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The urge to check the Hero Ticket swelled in Roman’s chest.
He was on a busy trolley heading toward the place where he was supposed to meet Nadine. The Proxima Cafe was pretty easy to spot, on the corner of 19th just like she said it would be, set on the bottom floor of an old building. A sidewalk sign pointed to the entrance and advertised the day’s special, which was a simple soup and half a grilled sandwich.
Roman wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to look like he was just sitting in the cafe waiting for someone.
So he ordered a cocktail.
Nadine hadn’t said if they were going for drinks or not—only to meet her here—so he made sure the cocktail was coffee-based, something he could easily cover up if he’d mistaken her intent.
The caffeinated cocktail was good, a little bitter, but it put him in the right mood—somewhere between feeling excited and sensing a newfound mellowness.
A woman passed by in a skirt that reminded him of what Paris had been wearing last night.
Roman shook his head, remembering the assignment given to him by the strange woman from the Western Province—a spy. A goddamn sexy spy, but a spy nonetheless.
Treason wasn’t a word that had ever crossed Roman’s mind. Now he was on the verge of committing treason and he knew there was little he could do, especially since he’d agreed to help her. That would only complicate his case.
He didn’t want to get drunk before Nadine came, so he sipped his next cocktail slowly, trying to enjoy it for once, to separate the bite of the alcohol from the robust coffee flavor.
Roman closed his eyes, and a couple thoughts came to him that he didn’t want to examine.
Rather than explore the bits of his past he’d chosen to ignore, aside from his morning visit to the hospital, he opened his eyes and watched the waitress’ hips sashaying in front of him.
The waitress was cute, but Roman was at the point in his life where he could find something attractive about most women. The only thing that turned him off was a terrible personality, like his boss Selena had.
It was never too hard for Roman to convince a woman to go home with him. He was fit, and while his white hair wasn’t unique to Centralia, his orange eyes were, something that led many to assume he was an exemplar.
And that was it, wasn’t it? Convince a woman he was an okay enough guy to sleep with, not a creep, a responsible citizen.
Roman, I’m sorry, I can’t make it now.
Roman recognized Nadine’s voice in his head almost immediately. Nadine wasn’t a telepath, but she’d sent the message to him through a popular telepathy service used for personal communication.
It was pretty easy to use, too.
In this case, since she had started the dialogue, Roman simply thought back a reply.
Really? That’s too bad. I’m here now, and the atmosphere is great. Is everything okay?
Part of him was annoyed she had bailed at the last minute; the other part of him knew better than to let these thoughts show—which was strange when he really thought about it. How did the telepaths that transferred these personal messages truly know which messages to send?
Nadine’s reply came a few moments later:
Everything is fine. Well, I guess everything isn’t fine, because I’m not there. We had to stay late, or should I say I had to stay late, because my colleague left for the hospital. Something happened to her wife. Anyway, I have to stay another two hours, and after that I had plans with some girlfriends, so how about a rain check?
Roman nodded as the thought spilled from his brain. Sure, rain check, no big deal at all. Have fun with your friends, and let me know if I can do anything.
You’re too sweet. I’ll make it up to you.
No need, he thought back to her as the waitress approached.
“Waiting for someone?”
“Funny you asked that...”
The woman was at least five years younger than Roman, her skin soft, her eyes wide apart and her hair cut short. It was a particularly slow night, evident by the fact that there were only two other patrons in the bar and two waitresses, so Roman figured he’d give it a shot.
“How long have you been working here?” he asked, striking up an easy conversation. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
She laughed. Her pad went into the front of her apron and she tucked the pen behind her ear. She had a long, elegant neck, with her head almost perched on the end of it like an exotic animal.
“I’ve been here for a year,” she said. “So maybe it’s me who has never seen you.”
“Do you work most shifts?”
“Usually work the days,” she said, “but I just switched to night.”
“Ah, that’s why I don’t recognize you,” he lied.
“You usually come at night?”
“Occasionally. I don’t live very far from here, and I like the walk. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Harper. You?”
“Roman, but everyone calls me Roman.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“It’s a joke.”
A smirk took shape on her face. “And what do you do, Roman?” Harper asked, sitting down across from him.
Roman smiled at her, his charm radiating from every pore.
Roman was good. He knew he was good, and he’d perfected the art of talking to someone on two levels. This self-taught power had different incarnations. With supers, he used it to put double meanings in the advice he gave them. For women, almost everything he said had a flirty nature to it.
“I help people,” he said, reading Harper like a book.
“Are you a doctor or something?”
