1

The autumn air came like a relief, easing the pall of humidity that had clung to Houston all summer. Lamont slipped through the crowds unnoticed, his shaven head bowed to avoid eye contact with those who shared the sidewalk. The youth, whose fifteenth birthday had been a mere six days ago, rested a hand on the butt of the revolver tucked into the waistband of his jeans, hidden under his sweatshirt. He didn’t know how to use the weapon very well, but he hoped it would at least be threatening enough to accomplish what he set out to do.

Passing by a bakery, his attention was drawn to the aroma of fresh-baked bread, made even more delicious by the rumbling in his empty stomach.

He needed to make some money. He hadn’t had a meal in two days, not since he was fired from the burger joint for eating a chicken sandwich that had been sitting under the heat lamp for longer than the allowed time instead of throwing it away. Stealing, the manager called it.

“You should count yourself lucky we don’t press charges,” the manager had told him.

Press charges? Over a lukewarm chicken patty, limp lettuce, and dry bun?

He couldn’t have afforded to buy a meal there, even with the employee discount, because his entire paycheck was always sunk into his twin sister’s meth habit. And now he didn’t even have that much. Joey, Lakiesha’s supplier, claimed that meth withdrawals were fatal, and Lakiesha would die without her regular doses. Lamont was not going to take the chance that Joey might be wrong. He had to make sure Joey got his money so Lakiesha could get her meth.

Lamont left the aromatic bakery behind. He strode along the bustling sidewalk, taking in the familiar sights. It was amazing to him that this many people strolled the sidewalks so early in the morning. The sun was rising, yet more people than he thought would be were out and about.

He didn’t want the crowds, though. He wanted a nice, quiet, out-of-the-way place where few people could be found.

Lamont headed to the southeast, away from downtown. He remembered this road. Back when he and Lakiesha were kids, their parents would take this road to the Johnson Space Center, where they both worked. Dad had been a technician who kept NASA’s computers running, and Mom had been a tour director. Mom and Dad were dead now, killed by a drunk driver on their way home from work.

The revolver was heavy in his waistband, its metal cold against the skin of his belly. He hated it. Not that he hated guns in general. No, he hated this particular gun. Joey had given it to him, and Lamont was certain that Joey had not obtained it legally. Joey had a felony record, for one thing, so no legitimate firearm dealer would sell him a gun.

Joey had told him not to worry, though. The gun wasn’t loaded, he had told Lamont when he had given him the gun. No one could get hurt with an unloaded gun. Lamont, not familiar with guns, took Joey at his word.

Lamont spied his target—a convenience store across the street. He looked both ways. No sense getting killed before he could do what he had to do for Lakiesha. He bolted across the street, his hand on the butt of the revolver to keep it from jostling out of his waistband. When his sneakered foot touched the opposite sidewalk, he slowed to an even stride. He pulled his hand out from under his sweatshirt and paused outside the glass double door.

He inhaled deeply to control his breathing. He jumped, startled, as a woman walked out with a cup of coffee in one hand and one of those power bars in the other. Lamont offered her a friendly smile and slipped through the door before it closed.

Pushing the hem of his sweatshirt down to better conceal the revolver and putting his best impression of a casual expression on his face, he plunged into the convenience store. He saw only a handful of patrons. Three, really. A young woman in her early twenties, wearing fairly tight jeans and a sweatshirt with the logo of the Houston Texans football team, stood at the store’s coffee stand, making herself a cup of coffee. A man in his fifties, wearing jeans and a khaki chambray shirt, was at the cashier paying for his coffee and a pack of cigarettes. A man in his mid-thirties stood near the young woman at the coffee stand, pouring his own cup. That man, wearing navy blue pants and a white dress shirt with a light blue tie, had a familiar look about him. He stood tall and straight, shoulders thrust back, even as he mixed cream and sugar into his coffee. His golden hair was cut close to his scalp in a military fashion, his face clean-shaven. With his military bearing, he was probably an astronaut from the Space Center.

Other than those three customers, the only other one in the store was the woman behind the cashier counter. Lamont bowed his head, keeping his eyes on his dirty white sneakers. That woman would be the one staring down the barrel of his gun.

