Super Born: Seduction of Being (2 page)

“
You’re crazy!”

“
Yeah, I am…what’s your excuse?” As
his feet heavily pounded the floor while he left, I imagined hooves
hitting the ground. Maybe Paige was right about farm
animals.

Surprise, surprise, Jason doesn’t call anymore.
I figure my new level of sexual desire was a teeny-tiny,
itty-bitty, teeny-weeny bit too potent for the average male. And
Jason had never even measured up to even an average sexual
experience. I’m certain I did some damage to him, though, so now I
had a complex about that: being afraid to do it to anyone else.
Thanks for the complex, Jason. I faked ’em all anyway.

After that, I started dressing in black and
practicing my new skills in the mountains surrounding town. I
mastered flying, lifting boulders, and running at high speeds
through a maze of obstacles. I soon learned that, at the speeds I
traveled, it made no difference if I wore running shoes or my Times
Square stilettos. So I ran with the most stylishly firm calves you
can imagine, and a good three inches of extra height. I did it all
for that childish feeling of fun—until I was overtaken by the
“adult” feeling that there had to be a purpose for this.

I found that purpose while cruising through the
sky on my way home one night. I noticed a truck fishtailing down a
steep hill, apparently having lost its brakes. Ahead of it lay a
hairpin curve above a steep drop into a valley. I had a decision to
make—be safe and watch, or change the outcome.

I was tired of being safe. I reached
the truck just as it broke through the guardrail and began to
plunge into the valley. I told myself that this was no different
than catching a boulder, but this was an eighty-thousand-pound
boulder traveling at 60 miles per hour that could easily carry me
with it to the rocks below. I felt a serious instinct to flee as I
approached, but fought it off, locked my arms under the trailer,
and pushed as hard as I could, wondering how long I should try this
before giving up. But after the initial jolt of impact, the truck
responded, and felt no heavier than holding a basket of laundry
over my head. I smiled, thinking,
this is
easy.

Then the truck and I began to fall
through the air toward the rocks below, and the hitch that coupled
the cab to the trailer started to break apart when it
realized,
Hey, I wasn’t made to fly.
The hitch that connected the cab to the trailer
worked fine when everything was touching the ground, but up in the
air…not so good. Now I had two pieces to support.

Just at the final creak of the separating
metal, I worked my way forward and took a desperate handhold of the
cab as it started to drift away. My plan was to drop the trailer if
I couldn’t manage both that and the cab, but I could, just barely.
It wasn’t the weight, but the awkward shapes, angles, and poor
handholds that made it really hard for me. (If you’ve ever lifted
two laundry baskets over your head and held them out at arm’s
length, you might know what I mean.) I lifted the truck beyond the
lip of the cliff and then set it down. The tail of the trailer held
in my right hand and nose of the cab in my left hit first, and then
the other wheels came down to a bouncing halt.

But there was no time to gloat. As I ducked out
from under the truck, the wide-eyed driver, saw me. Cars began to
stop. I didn’t want to be recognized or have to explain what I had
done—or how I had done it—so I flew away as quickly as I could,
vowing to disguise myself from then on whenever I flew.

Out came the sewing machine and a homemade
outfit, lame by superhero standards. Hell, I was a single mom
working forty hours a week in the accounting department of a
wireless company and another twenty hours part time at a retail
store for minimum wage, not Batman on a Hollywood budget. It was no
high-tech suit, but it helped hide my identity. For me—and if there
were any more like me, probably for them too—remaining unknown was
critical, or these powers would run off with my life.

And so it went, night after night. I would wear
a mask and some black clothes and cruise the city. There was always
pain or disaster to find. I was shocked how much went on during
those “quiet” nights I never had taken notice of before. Once you
knew the suffering and violence around you, your view of life was
changed forever. Whether it was an accident, crime, or just the
simple cruelty of mankind, I was a busy woman.

