Free Blindside by Jayden Alexander Page A

How’s it funny?”
    More tapping. More crashes against the wall, glass shattering, a quickly cut off yelp. She didn’t know how the keyboard didn’t spark under her hands with all that lava simmering inside her. A warm, automated female voice murmured at her: “Svetlana. One who makes light.”
    A long, heartbreaking wail punctured the stretched-out silence. This time, Al let go of the ice cream to glower at the wall, ears pinned back, teeth showing.
    “I gotta go,” she said, and pushed her sunshades on her aching head. “Let me know how much I owe you.”
    She refused to think about the Friends of the City money she’d just spent for vengeance. The daylight in the hallway, vicious despite the glasses, egged on by the throbbing in her head.
    “What do you want?” Short hairy legs visible below dirty shorts, a stained white wife beater. She couldn’t see behind the man who answered her brisk knock, but she heard the muffled sob.
    “Keep it down or I’m calling the cops.” Nobody had to know that she was bluffing.
    Another tearful gasp, the sound bitten off as though a fist was shoved into a quivering mouth. God knew she didn’t miss domestic calls.
    “I’m sorry, miss. We’re just talking loud.” He shoved the door closed in her face; the movement revealed a limp snake of a belt he clutched behind him.
    She didn’t try to clamp down on a power burst, and threw her shields up in time to avoid splinters of old wood.
    “Hey! You’re nuts, you know that? I’m gonna call the fucking cops.” He swung the belt in her direction and gave her the excuse to paint that worn out profile with blood. He stumbled back, crimson drops spraying against her shields. Watching him sit onto the carpet the color of old vomit, Lana flexed her fingers at the small yet satisfying string of pain.
    “Oh my God, Carl?” A woman with ugly welts covering her bare legs rushed to his side. “Call an ambulance! Carl, what should I do?”
    “Shut up! No ambulance! You lost your mind?” Carl shoved the blubbering woman back.
    “Get out!” Flailing fists, sobbing words. “Just get out!”
    “Call the damned cops. Or I’ll do it next time.” Disgust bitter in her mouth, Lana turned back into the hallway.
    Dark heavy power seared her blood. Under the bitter burning day, she felt her way down the endless corridor, the walls rasping her fingertips, her door a cool relief. The landlord would be pissed about the door. Her neighbor wouldn’t be the type to blab about a woman’s fist taking him down, but nevertheless, the door would have to be another dip into the Friends of the City fund.
    Back in the blue tinted darkness, she leaned against the wall for a moment, the dog watching her with a serious gaze.
    “Some you can’t save,” she told him, and turned on the TV she’d rigged only for sound. Under Amy Avalon’s voice describing how Narc’s serum would freeze her power, she sat down on the chewed up ice cream carton the dog managed to sneak under her butt.
     
    ***
     
    Whiskey flowed harsh and bitter down Mac’s throat, the taste doing nothing to smooth the tension in his shoulders. On the sixty-inch flat screen above the shiny bottles of the bar, Amy Avalon pushed a mic at his face.
    On TV, he didn’t look like Narc. Not the same arrogant, confident hero, full of idealism and ready to take on the world. These days, he was another scowling asshole with icy eyes and a leftover rasp from a punch in the gut. The Hero of New York, would laugh his ass off.
    The bar hadn’t changed. Same shiny brown leather, same badges unwinding after shift change. The framed picture of Narc shaking hands with the mayor had been replaced by a Support Harkor Family sign with a picture of a cop in full dress blues. Mac slipped a C-note into the manila envelope tucked under the frame, when he passed by.
    “Tell our viewers more about the serum,” Avalon said. Mac leaned against the counter to feel the cold plastic of the vials. Maybe with