Karma Girl Part 9

Still, the offer touched me. Despite everything I'd done to them, the Fearless Five was still willing to help me. Perhaps there was a reason they called them superheroes after all. I stared down at the sidewalk. "I appreciate the offer. I really do. And I want to thank you for it. I know it must have been a difficult decision, given my history with Tornado."

Silence greeted me. I looked up. I whirled round and round, but Striker had disappeared into the night.

There was no sign of the s.e.xy superhero.

How the h.e.l.l did he do that?

KarmaGirl.

9.

I stood in front of my dresser, brus.h.i.+ng my wet hair. A cold chill swept through my body, and a familiar current flooded the room. I glanced into the mirror. He was there behind me.

I put down my brush and faced him. Without a word, Striker pulled me into his arms. His lips captured mine. They were just as warm and firm as I'd imagined. I opened my mouth, and his tongue slipped inside. I loved the clean taste of him, the feel of his muscled arms around me, his musky scent. He filled up my senses until there was nothing else.

Striker laid me down on the bed. I pulled him on top of me, enjoying the feel of his weight on my feverish body. My clothes disappeared. So did his leather suit. Only the black mask that covered his face separated us. His gray eyes burned into mine. I kissed him, long and hard and deep. Our hands explored each other's bodies with hungry purpose. He trailed his fingers down my breastbone over my quivering stomach. I opened my legs, and he sank his fingers into me.

I cried out. Waves of pleasure rippled through my body. Striker stroked me until I was dizzy with desire.

Then, he pulled back. I whimpered at the loss of contact, at the loss of his touch. Striker loomed over me. His eyes s.h.i.+mmered with the brilliance of a thousand stars. I knew what he wanted. It was the same thing I did. I opened my legs once more, and he plunged into me. He began to move- I gasped and sat up. My eyes flew around the dark room. The door was shut, the windows locked.

Everything was in its place. No s.e.xy superheroes lurked in the shadows that pooled on the floor around the bed. Alone. I was alone. All alone. It had been a dream. Just a dream. I flopped back against the pillows.

d.a.m.n.

After a long night of heated dreams, I walked down to the police station the next morning. I met up with Chief Newman, and we headed for the morgue in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

I'd been to the morgue many times before when I'd been working the investigative and police beats. It was a dark, depressing place that smelled of harsh chemicals and decay. Sometimes, I thought I saw the blood of all the murder victims puddling on the floor and dripping down the walls. Not a pleasant vision.

We entered the viewing area. A gla.s.s part.i.tion separated us from the autopsy room. The coroner, a tall, square man, stood on the other side of the gla.s.s in front of a large metal table. Blue toes peeked out from under two white sheets.

"I'll warn you, this isn't a pretty sight," Chief Newman said. "Are you ready?"

I nodded. The coroner pulled back the sheets.

I gagged and turned away.

"Easy, easy," the chief rumbled. He put a hand on my arm to steady me. "Is that them?"

"Yes."

I forced myself to turn back and look at the two bodies. I recognized my kidnappers, despite their condition. Their skin was pale as ice and looked twice as hard, while their hair had turned an unnatural white. Blue and purple veins popped out on their faces, reminding me of some kind of macabre spider's web. The men's eyes and mouths gaped open, frozen in sheer terror. Even their tongues had turned blue.

Even though the men were dead, I could still feel their horrific fear as they realized what was about to befall them. A chill crawled up my spine. This was what Malefica and Frost had in store for me if I didn't uncover Striker's ident.i.ty.

"We haven't identified them yet, but it's only a matter of time. Why don't you go back home and get KarmaGirl.

some rest? If I find out anything, I'll give you a call," Chief Newman said in a comforting tone. "I don't think there's anything more you can do here."

Dazed, I made my way back up to the ground floor. My stride quickened with every step. I stumbled outside and started to run. But even as my sneakers smacked against the concrete, I knew I couldn't outrun Frost or my own inevitable, chilly fate.

My days fell into a pattern. I spent the better part of the morning and afternoon doing research, searching for the slightest clue that would tell me who Striker and Malefica really were. I went to the latest society bash at night, wrote my story, and left. More often than not, Striker popped up outside The Expose and walked me home. He never said much, but he was always there, watching me.

I didn't know whether to be frightened or flattered. I strained to hear his silent footsteps, peered into the shadows hoping to get the smallest glimpse of him, breathed in the night air in hopes of catching a trace of his musky scent. It was pathetic, but I could no more stop myself from searching for Striker than I could quit breathing.

