Dusk settled over Metropolis. The city lights flickered on one by one, draping the steel and glass skyline in a shimmering coat. Following the directions Clark had texted him, Marco pulled the Cherokee up in front of a restaurant called Morton's Steakhouse.
The dark wood exterior gleamed under warm lighting, giving off that classic, upscale vibe. Marco checked his watch. Right on time. He grabbed the bouquet of deep pink carnations from the passenger seat, opened the door, and stepped out.
Then he saw who was waiting at the entrance, and his plan immediately fell apart.
Clark was there, just like he'd said. But standing next to him wasn't Martha. It was a teenage girl. Sixteen, maybe seventeen at most.
"Hey, Marco."
Clark spotted him immediately and raised a hand in a slightly awkward wave. Marco walked over, and the two men shook hands out of habit. Clark's gaze dropped to the flowers, and confusion flickered across his face.
"What's that?"
"I thought your parents were coming." Marco glanced at the girl standing next to Clark. She wore an oversized band T-shirt, ripped jeans, and canvas sneakers. "But she clearly isn't one of them. Your...?"
"My cousin. Kara." Clark scratched the back of his head. "She's visiting Metropolis for a bit. Kara, this is Marco Vitale. He's an officer with the Gotham Police Department."
"Hi!" Kara popped her gum, eyeing Marco up and down without any sense of restraint. "You like pop music?"
"Uh... sure. If you mean Backstreet Boys or Britney, I can talk about that. If it's Madonna from back in the day, I could go on for hours."
"Wow. You're not as boring as Clark." Kara grinned and reached out to take the carnations from his hands, turning them over. "What are these for? You trying to bribe someone?"
"Hey! Kara!"
Clark quickly tried to stop her. Marco just smiled and changed the subject. "Waylon's not here yet?"
"He should be pulling up any second now."
Clark tilted his head slightly, like he was listening for something. Sure enough, the sound of an engine rumbled from behind them. A taxi pulled up to the curb, and a mountain of a man squeezed out of the car.
"Hey, Clark! Hey..."
The man froze in place, rubbing his eyes hard like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Marco raised a hand and waved at him with a grin.
"Hey, Waylon. Don't tell me you don't recognize... whoa! Whoa! Wait... aaaah!"
Before Marco he finish, Waylon charged forward with heavy steps, threw his arms wide, and wrapped him in a crushing bear hug. Then, with one motion, he lifted Marco clean off the ground and launched him into the air.
For a second, Marco was weightless.
The sky rushed up to meet him, close enough to touch but impossibly far away. The streetlights below blurred into streaks of gold.
I really don't like flying.
Flying had never been a romantic concept for him. It came with very real, very unpleasant physical sensations... weightlessness, nausea, the distinct feeling that gravity was about to reassert itself in the worst possible way. And right now, as he hung suspended in the air above a busy Metropolis street, he was experiencing all of that in vivid detail.
He spread his arms more out of instinct than any desire to embrace the moment. He looked down. Pedestrians on the sidewalk had stopped in their tracks, staring up at him.
Gravity kicked back in.
Time to fall.
---
A pair of solid, powerful arms caught him. The impact of the fall was absorbed effortlessly, and Marco landed safely back in Waylon's embrace.
"Hey! You okay?"
Waylon gave him another enthusiastic hug before finally letting go.
"Never better," Marco said dryly, brushing himself off. "Especially after that. It reminded me that I'm a hundred-kilo baby."
He took a good look at Waylon. The guy was wearing a custom-tailored suit. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread for successful athletes.
"You look completely different from before," he said. He patted Waylon's rock-solid arm.
Waylon let out a laugh. "I owe this to you."
"That's all you, man. You put in the work." Marco gestured toward the restaurant. "Come on. Let's not stand around out here all night."
He opened the heavy wooden door first. A waiter in a crisp white shirt and black vest led them through the dining room to a semicircular booth tucked into the farthest corner. It was backed against the wall with an open view in front.
Waylon had to squeeze himself in carefully. His massive body made the leather groan under the strain. He settled as far back as he could. Clark and Kara slid into the seats across from them, while Marco took the single chair beside Waylon, blocking most of the sightlines from the rest of the restaurant.
The waiter handed over thick, leather-bound menus. "May I introduce today's specials—"
"No need," Marco cut in, passing menus to Kara and Waylon. "I'll have the 450-gram strip steak, medium."
Clark closed his menu without even looking at it. "I'll take a 680-gram T-bone steak, well done. Thank you."
The waiter noted it down, then looked at Kara, who was staring at the dessert page with laser focus.
"And for you?"
Kara pointed at the menu. "I want this, the ribeye sharing platter for two. And two milkshakes. Plus a large ice cream sundae."
The waiter's pen hovered over his notepad for a second, then he turned to Waylon.
Marco nudged him with his elbow. "Your turn."
Waylon tapped the most expensive item at the very top of the menu three times.
"Three of them."
The waiter leaned in to look, and his eyes went wide. It was the restaurant's signature dish, the 1.1-kilogram tomahawk steak.
"S-sir," the waiter's voice wavered slightly, "do you mean one tomahawk steak?"
"No. Three." Waylon paused. "Medium-well."
The waiter scribbled down the rest of the order, and left the booth.
Marco glanced at Waylon. "How's things with the team?"
"Not bad."
Waylon nodded. "It was weird at first. But like you said, after a few games, people started looking at me differently. My teammates even taught me how to talk trash."
"Trash talk is basically a Gotham native skill," Marco said with a laugh. "Why would they need to teach you?"
"That's the problem. Gotham trash talk is too filthy for the court." Waylon grinned. "We've gotta keep it a little more civilized."
Marco laughed, and then noticed Clark giving them both a mildly disapproving look. Kara, on the other hand, was watching the two of them with interest.
"You know, Clark, Gotham's a different environment," Marco said, trying to smooth things over.
Then Kara spoke up. "Is Gotham fun?"
Marco and Waylon both started waving their hands at the same time.
"No."
"If you went into Gotham, you'd get cleaned out in less than half an hour." Waylon hesitated, clearly thinking about worse outcomes but deciding not to say them out loud.
Marco's stomach sank.
Stop talking. Can't you see the interest in her eyes is only getting stronger?
A rebellious teenage girl like Kara wasn't nearly as mild-mannered as Clark.
"Yeah, that's why Waylon worked so hard to get out of there," Clark said, clearly realizing the danger of this conversation. He smiled at Marco and tried to steer things in a safer direction. "By the way, Mr. Daines is negotiating a trade of first-round draft picks with Cleveland. If it goes through, Waylon will be able to stay in Metropolis for the next few years."
"Oh..." Marco didn't really understand the details, but he asked instinctively, "So how much money are we talking about?"
"If it's a first overall pick, there'd be a signing bonus of over ten million, and a contract worth more than forty million over the next five years."
Pff!
Marco spat out a mouthful of water. Luckily, he turned his head fast enough that it all hit the floor instead of the table.