Nightingale (9 page)

“Hi, Wynter.” Kelly smiled at the superhero. “I thought we might see you out and about today.”

“I do love this kind of weather,” the superhero purred. “And I love snowball fights even more. What do you say, Swifte?”

The other superhero dusted the snow off his costume. “Sure. Just don’t come crying to me when you lose.”

Wynter held out her hands. Blue flames formed on her palms, before turning into two snowballs. “Care to make a friendly wager on that?”

Swifte grinned. “Always.”

The two heroes spent the next few minutes lobbing snowballs at each other, while Kelly gave the play-by-play action. Swifte was faster, throwing the balls at the speed of light, but Wynter had an ace up her sleeve—her superpower. While Swifte lobbed fist-sized snowballs at her, she summoned a giant one on the hill behind him. Gravity did the rest. The ball bounced down the rise, picking up more snow with every roll. Swifte never saw it coming. The enormous mound landed on top of the superhero, picked him up, and kept right on going toward the park’s Ferris wheel. All you could see of Swifte were his legs sticking out of the sides of the powdery mass. Winner, Wynter.
 

“Well, folks, as you can see, the superheroes are having just as much fun as the city’s kids,” Kelly Caleb said. “Speaking of kids, schools have already been closed for tomorrow, Monday, and could remain closed the rest of the week …”

She started listing the cancellations, and I clicked off the TV.

“I’m glad you came along when you did,” Talon said. “Or I’d be another icicle out there.”

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “It was nothing, really.”

“It was something to me, Wren.” His voice was low and sexy. “It was really something.”

The intense tone in Talon’s voice rattled me, especially because he stared at the wall where he thought I was instead of looking at me.
 

“How about some breakfast?” I asked, changing the subject. “I know you must be hungry, and you really should keep your strength up.”

“Breakfast would be great.”
 

I’m not really a domestic type. Cooking isn’t my forte, and I’d much rather eat out than make something for myself. In fact, one of my favorite guilty pleasures was getting barbecue and all the fixings shipped in from this restaurant called the Pork Pit down in Ashland. But I had enough food on hand to whip up some ham-and-cheese omelets, crispy bacon, blueberry pancakes, and apple juice.

While I cooked, Talon stumbled into the bathroom. Then, I helped him over to the kitchen table, put a plate of food in front of him, and slid some silverware into his hands.
 

Talon fumbled around with his fork, the metal utensil
screech-screech-screeching
against the stoneware plate every time he stabbed it instead of his omelet. After the fifth time, I took the plate away from him and cut up his food before handing it back. I just couldn’t stand the noise.

“The pancakes are at three o’clock, the omelet’s at six, and the bacon’s at nine.”
 

I wrapped my fingers around his hand and guided it to where the food was. More tingles shot through me at the feel of his skin on mine. I hesitated, enjoying the sensation, then pulled away. These lust-at-first-sight
feelings were getting out of hand.

“Thanks,” Talon said. “I’m usually not this clumsy.”

“You’re usually not blind either.”

“My eyes are a little better today,” he said. “Everything is gray now instead of totally black, and I can sort of make out blurry shapes. I should be able to see well enough to get out of here by tomorrow. I think that’s long enough to impose on you.”

Talon started eating his breakfast, but I put my fork down, troubled. Things would be different when his sight returned. I wouldn’t be able to hide behind the name Wren. Talon would know exactly who I was, while keeping his own anonymity intact. All the awkwardness and weirdness would return, and I’d be right back to wondering which rich playboy thought I was a superhero-stripping freak.

What exactly
would
Talon think when he could see clearly again?

When he could see the real me?

Chapter Seven

After breakfast, Talon took a painkiller and went back to sleep. Because I couldn’t go to the office and leave the superhero alone, I used the opportunity to unpack my things, namely the few CDs that had gotten mixed up in the wrong boxes. Because Talon was asleep, I put a CD into the entertainment center and turned the volume down low, not wanting to disturb him.

As I moved around unpacking, I sang along. Most people sing only in the shower, but I do it whenever and wherever I can. It really helps me relax. My main guilty pleasure in life is doing a couple of numbers a few times a week at The Blues,
the karaoke bar where I’d had my unfortunate run-in with that overcharged amp. As a way to keep me from suing her, Melody Masters, the owner, promised me free admission and drinks for life.
 

Cyndi Lauper launched into her classic rendition of “Time After Time,” and I sang along, trying to make my voice, my tone, my pitch match hers. That was one good thing about having superhearing—it gave you a deeper appreciation for music. I’d always loved music, but now I did for another reason entirely—it was the only thing I could listen to really,
really
loud and not give myself a migraine. Something about the pounding beats soothed away the aches instead of adding to them.

Cyndi came to the end of the song, and so did I, letting the last note trail off. Claps sounded, and I turned. Talon sat up on the bed, staring in my direction.

“Wow. You have a beautiful voice. Absolutely amazing.” The superhero smiled. “You should call yourself Nightingale instead of Wren.”

I just looked at him, with his scarred body, gadget-filled visor, and all-around cool factor. He was a nightingale, a thing of beauty, mystery, and wonderment. I was nothing but a shabby little brown wren—one he’d never look at twice after he left my apartment. I don’t know why that depressed me—but it did.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying to make a joke of things. “I think I’m more of a wren. Nobody ever pays much attention to me.”

“Well, they should,” Talon said in a firm voice. “They really should.”

I couldn’t stop the fierce longing that swept through my heart at his words.
 

Longing for him to keep on noticing me. Now, tomorrow … hell, forever.

#

We spent the rest of the day talking about everything—and nothing in particular. The weather, food, books, movies, sports. Small stuff, really. But somehow, it added up to a lot.

