Chapter 5
FIVE
Nora
“Hey, wait a sec!”
Batman’s gravelly voice calls out from behind me right as I’m unlocking my car. I’m still on the curb, but I could easily jump in on the passenger’s side, slide over to the driver’s seat, and race away.
For some unexplainable reason, I hesitate. Twisting around, my eyes meet his. The sky’s grey, but it’s bright enough outside for me to see how blue his irises are.
They’re beautiful.
If this is Ryan Lane, he’s got the most gorgeous eyes I’ve seen.
“I am the most awkward person ever, and I sure as fuck don’t know how to talk to people,” I spit out, figuring this might be a good way to scare this guy away, so we can both go on with our lives. I’m honestly unsure of what else to say, because it is me, after all. “Have a good day, Random Stranger.”
The Masked Stranger closes the distance between us. In the light, I see the way the flannel clings around his clearly toned arms. The shirt is open in the front, and he’s wearing another dark T-shirt beneath that covers his flat chest and stomach. His build is athletic, strong.
He’s so out of my league.
Not that we’re even going there.
“I don’t know about that; you seem pretty personable.” He’s smiling, still using the gravelly voice—which I’m convinced isn’t real.
“Try spending another thirty minutes with me.”
“Is that an option?” he asks.
“Is that a serious question, Batman? The night’s quickly falling. Aren’t you supposed to be off playing vigilante soon?”
“Every hero needs a break once and again, especially with good company.”
I feel my face flush. My lip curls. Suddenly, I freeze.
“Say yes?” he asks. “Moment of truth: I’m new in town. I’m going to be here for a couple of months. I, erm, well, it would be nice to continue talking to you. That’s all I know right now.”
My gut reaction is to once again look behind me, to assume he’s talking about someone else. Even though I do logically realize he must mean me. Believe me, the way I am? With my low self-esteem? Who I’ve become isn’t something that happened overnight, but it’s here now, and probably to stay.
All these learned behaviors, the negative way I view myself, it came from something .
This version of me has been years in the making.
There’s no unmaking me now.
There are things that make me cry if I stop to think too hard about them.
And I don’t want to cry in front of this stranger.
So, instead, I push forward, the way I’ve done my entire life.
“What would we do?” I ask, in a tone that suggests I’m skeptical of this entire thing.
“You tell me,” he says. “You’re the one who’s been living here.”
I bite my lip. This doesn’t seem like the smartest idea—hanging out with a stranger. But I must admit, I’m curious by his presence, and the way he makes me feel at ease.
Despite my better judgement, I consider his offer, tapping a finger to my lip as I stare at my car. Remembering how less than an hour ago, I was in the vehicle, simply trying to find someone else to replace Jeremy in pickleball for the evening. This stranger could be a possible fill-in for the game, even if he’s never played.
It would also mean less talking.
And if he is a serial killer, at least I’d be in a public space with other people around.
“How well do you play racquet or paddle sports?” I ask.
“I’m a ping pong pro,” he says without a beat.
“Close enough. Wanna learn how to play pickleball by the beach?”
“Ah, the game everyone’s been playing in LA. It, erm, does sounds fun.”
“Follow me over? I have two friends waiting, so this’ll be perfect for a game of doubles. That’s, uh, the most popular way it’s played, anyhow.”
“Cool.” He races to the car behind mine—the fucking blue Porsche—and gives me a thumbs up as he hops in the driver’s side.
Bloody hell.
This is Ryan Lane, isn’t it?
No, no, no. Can’t be.
Well, whoever he is, hopefully he can manage a game of pickleball.
“Charlie, Lydia,” I say. “This is Bruce.”
Masked Man raises his brows and gazes at me with a perplexed look (re: the name Bruce). He’s standing next to me on the pickleball courts, and I’ve given him one of my extra paddles that I store in the trunk. Lydia and Charlie both stare at my new friend curiously, like they might recognize him beneath that mask.
Fuckity fuck.
Batman and I have not, of course, exchanged names. And I have, naturally, taken liberty with my gifting of his own fictitious moniker.
