Ultimate Warriors (24 page)

     
One day,
eighteen hours, thirty-one minutes, and counting...

     
Blossom
shielded her eyes from the rising sun as she scurried from the MPI Math Center
to her beat-up Volkswagen Jetta. Another all-nighter--one that hadn’t included
a single alcoholic beverage or grope in the dark with a muscle-bound stranger,
unfortunately. She slung her backpack off her shoulder and fished around in it
for her car keys.

     
Lois and
Jimmy were right. She was pathetic.

     
"Hey,"
a deep voice said, right in her ear.

     
She nearly
jumped a mile.

     
"Sorry.
I didn’t mean to startle you."

     
It was
the crazy geek from the library, dressed in another short sleeve
button-up-to-the-neck shirt--plaid, no less. His black flood pants were at
least two inches too short. To complete the picture of pure geekiness, he held
an enormous laptop case in one hand.

     
"No
problem," she told him. "I love being scared out of my wits. The
adrenaline rush will help get me home without falling asleep."

     
He
smiled.
"Up all night?"

     
"Yes.
Had a bug it took a while to find."

     
"I
get like that, too," he said. "Time flies when you’re writing
code." He plucked the keys from her hand. Before Blossom realized what was
happening, he’d guided her around to the passenger’s side, unlocked the door,
and helped her in.

     
"Wait
a minute," she said. "What do you think you’re doing?"

     
"You’re
dead on your feet," he said. "I can’t let you drive home."

     
"That’s
the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard," she told him. She climbed out of
the car. "Do you really think I’d let some stranger drive me home? You
could be an ax murderer or something."

     
"Do
I look dangerous enough?" the geek asked. His eyes seemed hopeful.

     
"Looks
aren’t everything," Blossom said.

     
"I
agree," he said. "But in my case you have nothing to worry about. I
would never hurt you." He smiled.

     
He was
kind of cute when his dimples were showing.
But...
"I don’t know," she said. "You have to admit, you were a little
over the top at the library yesterday. All
that talk
of superheroes being real--"

     
"A
joke," he said quickly. "I have a ... um ... unique sense of
humor." He dangled the keys. "I’ll just drive you home. No funny
stuff. I promise."

     
"No.
Give me back my keys."

     
"Forget
it. If you won’t let me drive, I’m calling a cab."

     
"You
don’t have to do that."

     
"I
know."
He un-Velcroed a pocket on his laptop case and
dug out a cell phone.

     
Twenty
minutes later, the cab still hadn’t come. "Megalopolis cab service
sucks," he grumbled.

     
"I
could have told you that," Blossom said. "Now can I have my keys? I
really need to get some sleep."

     
He
sighed.
"All right.
But I’m going to follow you
home. Just to make sure you get there okay."

     
Great.
Just great.

     
"One-sixteen
Oakland, right?" he asked, handing the keys over.

     
She
froze. "How did you know that?"

     
"Your
backpack," he said, pointing.

     
Yep,
there it was.
Right on the tag, under her name, for any and
all potential perverts to see.
Lovely.
She
might as well have recorded her bra size, too.

     
She
glared at him. He grinned back.

     
"Who
are you?" she asked irritably. "And why are you following me
around?"

     
He held
out his hand. "Dr. Clark Kendall. I’m ... new at MPI. I’m here for a
special research project."

     
She
stared at him for a beat,
then
started to laugh.
"That’s good," she said. "A bit corny, but good."

     
"What?"
he said, looking genuinely puzzled.

     
"Your name.
Clark Kendall. Almost like Superman."

     
"Yeah,"
he said.
"Almost."

     
She got
in the car and grabbed the inside door handle. He leaned in, one hand on the
roof and the other on the window frame, keeping her from shutting the door.
"Listen," he said. "After I tail you home and you catch some
sleep, how about going to dinner with me?"

     
"You
don’t give up easy, do you?"

     
He
smiled again, a lopsided grin that showed twin dimples, one in each cheek. A
thick shank of dark hair fell across his forehead. She looked up, trying to see
his eyes, but with the sun striking just
so on
his
glasses, all she could see was her own reflection.

     
"Come
on," he said. "I’ll take you to the Italian restaurant over on Broad
Street. What’s it called?"

     
"Luigi’s,"
she said. "But you’re kidding, right? That place is five
star
. It’ll cost you a fortune."

     
"You’re
worth it."

     
"Why?"
she asked. "Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me."

     
He
shrugged and looked away.

     
"You’re
really a visiting prof?" she asked. "What’s your research project
about?"

     
"Genetics,"
he said. "Hormone triggers in dominant and recessive DNA
combinations."

     
"Wow,"
she said.
"Sounds wild."

     
"You
have no idea. So what do you say? Have dinner with me tonight?"

