Catwalk: Messiah (17 page)

“Who was that man?”

“How rude.”

“What a jerk.”

As he stood up, he leveled his gaze to the auburn-haired goddess at the bar sipping Crème de Menthe. To her deepest embarrassment, he waved and stepped quickly in her direction. She was blushing. Good. She rose to meet him, gracing his cheek with a kiss.
 

“Good eve, Mr. Caliber,” she said in her low, throaty voice, "will you have a drink?" Her face was flushed, and the green in her eyes deepened.

"I would love to, but I better refrain at the moment." Cat raised his right hand in the air and mimed the motion for accelerating the cycle. “I may toss one down when it’s just my life at risk, but, well, never with a passenger.”

She didn't miss a beat. "Of course, you are my guest. Is there anything else I could get for you?" She set her own glass down and didn't reach for it again.

"A light?"

“My pleasure,” From somewhere in the depths of her cleavage she brought out a silver cigarette case and a slender lighter. "Please, allow me."

The cigarette was between his fingers by the time the flame ignited. He inhaled a few times and nodded thanks. "Bring yer piece?"

"My...oh! Yes," she glanced around and lowered her voice to near whisper. “Yes, I have it." There was a barely visible bulge in her leather jacket pocket. She nodded slightly toward the jacket. "I am looking forward to learning."

Cat blew smoke, literally and figuratively. "Awesome, but we have a problem."

She tilted her head. "What problem is that?"

He nodded his head toward the tinted windows. "See that ride out there? That's my custom Honda-Suzuki. I wrenched every part on that overpriced puppy myself."

She turned to have a look. "You have many talents, I see." Her eyes remained on the bike. "That’s our transportation then?"

“Oh, yeah, that's part a' the deal. Here's the problem though. Every component on that thing is yellow, black or chrome." He turned to face her with a stone face. "Red will clash. I'm gonna need you to take all your clothes off."
 

Delilah took a drag off of her own cigarette, watching him without a word. She studied him through dark lashes, as if she was considering his statement as fact. She feigned offense, allowing her cheeks to flush before she spoke.
 

“Mr. Caliber, I thought you a gentleman. I must have given you more credit than you deserve. I’m sorry that I wasted your time, and I hope you make it off of the Hotel grounds with all your limbs intact.” Delilah stood, turning her back on the hitman and motioning to an oversized cyborg at the far end of the lounge.

“Whoa,” Cat called, trying to stop her before turning the plush lobby into nothing more than a war zone. He waved a hand quickly. "I was kidding. I'm kidding!"

Delilah stopped, gazing over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glistened in the light. A smile crept across her lips. "Oh. Kidding. You may want to look around. The other reason you managed an exception to the hotel’s dress code is me. I think one good turn deserves another. Don’t you, Mr. Caliber?"

He'd overstepped his bounds by a long shot, but wasn't that always the case? Instead of antagonizing her, he took a drag from his cigarette. "Look, Delilah, as much as I'd love to see you without that outfit...never mind, that's not what I meant. I mean, it is, but..."
 

"Well, then, let’s assume you’ve already learned how to control your impulses before they become words. I’m going to pretend that’s a skill you’ve already mastered.” She smiled, the embodiment of cool. “Now, Mr. Caliber, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a look at that machine."

He mumbled. "Wow, suddenly a drink sounds like the right solution." He shook his head, embarrassed at his own conduct.

Delilah made a conciliatory gesture. She'd regained her composure and the upper hand. 

"That doorman sure is a snappy dresser." The words felt desperate before he ever spoke.

Evenly, she said, "It's his job. What sort of drink do you prefer?"

He balked internally at the horrible shift in subject matter, but it was a desperate move. When she replied right in stride, he laughed. Taking a deep breath and finally exhaling, he replied, "I really just want to get you out on a ride with me. How's that for starters?"

Delilah’s smile was perfect. "It's a fine idea."

Cat stood up, chanting the mantra, "You're an ass" under his breath ad nauseum. "You ever worn a motorcycle helmet?"

She gathered up her jacket and began to slip one arm into it. "I wore one once during a photo shoot. If you’re asking me if I’ve ever ridden a motorcycle, I’m afraid the answer is similar. I’ve been on a motorcycle, just not one in motion."