I couldn’t very well introduce him as Batman.
“Hi, Bruce!” Lydia holds out her paddle, letting go of her perplexed look. Masked Man stares at it curiously.
I lean over, softly saying, “When someone holds out either side of their paddle, you tap your paddle to theirs. Some people like to tap the handle though, since it’s less damaging to the paddle itself. It’s a pickleball thing.”
Bruce a.k.a Batman a.k.a. Masked Man nods, quickly following suit and tapping his paddle against Lydia’s. Then, he reaches his paddle out toward Charlie, and they, too, tap.
It isn’t lost on me that Batman has said nothing to either of them so far.
“Are we ready to play?” I ask quickly, hoping this isn’t noticed. I’ve brought a guy in a mask, with a big bucket hat, who is now wearing sunglasses, to a pickleball game. While many of us pickleballers (it’s a word now, I’ve deemed it so) arrive with glasses of some sort, the rest of Batman’s face and hat attire is utterly out of place.
“Is he going to be okay playing in that mask?” Lydia quietly asks me.
I shrug. “I guess so?”
Lydia and Charlie make their way to the others side of our reserved court, and I’m left alone with Batman on our side. Our opponents know that he’s new to the game, and they were very supportive of this when I called them to explain his newbie-ness on the ride over. That being said, I know they’re still going to play hard—which might mean quite a bit of running for a guy wearing a mask over his mouth and nose.
“You going to be able to breathe like that?” I ask him as I take my place on the right, receiving section on our side of the court.
“You know, I hadn’t really thought this through until now,” he says, voice slightly less raspy than before. Slightly more natural.
“If you pass out, who should I call?” I ask.
He grins. “Inspector Gordon, of course. Flash the Bat light.”
I laugh. “Inspector Gordon and not Alfred?”
“In my Batman universe, both Gordon and Alfred know my secret identity. Gordon will get me back to the bat cave.”
“Aaaah, but of course.”
Can’t say this guy isn’t creative.
The game commences with Charlie serving. The wiffle ball flies toward me, and I scoop. The contact happens smack in the middle with the right popping noise to signal I’ve hit in the exact right spot. A bright flash of neon green darts back across the court and over the net, landing by Charlie’s feet. He misses, and the ball becomes ours.
Bruce stares at me with wide eyes. “Your hit was… incredible.”
His gravelly voice has returned full throttle.
I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve put in a lot of practice. What I did just now was really nothing. I’m no pro. I’m not sure if I have it in me to be that good.”
The final words come out of me with a defeated sigh. Once again, it isn’t lost on me that I’m sharing personal information with another human being.
“You should give yourself more credit,” he says.
Instead of responding, I grab a ball and head back to the serving line. I inhale, finding my center. Finding my sense of calm.
I drop the ball and strike hard. A blast of neon green zooms across the court, going deep, and landing right at the edge of the court. Charlie whacks the ball, and it comes flying back. We rally for a bit, with Bruce hanging back and watching as I run around the court, slapping the ball back to the other side.
Finally, the ball lands right by Batman’s feet. He bends his knees and flicks his wrist—he wasn’t lying about the ping pong background.
And when he goes in, he completely misses.
His brows crinkle; I see it in his eyes that he’s not happy with his miss. That he must be a bit of a perfectionist, like me, since he’s shaking his head and glancing gloomily down at the concrete.
“It’s okay,” I offer. “You’re brand new. And honestly? I’ve seen even more experienced players miss the ball with a shot like that. But hey… can I offer a suggestion?”
“What?” he asks, his forehead still knit like he’s disappointed in himself.
“Try to keep your wrist and elbow straight,” I say. “Like this.”
I grab the ball from the ground and toss it lightly in front of me. As I swoop in to hit it, I demonstrate how straight I keep my entire arm.
“It’s understandable for someone who’s never done this before,” I add. “Especially since you’re a ping pong person.”
His eyes soften a little, and he nods. “I think I get it now.”
I toss the ball to him, smiling. “It’s your turn to serve.”