But the more I changed the fates of the people
of Scranton, the more it forced me to hide in the shadows. No one
could find out, I knew, or they would find a selfish use for my
powers. My life would no longer be mine. And worst of all, Paige
and the rest of my family would no longer be safe. It was a
horrible, helpless feeling that even all my power couldn’t contain.
I was torn between my two lives; the only one I had known, and the
new, attractive one where I felt I mattered. Sure, every single mom
is already a superhero, considering the mountain of things we
juggle daily, but for the first time I felt like I was making a
diffence. I was moving the world, and not it me.

Batman wouldn’t last a day in my
world,
I thought bitterly, feeling the
strain that these newly manifested superpowers had brought to my
life. Gone was my known, controllable existence, quietly raising my
daughter and making ends meet. Gone were the simple days of
drinking, dancing, and partying with my friends. Being “real” and
being a superhero made for a unique combination. Sometimes it was a
real bitch.

My new powers were confusing and
frustrating, yet wildly
seductive, opening
my mind to a new world. T
hey filled me with
questions and challenges but, worst of all, forced me to face them
all alone. I could trust no one with my secret.

How should I use these powers? How
to deal with all those who would search for me, wanting to share
in, use my strength? Who to trust? What really was right and wrong,
when the laws of man no longer applied to you?
Yet through the dangers and the challenges, more doors opened
than closed. Perhaps there was a route to a new level of
being—perhaps even a new level of romance.

Oh, by the way, as you get to know me better,
you’ll probably hear people call me a bunch of different names (or
expletives) but for the record, my name is Allie, and Paige calls
me Mom. (Call me Ishmael, but I won’t answer.) I’m known as the
B.I.B.; the bitch in black. And please don’t say, ‘bib.’ It’s
‘B-I-B.’ Just say every letter and there won’t be any trouble.
Remember that, and remember I can break you in half if you don’t.
(First one I hear saying ‘bib’ gets it. Don’t make me hurt
you.)

On my birthday, the big thirty three, I just
wanted to feel “normal” again. I was hoping some shopping and
errands would help—those open-toed Italian shoes I had been wanting
would be a good birthday gift to myself. But after I was told, at
my first stop, that the phone Paige had dropped in the pool at swim
club would not be covered under the warranty—and getting a new one
drained my checking account down to nothing—the joy of being
“normal” somehow felt pale. There would be no money left for a
birthday celebration for me, and no one with whom to share
it.

As I stood outside the shoe store with Paige’s
new phone, staring down at those open-toed beauties I could have
worn Saturday night, I thought about my empty wallet and
nonexistent checking balance. Then I thought of flying and catching
that truck—and felt like two different women, tearing away from
each other; one so powerful, and one so powerless.

As I left the store window, I was feeling alone
and sorry for myself. It was my birthday. Not that I expected a
national holiday or a parade, but someone who cared, other than my
crazy sisters, would be nice. Maybe I would just go home. Maybe
that black poodle from upstairs wasn’t busy. Instead, I walked into
O’Malley’s Bar for a drink.

Chapter 2

The Night My Life Changed
Forever

My name is Logan. This journal documents a
quest that has transformed me from the disbeliever that I was to
all that I’ve become.…Okay, still working on the “all I’ve become”
part, but you get the idea.

Even now, just thinking of her absorbs every
feeling and thought in my head and hardens my…resolve. There was
the way the sun glistened in the various shades of blond of her
hair, the way the moonlight shimmered off her lips before that kiss
on the rooftop, the way her whole face smiled before she laughed,
her sarcastic humor that always left me guessing, and the way her
skin glowed wherever I touched her as we flew over the city that
night. Yes, mine was the ol’ boy meets superwoman, boy loses
superwoman, boy spends rest of his life (and money) searching for
superwoman story. I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times
before…no? Well then, this is your lucky day.

I should forewarn you. If you are
the lucky one who finds this journal, just sit back, get a drink
and a snack, and prepare to enjoy a stimulating tale of romance,
adventure, and wild, unbridled sex. You can read about all those
things
after
you
finish my journal. It’s not that long.