     
She
hesitated,
then
sighed. Truth was
,
she loved authentic Italian food. She’d been dying to go to Luigi’s ever since
it opened last semester. But with no significant other in sight, she hadn’t
quite managed to get there. She might as well go with Dr. Clark Kendall. He was
a geek, but hey, it wasn’t like Superman was showing up at her door to ask her
out any time soon.

     
"All
right," she said.

     
He
looked stunned.
"Really?"

     
Her gaze
drifted to his buttoned-up shirt, then further south to his where’s-the-flood
pants. She began to have second thoughts.
"On one
condition."

     
He
pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What’s that?"

     
"Lose
the geek clothes."

* * * *

     
Friday, 1:06 p.m.

     
One day,
ten hours, fifty-four minutes, and counting...

     
Lose the
geek clothes.

     
Right.
No problem. He could do that.

     
Clark
stared at the rack of MegaMart polyester dress suits and heaved a sigh. Give
him an FBI mainframe to hack into, no problemmo. Tell him to dress up for a
dinner date, and he was up shit creek without a toilet brush for a paddle.

     
What
would Bruce wear? He winced. Now wouldn’t that make a good bumper
sticker.

     
"Need
some
help,
hon?"

     
He
turned to find a fifty-something, big-haired, gum-snapping saleslady hovering
at his elbow. She outweighed him by a good seventy pounds. He squinted at her
nametag. Lorna Jean.

     
He
stepped back so quickly, he nearly fell over his laptop case. "I’m not sure."

     
"Well,
then, honey, I’m your dream come true. I know all there is to know about
dressing men."

     
"Do
you, now?" Clark said faintly.

     
"Damn
tootin’ I do. Got seven boys of my own, you know."

     
"That’s
amazing," Clark said.

     
She
cocked her head to one side. "What you getting all gussied up for?"

     
"A
dinner date," he told her.
"At Luigi’s."

     
Lorna
Jean pursed her alarmingly red lips and whistled.
"Fancy
shmancy.
You’ll need the works."

     
"What
do you suggest?" Clark asked, not at all sure he wanted to know, but
seeing no way to politely back off from the conversation.

     
"The
Seventies look is right popular these days," Lorna Jean told him. She
fished through the rack and reeled in a blindingly white suit, with lapels
wider than Clark’s hand. She flung the pants and jacket over one substantial
shoulder, then grabbed Clark’s upper arm and manhandled him over to the shirts,
where she slithered a slippery black one off a hanger.

     
Clark
guessed the material was supposed to look like silk, but a glance at the price
tag told him the garment was made of pure petroleum by-products.

     
"I’m
not sure I--"

     
"Sure
you are," Lorna Jean said, shoving him into the dressing room.
"Didn’t you see Saturday Night Fever?"

     
"No,
actually I--"

     
The
louvered door slammed. "Don’t make me come in there and dress you
myself," she called.

     
The
threat was enough to scare Clark right out of his boxers. With a sigh of
resignation, he set down his laptop case and got to work. He emerged a few
minutes later, shaking his head. "I don’t know..." He looked into the
full-length mirror. "Are bellbottoms really back in style?"

     
"Honey,"
Lorna Jean said, "if you don’t know the answer to that, you ain’t got a
fashion bone in your body.
Them
pants are just the thing.
Your gal’s gonna love you." She draped a heavy gold chain around his neck
and winked. "Trust me."

* * * *

     
Friday, 6:41 p.m.

     
One day,
five hours, nineteen minutes, and counting...

     
Perhaps
his trust had been a little misplaced, Clark thought as he tried to catch
Blossom’s gaze across the intimate table for two at Luigi’s. His date didn’t
seem too taken with his new clothes. Her gaze kept roaming, as if it were
painful to look at him.

     
She, on
the other hand, looked great. She was wearing a sleek, rust-colored,
off-the-shoulder dress. It dipped a bit in the front, showing the slightest bit
of cleavage.
Classy, but not flashy.

     
Clark
tugged at the collar of his faux-silk shirt. Was it getting hot in here? He
wished he had a few days to ease into this assignment--feel his way around, so
to speak.

     
But he
didn’t. Lex Loser’s bomb was set to go off--he glanced at his watch--in
twenty-nine hours, seventeen minutes, six seconds, and counting. It was
do
or die, Geek Man.

     
Literally.

     
"How’s
your ossobucco?" he asked.

     
Blossom’s
gaze focused. "What? Oh, fine.
Very good.
How’s
your calamari?"

     
He
gulped down some Pinot Grigio.
"Interesting."

     
"You’ve
never had it before?"

     
"No."
And he’d ordered it before reading the fine print on the menu.
Squid.
Ugh.

     
Manfully,
he forked another dangling, suction-cup covered tentacle into his mouth. He
swallowed without chewing,
then
washed the whole
disgusting mess down his throat with more wine. Damn if it wasn’t getting
hotter in here by the minute. And he had an itch on his ankle. Surreptitiously,
he inched his foot to one side until it came into contact with his laptop case.
He rubbed it up and down. The relief was fleeting.