehicles. One came her way, but it wasn’t Lori. She’d spent far too much time in Joe’s company. His game had been interesting and fun, but it had tipped the scales in his favor. She found she liked him—a little. She needed her friend—now. Before she liked him—a lot.
“You leaving me?” he called to her.
“Shortly.” Or so she hoped. On foot if she had to. The weather wasn’t in her favor, though. Clouds had confiscated the sun. The sky was now overcast. “Looks like rain,” she noted.
“I’ll need to put the top up on my convertible.”
She wondered what kind of car he drove, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. Most likely something sporty and fast. A thrill ride. Just like the man himself.
“I could give you a lift,” he offered for the second time that day.
She’d declined on the boardwalk. She hedged now. “Maybe, if Lori doesn’t show. Or if there’s lightning and thunder and I’m feeling desperate.”
“I’ve never been any woman’s last resort.”
“I’ll give her five more minutes.”
Joe glanced at his watch, tracking the time. “Four minutes, forty-five seconds . . . Four minutes, thirty seconds. . .” Irritating man.
Distant thunder humbled her. She might have to relent and accept his ride. Hurry up, Lori.
The entrance doors swooshed open behind them, distracting him from his countdown. A male transporter pushed an elderly patient in a wheelchair toward a waiting car at the curb. The aide assisted the man onto the passenger seat, shut the door, and the vehicle drove off.
The hospital employee waved and called to Joe, “Big season ahead, dude.” He recognized the Rogue.
“Planning on it,” Joe agreed.
“I checked out the spring training schedule, and your first game is against your Triple-A affiliate.”
Joe’s shoulders tensed. “The Rebels. I’m aware.” “Rivalry never hurts. It keeps players sharp.” The transporter pushed the wheelchair back through the automatic doors.
Thunderheads bulked up. A storm crouched on the shoreline. The quiet before the storm hung heavily between them. Joe sat as still as stone, his breathing shallow. Lowering his gaze, he stared down at the sidewalk, his expression closed. A muscle ticced in his cheek. Something the transporter had said left him unresponsive. Spring training, their upcoming schedule, Triple-A? She hadn’t a clue. The man was complex. “Umm . . .” was all she had.
“Nothing to talk about.” He ended their conversation.
A sputtering engine claimed her attention, as an orange and white 1966 Volkswagen bus crawled down the road toward her. Unleashed Dog Day Care, the address and phone number, stood out in bold, block letters on both sides of the vehicle, along with painted images of numerous breeds of dogs. Her friend had arrived.
The VW slowed, stopped, backfired at the curb. “Wow, cool haircut,” Lori admired. She peered around Stevie, eyed Joe on the bench. “You’re looking Zoo-posse-hot.”
“No posse,” Stevie was quick to say. “It was superhero day for Joe. He and two other Rogues passed through Kuts for Kids.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Lori apologized.
“You’re here now—that’s all that matters.” Her friend had saved her from riding with Joe.
“Blame Otis,” Lori explained, referring to the bus. “I left Unleashed an hour ago. Transported a cocker spaniel, a collie, and a Doberman to their designated homes. Then stopped to get gas and add oil. Chug-chug. AC went out, and I opened the front Safari split-windows. Felt like a fan in my face. A police officer pulled me over for driving too slow. Couldn’t be helped. No ticket, I got off with a warning. Otis is on his last set of tires.”
Stevie understood the delay. “I tried to call you.”
“I forgot my iPhone in my hurry to load the dogs.”
The back of Stevie’s neck prickled, and she realized that Joe had joined them at the curb. He slapped his bounty hunter hat against his thigh, eyed the bus. “Unleashed? I’m in need of dog care. Is that where you work?” he included both women.
Stevie shot Lori a no-info look, which her friend ignored. “Stevie’s aunt Twyla owns Unleashed. Twyla recently broke her leg, and we’re in town to help out. The dog care is on Outer Drive. A big old Florida Victorian set on twenty acres.”
“My aunt may have a full house,” Stevie discouraged. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“A two-year-old Rottweiler, Turbo.”
The middle linebacker of dogs. “Obedience school?” she asked.
“Homeschooled.”
Which meant the dog was as unruly as Joe.
“I’m sure Turbo will fit in just fine,” said Lori. “Twyla prefers pets over people, and she always manages to squeeze in one more. You’d need to call ahead, though, to fill out an application and be interviewed. Twyla’s available on Sundays.”
Joe took it all in. “I’ll phone Twyla this evening, and set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
“Morning is best for her,” Stevie put in. “If you’re able to rise and shine.”
He grinned then, slow and sexy. “I’m up early. I’m never one to waste a morning—”
Erection. She heard the word without his saying it.
“Jog.” He winked, waved, left them.
“Mmm-hmm.” Lori watched him round the front of the VW bus and cross the street, all confidence and swagger. “He brings new meaning to leather pants.”
Stevie silently agreed. Nice fit. Soft leather on a hard body. He was one fine superhero, about to hit the bars and use his powers for sex.