My tale begins on the cold, cloudy
evening last January.
I had contacted a
budding young PhD professor and researcher
in psychology from Pennsylvania State University, Rashid Patel
Jones. Dr. Jones was the son of learned immigrants, his father a
renowned environmental engineer, his mother a brilliant
psychologist at Penn State, often seen on Oprah.

Dr. Jones was hungry to eclipse the brilliance
of his parents. I could sense that hunger in his energy on the
phone, and in his determination to convince me of his theory. After
years of effort, he had created a startling theory that encompassed
cutting-edge research from both his father and his mother’s fields,
and now he was trying—no, I should say was consumed by the need—to
prove his theory to the world.

Personally, I rated him a jack-off, but I
thought there was a paycheck in his story. Boy, was that an
understatement…the paycheck part, I mean…well, maybe the jack-off
part too.

After briefly flirting with success writing for
magazines in New York after college, my career had dropped to
writing for small newspapers and then to freelance articles to pay
the bills. I wasn’t a lousy writer, just an unmotivated
one.

I sold the editor at the
Times
on the idea that
Jones’s story had local appeal
, and Jones
granted me an immediate interview. Even after he found out I was
only a freelance, rarely published writer and part-time bartender,
he still honored the interview.
Damn, he
must be desperate
, I thought. I know now
that my not being born in Scranton allowed Jones to use me as Super
Born Bait, but at that point I chalked it up to my magnetic
personality, dynamic prose, keen intellect, and dazzling
charm.

Rather than spend hours on scientific mumbo
jumbo that would probably shoot right over my aching head, Dr.
Jones insisted that it would be much easier to demonstrate his
theory in the field. He suggested that we meet at nine o’clock at a
beat-up, fifty-year-old house converted into a bar and grill called
O’Malley’s in the nearby city of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

Scranton had once been the fourth-largest city
in Pennsylvania, but had been struggling through decades of
economic and population decline. Jones had developed a radical
theory to explain the downturn; Scranton was the center of his
research, and had become his home away from home. On the phone
Jones spoke of Scranton the way a man would speak of the woman he
loved—or at least a good, inexpensive mistress.

When I finally arrived at run-down O’Malley’s,
I had to circle the block to find a parking space on the street. I
slammed my car door, case in my hand and lap top over my shoulder,
the consummate professional writer. (Is that what one looks like? I
didn’t know, because the articles I wrote tended to end up lining
the bottom of birdcages before they were read…if you know what I
mean.) When I first saw the peeling white paint, blinking sign, and
sagging gutters of O’Malley’s, I could see that its decline
paralleled the slump of the city itself.

I started the short walk to the front door,
determined to make the project with Dr. Jones work. I needed some
money from somewhere. The tank was empty, if you know what I mean.
I needed to completely focus on Jones’s work.

But instead of keeping my focus, I
couldn’t help but notice this chick walking by.
Whoa, look at the major-league yabbos on
her
, I thought as the long haired brunette
slithered by with her coat open, revealing a “Ravage Me” low-cut
dress. Not that “Ravage Me” was a brand name or a designer or
anything, but maybe it should be. I made a mental note to my Get
Rich Quick List to start a line of women’s clothing with that name
just before I ran head on into O’Malley’s hole-in-the-wall
entrance. What made it worse was the fact that Miss Ravage Me
laughed at me as she walked away, fully aware of what her slinky
dress had done. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, focus.

I pushed through the doors of O’Malley’s
promptly at 9:27 to be greeted by the stale smell of yesterday’s
beer. I found Dr. Jones immediately, despite the dim lighting in
the bar. There was only one man there that could be him. He was a
short, dark man in his late twenties, wore glasses with thick
frames, and had a gigantic, endearing smile, like a lap dog ready
to pounce. Compared to him, I felt like a giant with my
six-foot-two-inch, okay, six-foot…five-foot-ten-inch, cyclist’s
build…okay, working on the cyclist part. (Hey, I did own a
bike…once…)