“Oh!” He stiffens. “Really? I, uh…”
“It’s okay to be nervous. Serves are hard at first. Just… bend your knees, and scoop with the paddle as you go to hit the ball. Use your shoulder to point at your target.”
“Scoop. Use my shoulder. Got it.” He groans. Under his breath, he adds, “Setting fires in Los Angeles sounds easier right about now.”
“You’ve got this, Batman,” I say. “No fires or bat signal needed.”
“No fires.”
He takes my suggestions well, bending his knees and guiding with his shoulder. And scooping the paddle toward the ball. He must’ve been watching me serve, for he follows the form precisely, beyond what I’ve told him. The guy’s a natural. Beneath his jeans, his upper leg muscles tighten. Between the form and the muscles, I can tell this guy is athletic, whoever he is.
He seems kind, he’s witty, and he’s incredibly easy on the eyes.
So easy, in fact, I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from him.
Even once the ball is on the other side of the court.
Whack .
A ball slams me smack on the right side of my face.
Recoiling, I reach a hand up to my cheek where the ball made contact, and I spin away. My face turns beet red instantly—and not because it’s throbbing from the impact.
I can’t believe I just did that.
“Are you okay?” Masked Guy asks in a more natural voice. I’m not looking up, in too much pain to even really hear him, but I do feel him get closer to me. Then, there’s a gentle hand on my shoulder—and I know it isn’t Charlie or Lydia.
“Yeah,” I grumble in a low voice. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“What was that you said about setting fires in Los Angeles being easier?” I joke, trying to move the focus away from my, uh, face.
“Right. Something like that.” He’s less gravelly. More human. And still, there’s nothing recognizable or Hollywood-ish about his voice. He’s like any other normal guy.
“Shit! I am so sorry!” Charlie says from the other side of the court. “I didn’t mean to slam the ball down that hard. Jesus, that looks like it hurts. Why don’t you go get some ice?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “We can keep playing.”
“You’re all red,” Charlie adds.
“Really, I’m fine,” I stress a little more firmly, readying myself for the next round. Choosing to ignore the sting. It’s a side out, so it’ll be Charlie and Lydia’s ball.
“You sure?” Lydia asks, gazing at me over her pickleball glasses which she’s pulled down to the bridge of her nose.
“I promise.” I bend my knees, holding the paddle up in the ready position.
Batman’s hand is still on my shoulder. He squeezes gently before he releases, and somehow, it’s instantly one of the most comforting things I’ve ever experienced.
I turn my head to look at him as he moves back to his side. When he gets there, his kind eyes meet mine, and there’s something so disarming about the way he’s staring.
Averting my eyes, I focus my attention on Charlie as he leans in to serve.
A few hours later, when the sky is completely dark, Batman and I walk back to our cars. Neither of us has said a word since we waved goodbye to Lydia and Charlie who parked on the other side of the courts.
Now, as I reach my car, I’m standing by the driver’s door. He stands by his.
You can see the beach off in the distance, if you were to look that way.
But we’re not.
Instead, we’re gazing at one another once more, and there’s a silent understanding. An agreement of sorts. That while neither of us is going to forget this night, we’re also going to walk away from it, too.
There will be no numbers exchanged.
No second rendezvous. No names. No details. Nothing that could further explore the connection between us.
He might be Ryan Lane, or he might just be another guy hiding from something.
Either way, this is the end of the road for us.
Which is better off for me—given what I already know he could do to my emotions if things continued to grow.
“Thanks for taking a break from fighting crime tonight,” I offer, a small smile on my face. “It was fun.”
“Right back at’cha.” He says in the gravelly voice—we’re back to full gravel, now. For the briefest of moments, he hesitates, his eyes trained on me, fingers resting on the door of his car. Has he been feeling the same, odd connection that I’ve been feeling?
What do I even do if he is ? My brain is too broken to handle that.
So, instead of waiting to see if there’s something else he’d like to say, I wave—quite awkwardly, at that, with a lopsided smile on my face. Then, as the anxiety starts to build, I open my car door and barrel inside.
My heart’s pounding as I zoom out of the parking lot.