Instead of doing something new and different, I do someone new and different. The captain and I take two of the flight attendants golfing after we arrive, and I take one of them to bed when we get back to the hotel. She stops me part way through, asks me what's wrong, and we spend an hour or so talking about men and women, then we go ahead and finish. When you don't understand yourself, how can you possibly ever understand someone else? She leaves when we're done, letting me know that I should call her if I ever get my shit together. Given that I have 887 days or less, that's not likely to happen.
I look for Jen when I get back to dispatch Wednesday night, despite knowing she won't be there. I drive to Anaheim where I hide my car next to a hotel whose parking lot does not have cameras, walk behind the Chinese restaurant next door, strip to my black, stretchy, cool looking underwear, and change. Since that day eight months ago, the light has lived inside me. If I grab hold of it and say a word, any word with intention, I change into him. The transition is usually exciting, almost better than sex. When I'm done, I use my feet to grab some molecules, take their energy, and fly off northeast toward downtown LA.
It's been a week since I blew out 100 windows rescuing Perez from Ali and I want to revisit the scene of the crime, or crimes. There is a plywood jungle holding the buildings together, not quite every other window covered by a sheet of the brown gnarly stuff. My fault, but under the circumstances, I'd do it all over again.
Floating above the city, I consider whether I could realistically do anything to aid the repairs, but quickly conclude that answer is no, on top of the fact that now that people know I exist, it won't be long before they start trying to sue me to fix the windows that they assume I have broken. Better not to take the blame or credit or whatever.
Despite it being January, it was a warm day in LA, warm enough to rival Kona, though I don't feel it in my altered state. Unless he's a couple thousand degrees hot, everything just feels cool. Gently, so as not to disturb the plywood or any windows that might be thinking about dashing themselves on the pavement below, I turn and push eastward.
My two favorite bank buildings loom ahead, both sporting lots of brand new glass as well on my account, though it has been a while since I damaged either one. I have the being watched feeling, now a normal part of my repertoire for downtown, but with a slight edge, and it's coming from the BofA building. There's someone on the roof, watching and waving at me, my normal human eyes telling me little else from this distance in the dark.
Probably should have turned and burned the other way, but without the need for secrecy, I am curious to learn why this person gives me that extra little tingle. When I get within 100 feet, I know exactly why. It's Celeste Nortin, sportscaster of my dreams, intelligent, tall, blonde, beautiful, well built, Celeste Nortin, she of the sidelines and the object of my early morning television lust.
Fuck me. Why couldn't I have worn my entire cool looking flying gear? Why couldn't I have made the boots work? (I bought motorcycle outfits to use as supersuits, only to discover that they burn up at high speed, and shoes block my ability to fly). Why am I once again about to screw up a once in a lifetime event? I try to land cool.
For eight months, I have had the power to fly, and yet it never occurred to me that I should have set up a big mirror somewhere to practice looking cool when I land. Perez thought I looked cool staring down the helicopter, and maybe I did, but that was accidental cool, no way to practice it. I've landed a thousand times, by now I should be an ace at making it cool.
At least I finish on my feet, bare though they may be, and not on my ass. She walks to me, better looking in person than on television, leaner, firmer in all the right places, wearing a bright yellow top and a short black skirt. She has no camera, and I don't see anyone else, but that doesn't mean it's not out there. She's taller than I thought too, only a few inches shorter than him, maybe even taller than me. The first question leaves her mouth when she stops no more than two feet in front of me.
"What's your name?"
I must have my usual stupid look on my face, though I get an answer out quickly, she is looking at me like I'm an idiot.
"Not telling. Even you."
"So you're just the mysterious flying man."
"That's me, MFM, the Mysterious Flying Man."
"OK, are you from outer space?" She's got a laughing look on her face when she asks that one, so I'm sure she doesn't believe it.
"No, born and raised on planet Earth, though I'm not saying where."
She steps closer to me, a foot away now, so close I could see every imperfection in her face, but there aren't any. No doubt in my mind, she's that close to try and make me breathe hard and it's working. Just have to remember to keep my answers short and say nothing. No matter how much I might want to make her like me.
"So you're going to be a tough interview. I understand, but everyone on your home world wants to know more about you." She's got her biggest smile out, and she's six inches from me now, her blonde hair moving gently in the light breeze, sparkles of light from somewhere providing enchanting highlights. "Why don't you tell me your story, or as much of it as you can?"
So I lie, or mostly lie, not wanting her to go anywhere. Whatever cologne she's wearing, I'm buying it for my next girlfriend. I talk about waking up one morning able to do things I couldn't before, how I'm not really sure what all I can do even now, about listening to my police scanner and knowing something was up, about circling around LA trying to figure it out, and then, just getting lucky and finding the right place at the right time.
I tell her I have a regular nine to five job, go to work, buy groceries, pay taxes, just like everybody else. She asks me if I have a girlfriend, and I tell her no. She asks me if my family knows, and I tell her no, and I'm trying to keep my face from being seen, helped by the fact that none of the four helicopters got a good look at it.
She asks me if my eyes are always black, and I tell her now they are, but I got some contacts to make them look green when I go out in public.
I ask her if she has a hidden camera, to which she says no, but she hoped I'd let her take a picture with me, and points to a blanket spread out on a table a few feet to our left, with a nice digital camera sitting on it, pointed away from us. I never noticed, must have been looking at something else. I tell her no, and ask that she not have one drawn. She asks if she can take one from behind me, with her face in it, using her timer. I agree, but not until we're done talking. I don't tell her she's my dream girl, but I remind myself not to let her walk away unnecessarily.