"What idiot photographer would ever hide your priceless face?" He wanted to follow up with a qualifying comment like "I'm not a stalker, I swear" but pulled back from further embarrassment.

She looked at him sideways. "One hired to bring out the best in a motorcycle. It seems female models are preferred." There was a touch of the cynic in her tone. "I'd really have preferred an actual ride. But all they did was to polish it wherever my fingers touched."

"Madame Dupree, with you in the shoot, no one on this world or all the colonies would ever know there was a motorcycle in frame."

"You have quite a silver tongue." The flicker of a smile played on her lips. "Will you expect me to remove my prints from your motorcycle?"
 

“What? No, you can leave prints anywhere you want.”

She giggled slightly, the priceless smile crossing her lips in victory. "I'll wear gloves." She drew out a pair to show to him. "Are these appropriate?"
 

"You'll be holdin' on ta me instead of the bike, but yeah, I think those will work just fine." The thought of her nails against his skin crossed his mind, and he stopped to remind himself of where they were and what they had scheduled.

Her hands gripped into his sides as the H-S left the circular parking area in front of the Hotel Infinity. They crossed the parking lot in under ten seconds, hitting the ramp to the Interstate. He waited on purpose before clicking on the comm.
 

The H-S was purring along in third gear, somewhere near 100 kmph before Cat tapped the button opening the communication between the helmets. "How you doin', Red?"

"Fine,” she replied, about one octave higher than usual.

“Alright, we'll both be okay. There are a few simple rules if you...whoop, hold on." He leaned the bike hard left, crossing two lanes of traffic before returning to avoid a bus held together mostly with duct tape and prayer. One side of its bumper dragged limply behind it, sending sparks along the road. Cat figured he would move out of harm’s way before the bumper cut loose completely.

"As I was sayin',” he chirped with the energy granted him behind the handlebars, "there are a few rules."

She held on to him tighter, leaning against the turn with a natural sense of balance. She was breathing hard. "What rules?"

"Three rules. One. Lean the same way I lean."

"Two. Don't put yer feet down without tellin’ me."

"Three. Don't cover my eyes or we're both organ donors!" He thought of a few more rules, but left them resounding happily within his skull.

She laughed at his last comment. "I'll behave, I promise."

“Alright. How are you for freeway time?"

"Faster? Oh yes!" She leaned forward, the length of her body pressing against him. Her booted feet were firmly planted on the rear pegs. "Ready when you are."

"Good ta hear. Hold tight...an' I mean tight." Cat gripped the rear brake hard, skidding the back tire around until the H-S was perpendicular with traffic. Delilah looked to their right. Pairs of headlights barreled down upon them from cars and trucks alike. She squeaked as she tugged on his jacket.

Cat said into the comm. "Let's see how this handles."
 

The rear tire erupted into smoke as he burned out before taking off. She clung to him as if her life depended on it, which it did. The acceleration of the custom monster paid off as they leapt off of the highway ramp. For what felt like forever, they were airborne, leaping off of I-10.

When they landed with a stretch of sparks and an indignant thump, they were smack in the middle of the northbound lanes of the 405. The lights behind them grew brighter, and the sound of horns circled them like a hurricane.

Cat ripped the motorcycle into a 0 to 60 sequence that shook them each to their dental work. By the time they each caught their breath, they were pushing 150 northbound on a completely different highway.
 

Finally, Cat checked in, "Wow, that was pretty crazy, even for me. How ya doin' back there?"

"Gods...I love it! More!" Her voice betrayed an excitement he hadn’t heard from her before. “The fools didn't want me to ride. They wanted the fun all to themselves!"

"Alright lady, hang on tight." The twist of the wrist was like a shot of Shine in his veins. He was feeding off of her responses, verbal and physical. He continued to accelerate, dodging traffic as if in slow motion. He saw every vehicle as a clunky, slow 3-D model, and evaded them with ease, just as when he spent hours on the motorcycle simulator back at St. Patrick’s.

"Go!"