Roman grinned. “No, nothing like that. I don’t know where you stand politically, but I’ll just come out and say it. I help immigrant exemplars come to Centralia, find work, get an education, help build our great country.”
“That’s sweet,” Harper said, her eyes softening.
“You know, it’s a government job, and there is a ton of bureaucracy, but it’s not bad. At the end of the day, I want to help Centralia become a better nation. Maybe it’s selfish; maybe by taking the best from the other nations to better ours, I’m actually a type of patriot. Don’t know. That’s not for me to decide; I just do my job to the best of my ability, and try to help as many as I can.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It isn’t easy. Hell, today I was actually attacked by a Type II, Class D.”
“A what?”
“Sorry, immigration talk. It’s how the Centralian government classifies supers. So this guy, I probably shouldn’t say his name, but I’ll say it anyway: Hazrat.”
Harper’s brow furrowed. “That’s a scary sounding name.”
“For a scary guy. He was a Type II, which means dangerous, and the Class D means his power is energy related. He can manipulate shadows.” Roman pointed to a shadow to the right of the bar. “For example, he could turn that shadow into a sharp dagger and hurt someone.”
“He can make the shadow tangible?”
“He can. Odd power. He should probably be classified as a Type I, but anyway, that’s enough about me. What about you?”
“Me?” She looked around. “I work here, go to night school. Not tonight, though. I have the night off.”
“That brings me to my next question,” he said, his eyes lifting from her lips to the bridge of her nose until finally, their pupils locked—Harper’s green and Roman’s orange.
“Yes?” she almost whispered.
“When do you get off work?”
Roman lay in his bed, Harper next to him. There was a half-empty bottle of wine at the side of the bed and when he sat up, he reached for it and took a chug.
He glanced over his shoulder at Harper, who was resting on her side, the curves of her body outlined by the city lights peeking through his blinds.
Roman never knew what to expect from a one-night stand, but Harper was definitely someone he’d like to turn into at least a three or four-night stand. She was fierce, much fiercer than her soft and trusting personality put on.
She’d pretty much taken charge once they’d started up, which Roman liked.
It was Harper who’d told him to put his fingers in her mouth, to bend her over the side of his bed, to go harder, to lift her and do her against the wall. Hell, after he’d come, she’d continued to suck him off for a good minute, keeping Roman in a state of bliss that was almost painful.
She was great. And now Roman was restless.
The bottle of wine gripped tightly in his hand, he walked to his living room and found his pants. He wanted something to eat, and there was fuck all in his pantry, so he figured he’d head downstairs to the bodega, which was open twenty-four hours.
Grab a snack, head back, eat it.
Easy.
Brush his teeth, get back to bed, and hopefully get some morning sex going in a few hours.
Not wanting to go back into his bedroom and disturb Harper, Roman put his pants on without underwear. He put on the jacket he’d been wearing earlier and slipped out of the apartment, placing his keys in the jacket pocket.
Roman had forgotten Kevin’s Hero Ticket was in his pocket, and as he headed downstairs, he figured he’d check to see if it was a winner. The odds were against him, but then again, the odds were generally against everyone.
Out into the cold streets Roman went, a breeze carrying up from the Southern Alliance, where it was always cold.
He swung around the corner and headed straight into the bodega, where he saw the usual woman reading a popular comic book behind the counter.
“You’re in late,” she said with a yawn. She’d been here for over a year and that was just about all she’d say to him.
“Hey, you don’t happen to have the results from today’s superpower lottery, do you?”
“You know, you could have just asked a telepath.”
“Yeah, I know, but I wanted to get out of the house for a minute. So anyways, do you have them?”
The woman set her comic down. “Fine, I have them. Got your Hero Ticket? I didn’t think you were the type to play this game, to be honest. It seems like only desperate non-exemplars try to win the super-power lottery.”
“I was feeling lucky,” Roman said. “Just tell me the numbers, if you don’t mind.”
She thumbed through a notebook near the register and came to a page in the back. “The numbers are as follows...”
“Wait,” Roman said as he reached in his jacket pocket for the ticket. “Okay, got it.”
“Eight, sixty-seven, five, thirty, nine.”
“Thirty-nine or thirty, then nine,” Roman asked, his hand shaking.
“The number thirty, then the number nine.”
Roman wiped his brow and placed the Hero Ticket back in his pocket, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Well?”
It took a lot of willpower for Roman not to freak out right then and there. “Nothing,” he finally said, excitement boiling in his chest. “Didn’t win this one.”
He spun on his heels and exited the bodega, making a beeline for his apartment.