She asks me what I plan to do now, and I tell her I have no idea, other than I want to help. Could I end a war or stop drug shipments or derail a tsunami or move a hurricane? I don't know, but I will eventually find out. She asks me if I would appear on her weekly football show. I say no, but promise that if I ever decide to go on television, her show will be my first stop.
Then she's standing next to me, her breasts touching my chest briefly, then pulling back ever so slightly. Her hand reaches up and she slides two fingers down the sleeve of my undershirt.
"Not exactly designer. And not what you had on the other night." It's a question in a statement. I am having serious trouble concentrating. And something is happening in my underwear that makes me glad there is no camera around. She can't help but notice, it's not two inches from her stomach.
"When I fly fast, my clothes flap in the wind, these are the only ones that don't. I needed the extra warmth the other night, so I wore more. I also sometimes burn them off by flying too fast."
"That was you," she's realized something now, "Those streaks of light a couple weeks ago, that was you."
"Yes. I went to Paris and London, and back here in between. Sort of a test flight."
"Would you take me flying?" She's looking at me with those huge green eyes. I have no choice. I move to her side, just as I've done twice with Perez, put my left arm under her right and around her back, lift slightly, put my right hand under her legs, steady myself, grab some molecules, and lift her 10 feet off the roof. I take her to the edge of the building, briefly over the side above the city, turn around, and come back in, landing us next to the table so I can accommodate her picture request. In total, maybe 50 feet of flight.
Her left hand is on my chest as I put her down, her breathing is hard. She puts her face inches from mine, and runs her nails down my chest, then across my stomach, then between my legs, and over my hardness. I sigh just a little for the pleasure, and the fantasy come to life.
She reaches her hand back up, grabs me behind the head, and pulls me in to a kiss. I try to think for just a second, but give in, my hand coming up behind her back, pulling her to me. Our tongues meet, and I am in a reality that is better than all my fantasies.
She pulls back momentarily, takes my hands, intertwines them with hers, and together we rip her top open, buttons flying in every direction. No bra, just a perfect set of medium breasts, smaller than I imagined them. She helps me take my top off, then pulls us back together, half naked, into another remarkable kiss.
Her hand is on me through my underwear, pulling me toward her while she leans back against the table. I lift her up and she pulls her panties down, then her left hand has a hold of the elastic band, and her right has found the salami. She stares at it, and then back at my eyes, lust all around. She pulls me toward her, and into her, no resistance of any kind even at the periphery of my thoughts. I have dreamed of doing exactly this hundreds of times.
She's wet, and I assume warm, though I can't feel the temperature change. I have heard of people's eyes rolling back into their heads, but I have never seen it or been the cause until now. She's laying beneath me, only the whites of her eyes visible, moaning with pleasure, and all I've done is go half my length inside her. I move now, relishing the sight of this spectacular woman, the beautiful face, chest and tight stomach, muscular legs spread wide, convulsing in pleasure with every stroke. There's no reason to get fancy, so I keep it simple, and soon I finish, my eruption less intense than normal.
I stop moving, catching my breath, still inside her. Her eyes remain blank, her moans unceasing, her body racked with the same periodic tremors despite the fact I haven't moved in a while. I pull out and every muscle in her body makes a final seizure, and then relaxes just as completely. She is unconscious or out of her senses, either way, the interview is over.
My pants go back up, and my top goes back on. I can't leave her this way, so I locate the two buttons that didn't pop off her top and refasten them, pull her panties back up, and as best I can restore her to pristine condition. Her breathing is firm and regular, and I'm not sure what else I should do, other than hang out until she's conscious.
There's a noise behind us, and, startled, I turn toward it. Fuck me. It's an army officer, who must have been there the whole time, emerging from behind the stairwell entrance. He walks part way over, keeping a respectful distance. There's a star embroidered on his collar, so I assume he's a general, though not a big one. There's a name, presumably his, ‘Church' sewn onto a patch on his chest. He's got some grey in his hair, maybe my dad's age, definitely in shape, hard, dressed in a camouflage uniform, not some fancy deal. Wearing boots. No staff.
His voice is human, but not grandfatherly. He's used to having people pay attention when he talks.
"We've been watching you for almost six months. After your performance the other night, I convinced Ms. Nortin that I could get her an interview. Figured you'd go for that," he nods his head at her, "and we could have a chat afterwards. It's been interesting, but not exactly what I expected. What did you do to her?"
"I have no idea," I answer, "First time I've had sex since I got strong."
He nods, probably to himself, not to me. He rubs his chin, the classic thinking pose, probably also to himself, or a learned technique to buy time.
"I'm going to give it to you straight. We know about all the windows you've broken from here to Denver. We know about your little rock toss jayhawk field out in the desert. We know about your flight route through the Valley. We knew it was you lit up the sky in December. We know it was you who did the deed in Korea. We know where you live. We've seen your face, even if Channel 2 missed their chance, it won't take us long to draw up your family tree."
"We've had a drone hovering over downtown since July, picking you up on every pass, and following you until you finish, with some satellite assist. We have a camera out in the desert. I don't have the drone here tonight, so that there's no evidence we had this little talk."
"You may not know what you can do, but we have a pretty good idea. Our lab boys have analyzed hundreds of hours of footage of you. We've been out in the daylight and measured and weighed your rocks. They did the math on how far they thought you could throw that helo, and guess what, when we measured it, they hit it within six inches. We know how strong you are and what it would take to take you out."