And I always knew when he was around. My inner voice slyly whispered his presence to me. An electric current surged through my body, and I felt all warm and tingly inside. And when I finally spotted him, well, my hormones kicked into overdrive. It was all I could do not to drag him into the shadows and kiss him senseless.

But I could never, ever do that. I could never have Striker. I could never even do anything as simple as just be his friend.

Every time I looked at Striker, I could see the pain of Tornado's loss in his silvery eyes. Striker's grief, his sorrow, radiated off him. It intensified my own guilt and shame.

Every day, I told myself there could never be anything between Striker and me.

Never.

But oh, how I wanted there to be.

One night about two weeks after our initial meeting, a cool breeze kissed my back while I worked in the kitchen. Electricity charged the air, and my stomach tightened.

"h.e.l.lo, Striker."

I stirred the pasta salad I was whipping up for dinner. I'd left work early for a change and hadn't seen Striker on my way home. I'd been planning to drown my disappointment in a bowl full of food. A poor subst.i.tute, I know.

"How do you always know it's me? I could be a burglar."

I stared at the superhero, who leaned against the refrigerator. "Well, I don't have any other superheroes stalking me. At least, not yet. Besides, a burglar could never be as quiet as you are."

"And yet you always know when I'm here."

I wasn't about to tell Striker about my inner voice, my gut instincts. He'd just laugh. He had real superpowers, not strange, imaginary twinges like mine. As I stirred the pasta salad, Striker's gray eyes traced over my body. I gripped the spoon tighter to keep from s.h.i.+vering.

More than once, I wondered what Striker thought about me. Why he kept coming back to see me.

Whether he felt anything at all toward me. Sometimes, I almost thought I saw a s.h.i.+mmer, a faint spark of desire in his eyes when I neared him. But that was just my wishful, s.e.x-starved imagination.

It had to be. Striker could never want somebody like me. Somebody so out of his league. Somebody so unworthy.

I dumped the pasta in a bowl and turned around. Striker stood between me and the kitchen table. I KarmaGirl.

hesitated. I didn't want to get within arm's reach of him. Didn't want to get close enough to see the blue flecks in his silvery eyes. Didn't want to smell him. Didn't want to feel his hot breath on my cheek. I would only be tormented that much more by my attraction to him-and the complete hopelessness of it.

But this was my apartment, not his. It was bad enough Striker waltzed in whenever he wanted, and I did nothing to discourage him. I wouldn't let him dictate where I walked too. I squared my shoulders and stepped forward.

"Excuse me," I said.

Striker moved back a fraction of an inch. I squeezed by, so close that I brushed up against his tall form.

The brief contact made me hum and spark deep down inside, like a live wire ripped free from its power source. All my previous intentions to keep my distance burned away. I longed to reach out and touch Striker, to see if his chest was as hard and muscled as it looked, to see if he was really here, and not some figment of my feverish, overactive imagination.

I dropped the bowl onto the table and sank into my chair. I grabbed my gla.s.s of water and downed half of it in one gulp. My hand shook.

It took me a moment, but I composed myself. I pointed to the chair across from me. "Sit down. Have some food. I made plenty. Too much just for me."

Striker eyed the pasta with suspicion.

"Oh, it's not drugged or poisoned or whatever you think." I stabbed a bite of the creamy salad with my fork, chewed, and swallowed. "See? I haven't keeled over yet."

Striker hesitated, then dropped into the other chair. I dished us up some pasta. A roll of crusty French bread and sharp cheddar cheese completed the meal. We ate in silence. I kept my eyes fixed on my food so I wouldn't stare at Striker like a schoolgirl with a movie star crush.

"This is really good." Striker helped himself to some more food.

"You sound surprised."

Striker shrugged. "It's a nice surprise. You don't strike me as a woman who likes to cook."

I smiled. The backhanded compliment pleased me. But then, I scowled. Why did I care what Striker thought of me? Why did I listen for his footsteps? Why did his mere presence affect me so? It had to be the costume. I'd always been a sucker for guys in black leather jackets. A superhero suit wasn't much different. It was just bigger. And tighter. And filled out a lot better . . .

I chugged down the rest of my water. We finished our meal. I gathered up the dishes and dumped them in the sink. Striker leaned against the refrigerator as usual. I turned to face him.