I felt like I could talk to Talon forever. We had so much in common. We were both ardent fans of the Bigtime Barracuda football team. Both wished we had more time to read. Both felt like we worked too hard, but couldn’t seem to stop ourselves.

Even more important than our similar interests was that I felt like I could talk to the superhero about anything. Bare my soul, my deepest, darkest thoughts to him, and have him be okay with it. That Talon would still like me, no matter what I said or did, what horrors I revealed. That was how I felt about him, I realized. That I would like him, no matter what.
 

That I
did
like him.
 

“Come on,” he said after lunch. “Tell me why some guy hasn’t snatched you up already. I’m dying to know.”

“Do I have to?”
 

“Oh yes,” Talon said. “Aren’t you tired of talking about sports? We can regale each other with dating disasters. That’s what friends do.”

“Are we friends?”

“Well, sure. Don’t you think so?”

Talon was stretched out on the bed, an arm thrown up over his head, a leg cocked to one side, my old robe just barely covering him. I’d never seen a sexier pose, not even in Piper’s
Bigtime’s Sexiest Superheroes
calendar, and I was draped over the end of the sofa staring shamelessly at him. I just couldn’t look away. I wouldn’t describe my leering as exactly
friendly
, but I decided to answer his question anyway.

“No guy has
snatched me up
because I don’t exactly advertise myself as being on the market.”

“Why not?”
 

“Because I’ve had some bad relationships, including one that ended rather abruptly. I’m not anxious to get dumped again. I suppose I’m gun shy.”

“Lies,” Talon declared.

“Lies? How do you figure that?”

He grinned. “Because I bet you’re gorgeous. A real heart-breaker. You probably have two or three guys on a string, all of them fighting over you.”

I looked at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. Brown hair, green eyes, cargo pants, flannel shirt. “Gorgeous and I aren’t exactly close friends. As for the guys, well, it’s a nice fantasy.”

“Oh, come on,” Talon said in a firm voice. “You’re gorgeous inside and out. I know it, and I’m sure other guys do too.”
 

Gorgeous
. He called me
gorgeous
again.
Nobody ever called me that.

My heart fluttered, my hands trembled, and I wanted to sing and throw up at the same time. In that moment, in that instant, I realized I felt something for Talon. Something beyond lust at first sight. Something deep. A connection stronger than any I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t sane or logical or rational, but it was there—a feeling I couldn’t deny.
 

I wanted to go over to the bed. To touch Talon. To snuggle in the crook of his arm. To run my fingers through his hair (avoiding the damn visor, of course). To press my lips to his. To just let him hold me while we talked. But I couldn’t do it. Images of Ryan and his supermodel flashed through my mind. I just couldn’t take the risk.

“What about you?” I asked. “Why aren’t you married with three kids?”

“Gun shy like you, I suppose. Haven’t met the right woman. Bad experiences in the past. Et cetera, et cetera.” His tone was cheerful, flippant even, but I heard a note of longing in it. The same longing that was in my own voice.

“And the real reason?” I asked, probing deeper.

Talon hesitated. “Maybe I’m a romantic, but I want the whole story, the fairy tale.”

“The fairy tale?”

He shifted on the bed. “You know, the lightning, the magic, the fireworks. The desire to be with someone no matter what. To know this woman is the one for me. That’s what I want. I just haven’t found it yet.”
 

Wow. I didn’t know what to say, except to tell the superhero he was every girl’s dream—including mine. My eyes traced over his long legs, his hard chest, his smiling face. I’d like to be the one to share in his lightning, his magic, his fireworks, his everything.

Talon grinned. “Don’t tell anybody, though. Superheroes aren’t supposed to be hopeless romantics.”

“Why not? Don’t you know chicks dig romantic guys?
Especially
if they’re superheroes.”

He just laughed.

The more we talked, the more I liked Talon. He was just … fun. Easygoing, carefree, and completely self-deprecating. Talon wasn’t afraid to make fun of himself—or his supposed lowly standing among the superheroes in Bigtime.

“The Fearless Five rule this town,” he said. “I’m just a second-string superhero, backing them up when they need it. Actually, more like fourth string. Swifte’s the number two guy in town, and I’d say Debonair’s number three, ever since he went over to the good side and started working with the art museum.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I protested. “I think you’re one of the coolest heroes in the city. Certainly one of the cleverest, with your gadgets.”

I cringed the moment the words left my mouth. I sounded like I had a fangirl crush on the G-man superhero, which I totally did—but he didn’t need to know.

Talon grinned instead of seizing upon my fawning statement. “Well then, you need to buy some more of my action figures, because Striker is kicking my ass when it comes to sales.”

“Well, I’ll rush right out and buy one just as soon as Oodles o’ Stuff reopens,” I promised.

He nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Now, if you could convince about a hundred thousand of your closest friends to do the same, I might be able to move up to third string.”

We both laughed.

Talon also wasn’t afraid to parade through my apartment wearing nothing but my ratty flannel robe and a smile. It must have been
drafty
in certain areas, but Talon never complained, and he didn’t ask me to trudge out into the snow to get him some decent clothes. Gentleman George, the superhero who paid more attention to his three-piece suits than fighting evil, would have been climbing the walls if his ascot had been the tiniest bit askew.
 

Just being with someone who didn’t expect me to immediately see to his every whim was a refreshing, new experience. I liked it. Scratch that. I
loved
it.

Finally we got around to the make-or-break topic—music. Ever since I’d dated Ryan, the polka-loving playboy, I always asked guys about their musical tastes up front. It saved everybody a lot of time because I was
not
compatible with guys who liked rap, bluegrass, or polka. Shudder. I hadn’t been before my accident gave me superhearing, and I definitely wasn’t now that I could hear every painful note in crystal clarity.