By fifth gear, they were nearing 180 kmph, each set of taillights a blur as he erupted past them. This was an enviable goal for Cat. One he'd never attempted with a passenger, but something about her clutching to him drove him to new heights. All he wanted was more. He heard Delilah scream behind him in an unadulterated high. He grinned wider. She’d never been allowed to ride before. He treasured the excitement and focus of the ride. He loved the fact he was sharing it with the beautiful redhead.

Long before he'd wanted to, Cat saw the exit ramp approaching. He'd have to slow down, but there was still some room for fun. "You listenin', Delilah?"

"Yes," she sort of gurgled.

"Good. I'm about to give you a strange request. Don’t ask, just obey. I need to you to wrap your legs around me." The ramp was approaching too fast to give her time to understand.

She'd been stretching her neck to look around him and saw the ramp. Almost instantly, out of fear and a newfound trust in him, her long legs moved to curl around his hips. A squeal left her as she locked on to him. He was already gripping the clutch, but not slowing down enough when he felt her legs move. Grabbing the brake, he dove right, his armored knee scraping the pavement. His knee and the foot peg of the bike struck the pavement. A shower of sparks erupted behind them. If Delilah’s leg had been behind his instead of around his waist, she’d need a skin graft when they stopped.

The slide continued for almost ten seconds, the length of the spiraling ramp, before they were upright again, heading eastbound on the 101. Cat caught himself laughing before he could decide which boisterous statement to put forth.

She said something, but it wasn't audible.

He chuckled. "Tell me you just said, 'pull over'."

She rasped, "I wasn't that polite. But please do pull over." It was only after he'd come to a complete halt that he realized the trembling in her legs and arms wasn't from the vibration of the powerful engine.

The H-S cut off a random traveler, finding the dimly lit haven of a closed gas station. Sliding under the covered section of the pumps, Cat shut the engine down. Slowly, she detangled herself from him. "I...I need to..."

With his MetaHuman agility, Cat leapt from the bike, landing several feet away. "Take off your helmet." He said as he approached her.

Delilah’s shaking fingers undid the strap, and the helmet was off. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her wide green eyes stared at him. "I didn't leave prints, did I?"

Cat could hardly feel a thing through the adrenaline, but he remembered every tint of her skin. His fingers reach for her as if in a dream. He grabbed her hair, pulling her to him. The highway disappeared. Traffic disappeared. Everything disappeared as their lips met.

CHAPTER THIRTY

16 August 2022

Leon’s hands are worn. His arms are burning. Not every portion of the orphanage is built for wheelchair access, and he’s managed to find some of the hardest areas to search today. An endless rain pelts the window. Trickling shadows form from the dim lights outside. The light falls intermittently on his face, mingling with the beads of sweat on his skin. He closes his eyes, relaxing for a moment, letting the downpour become his soundtrack.

A scream pierces the percussion of the rain, or rather, the reverberations of a scream from down the hall. The desperation lifts the voice into a betraying range reserved for fear. Sucking air in quickly, Leon drives himself forward, his hands on the wheelchair’s rims. He pushes forward again and again, each repeated motion bearing several feet of cracked and dim hallway.

The scream comes again, closer, just as high. Leon is sweating harder. His mouth is dry, but this is a sound he knows well. Panic and fear were part of life on the streets running drugs for a gang. He’s both invoked and uttered those sounds before. St. Patrick’s, however, is a place of peace. That sound…those emotions…don’t belong here.

Another determined push forward bears fruit. The wheelchair reaches a juncture, and he sees movement to his left. His dark eyes acknowledge three forms. Two have their back to him. Their movements are aggressive and focused. The third form strikes him with the brilliance of a sunfire. She is slight, skinny, but not muscular. Blonde hair frames her flushed face. Her makeup is smeared. Tears draw the blue eyeliner down her cheeks in black despair. She screams again. One of the boys has her wrists clasped hard together. She stares at him, pleading.

“Hey!” Leon shouts before he even realizes he’s done so. He’s always been a scrapper, a dirty fighter willing to do anything to win. He’s seen the blonde before. She is a friend of the Asian girl who has been reaching out and trying to mentor him. She’s proof alone that hope exists in these halls. Wheelchair or not, Leon isn’t willing to let two meatheads beat hope out of a friend.

No one beyond their small clique has even acknowledged him beyond sarcasm. The flame inside says he’s going to step in, even if he can’t physically step at all.