"So, now that I've fed you, want to take off your mask for me?" I asked the question every time I saw him.

"No."

Unfortunately, the answer was always the same.

"I'm going to find out who you are eventually. You could save me a lot of trouble. Not to mention all the money I've been spending on highlighters and photocopies and sticky pads."

Striker stared at me, his gray eyes dark and hooded.

"Why do you do it, anyway?" I blurted out. It was the one question I'd never been able to puzzle out the answer to, despite all my superhero and ubervillain exposes.

"Do what?"

I gestured at him. "The whole superhero thing. Fighting evil, battling ubervillains, the whole shebang.

It's not like you get paid to put yourself in danger."

KarmaGirl.

Striker looked at me as though the answer was self-explanatory. "I have a gift, powers I can use to help others, powers I can use for good. It's a calling for me. It's something I have to do."

"But why hide your true ident.i.ty if what you do is so n.o.ble? Why wear the mask and the costume?"

"A secret ident.i.ty is the only way superheroes can exist, the only way we can lead any semblance of a normal life. I don't fight evil all the time, you know. I have other interests and hobbies and responsibilities. If we didn't wear masks and costumes, people would never leave us alone. They'd want us to help them with everything. We'd never get any work done. Not to mention the fact that ubervillains could pick us off one by one." Striker's voice was cold and hard.

"But what about your friends and family? Why hide what you do from them?"

His lips tightened. "Because if they were ever captured by an enemy, they could be forced to reveal my true ident.i.ty."

"But don't they have a right to know? You put them in danger just by doing what you do. Maybe if they knew, they could take better care of themselves-and you." I persisted with my questions, even though I was antagonizing the superhero. I couldn't stop myself. I wanted answers. Wanted satisfaction. That, and I wanted him.

Striker crossed his arms over his lean chest. "Really? Like the way you took care of the Machinator?"

I froze.

"Oh yes. I read your story about your would-be wedding. How you caught your fiance cheating with your best friend, how you discovered their alter egos, how you exposed them. Tell me, Carmen. Why do you do what you do? Are you trying to punish every superhero for your fiance's infidelity? Does his betrayal still hurt that much?"

My mouth dropped open. How dare he! How dare Striker question my motives. I wasn't the one who crept around in the shadows. I wasn't the one parading around in skin-tight black leather. I wasn't the one hiding myself from the world.

Rage and hurt bubbled up inside me. Needles p.r.i.c.ked the pieces of my broken heart. My arm jerked forward, and I slapped Striker. The crack roared like thunder in the small kitchen. My hand left a red welt on his exposed cheek. In seconds, it faded away, as though I had never even hit him. The sight only fueled my anger.

"I forgot. You regenerate. Neat trick. I guess I'll just have to hit you harder."

I raised my hand to hit him again. Striker grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. His breath brushed my flushed face. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s flattened against his supple leather suit, and my body hummed at the touch.

I stared up into his masked face. Striker's silver eyes glowed in the faint light. Hot, blue sparks glittered in the depths of his hypnotic eyes.

My inner voice shouted out a warning. For once in my life, I ignored it.

I pressed my lips to his.

Striker stilled, as shocked by my action as I was. He started to pull back. I wrapped my arms around his neck and drew him closer. He wasn't walking away from me. Striker wasn't disappearing into the shadows. I wasn't letting the superhero slip through my fingers.

Not tonight.

His lips opened as if to say something. My tongue plunged inside his hot, moist mouth. Teasing.

Testing. Tempting.

Striker's hands wavered in the air like a drowning man debating on whether to reach for a life preserver.

The sane thing, the safe thing, would have been to stop. To end the kiss. To step back. But I didn't want KarmaGirl.

to be sane tonight. I wanted Striker to drown. In me. With me.

I continued my exploration of his mouth. My tongue slid across his teeth. I nibbled the corner of his lips and trailed soft kisses down his neck. Striker's hands settled on my back. He growled and yanked me to him.

Our lips melded together. Our tongues dipped and darted and dodged, finding each other time and time again. Striker's hands settled on my waist, pulling my hips toward his. Mine roamed over his slick leather suit. The material felt as smooth as silk under my frantic fingers.

Striker's erection burned against my thigh. He wanted me just as much as I wanted him. Good.

My anger and frustration and confusion melted into a tidal wave of hot, liquid desire. We spun around and around in the kitchen. Tasting, caressing, driving each other mad. Dishes shattered on the floor.