But it was unloaded, Joey had assured him. No one would get hurt, and Lamont would have the cash to pay for Lakiesha’s meth so she won’t die.

Lamont held his breath when he saw the young woman with the Texans sweatshirt move from the coffee station to the cashier counter. The older man finished paying for his coffee and cigarettes and left with a cheerful farewell to the cute cashier. Lamont kept his gaze on his shoes as the woman paid for her coffee and departed.

Now there were only three of them in the store: himself, the military-looking man, and the cashier. The man seemed to take his sweet time making his coffee.

Lamont couldn’t wait any longer. He swiftly approached the counter and yanked the revolver from his waistband. In his haste, he almost dropped it. He thumbed back the hammer and clasped the gun’s butt with both hands, something he’d seen in many a television show and movie.

The cashier shrieked, her eyes wide with horror. Lamont swallowed when he saw the fear in her expression. His voice box failed him, and he stood mutely for a moment, the revolver’s muzzle centered on the poor cashier’s lovely face.

“Um,” Lamont sputtered. “Um, the till. Everything in the till.”

Lamont glanced to his side. The military man suddenly stood beside him, arms akimbo.

The boy’s eyes grew wide when he craned his head back to look into the other man’s eyes, which were as blue as a clear sky. The dude was tall. Six-foot-four, maybe, much taller than Lamont’s own five-foot-six height.

Totally on instinct, Lamont jerked the aim of the revolver away from the cashier and leveled its muzzle at the man’s chest. His finger twitched around the trigger.

The revolver roared and bucked in his hand. The cashier shrieked again and began sobbing as she ducked down behind the counter.

Lamont stared in horror at the red stain spreading on the man’s white shirt above the breast pocket.

The man casually glanced down at the red splotch blossoming from the hole in his shirt. He turned his azure gaze to Lamont.

“This was a new shirt, too,” the man said in a Northern accent.

Lamont swallowed, and the revolver fell from his grasp. The man reacted quickly, catching the gun a mere few inches from Lamont’s hands. He bent the barrel with his bare hands—his bare hands!—and set the gun on the counter.

Even more amazingly, the red splotch on his chest stopped spreading. Lamont didn’t know much about human physiology, but he was sure someone shot in the chest would be bleeding pretty profusely. He certainly wouldn’t be standing here bending a gun barrel with his bare hands.

Lamont then recognized why the man had seemed so familiar. This was that astronaut who was in the news a lot. The one who’d been injured in space a few years ago and obtained super powers. Only he wasn’t wearing his superhero outfit today. What was his name? The reporters on TV sometimes called him Astrohawk, as if that was his superhero name, but Lamont couldn’t remember his real name. He was different than most of the comic book superheroes in that he didn’t have a secret identity.

“Please,” Lamont pleaded. “Please, Astrohawk, I...I didn’t know it was loaded.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Astrohawk said.

“Joey told me it wasn’t loaded.”

“The gun was in your hand, so it’s your responsibility.”

Lamont knew he was going to prison now. He’d tried to rob a poor convenience store cashier at gunpoint. Lakiesha was going to be on her own now, without anyone to help her.

If Joey had lied about the gun being loaded, then maybe he had lied about meth withdrawals killing Lakiesha. He hoped Joey had lied about that too, for once Lamont went to prison there would be no one to keep her supplied.

Astrohawk looked to the cashier, who had risen from behind the counter when she realized it was safe. “Are you all right?” he asked.

The cashier nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Might as well call 911.”

She nodded again and went to the back office.

The situation—his having shot someone, his inevitable prison time, his being unable to be there for Lakiesha anymore—overwhelmed Lamont. He sank to his knees and slumped against the counter, tears streaking his cheeks.

Astrohawk squatted down to Lamont’s eye level. “What’s your name, son?”

“Lamont,” the youth said, his voice box barely working. “Lamont James.”

Astrohawk scowled. “Lamont James? I knew a Lamont James. He was an older fellow, though. He used to work at NASA. He helped me out from time to time whenever my computer crashed.”

“Sounds like my dad,” Lamont said. “I...I’m Lamont Junior.”

“Oh man. Your dad was a good guy. He and your mom were both good people. It’s a shame what happened to them.”

Lamont nodded.

“Well, what happened to you? How did you get reduced to knocking over convenience stores?”

Lamont’s throat constricted as he squeezed his eyes shut, but tears still forced their way through to roll down his face.

“Your dad always talked about having two kids. A boy and a girl.”

“My sister Lakiesha. She...she’s on meth, and I have to take care of her.”

Lamont heard a distant siren, telling him the police were on their way. His days of freedom were over. But had his freedom ended today, or had it truly ended the day Lakiesha had taken up with Joey and got hooked on his meth?

“Where is Lakiesha now?” Astrohawk asked.

“She’s with Joey. He’s her boyfriend and her supplier.”

“Does this Joey have a full name?”

“He goes by Joey Z. That’s all I know.”

Astrohawk stood and held a hand toward Lamont. The boy took the offered hand, allowing the big man to assist him to his feet.

“I’m going to prison,” Lamont said. “Ain’t I.”

“You do have to take responsibility for your actions, son. Now, can you tell me where Lakiesha and Joey Z are? I think I may have a few words for good ol’ Joey.”

--

“You’re late, Commander,” said Dr. Frank Nelson, bent over the eyepiece of a microscope.

“Sorry about that,” Benjamin Hawke said. “I was held up.”

“What, is it the traffic on Galves—” Nelson interrupted himself when he turned his attention from the microscope to Ben, observing the dried blood stain on his shirt. “Whoa, you mean you were held up held up.”

“At the convenience store where I usually stop to get my coffee whenever I come to Houston. It turns out the perp was Lamont James, Jr.”

Nelson cocked an eyebrow. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Funeral notices. Lamont, Sr., was a computer tech here at NASA. His wife Donna worked here too.”

“I don’t remember the name.”

A lovely black woman wearing nurse attire strode into the lab with a blood extraction kit. Stacy Camden smiled when her gaze landed on Jonathan.

“Hi, Ben,” she said.

“Hey, Stacy.”

“Dr. Nelson was never good at remembering people. Who were you talking about?”

“Lamont James.”

“Oh, I knew him. He was in here all the time fixing the machines that these doctors are always abusing.”

Nelson snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah. I think I know who you’re talking about now. He replaced the circuit board for me on that imaging unit over there. Very friendly guy. What happened to him?”

“He and his wife both worked here at NASA,” Stacy said. “Donna James was a tour guide. If I remember right, they were killed on the way home by a drunk.”

“And their orphaned son is knocking over convenience stores now.”

“To pay for their orphaned daughter’s meth habit,” Hawke said.

Stacy tugged at Ben’s shirt, peering at the bloodstain. “And what happened here?”

“Junior,” Nelson said.

“Knocking over convenience stores,” Stacy said. “I see. What’s going to happen to them? Lamont’s kids?”

“Junior’s going to juvey,” Ben said, “and Lakiesha’s going to rehab. Her boyfriend-slash-supplier Joey Z, a.k.a. Joseph Harris, who is twenty-three, is going away for a long time for being a drug supplier and for sleeping with an underage girl. I plan to look in on the two of them the next time I’m in Houston to see how they’re doing.”

“You softy,” Stacy said, resting a palm on Ben’s biceps. She slid her finger into a tear in his sleeve. “And what’s this?”

Ben glanced down at the tear. “Oh, that. Joey wasn’t too interested in talking when I went to see him.”

“All righty, Commander, let’s get started,” Nelson said, and he slapped one of the examination tables. “You know the drill.”

“Yeah,” Ben murmured, unbuttoning his shirt. “More poking and prodding.”

“Well, we’re still trying to find out everything we can about that cosmic substance that’s absorbed into your body.”

Ben removed his shirt and tie and set them aside, revealing his muscled torso. He jumped onto the examination table and lay back on the papered surface. Nelson positioned an X-ray scanner over his patient’s torso. Nelson and Stacy left the room momentarily. The doctor snapped a shot. He came into the lab and pulled the film from under the examining table. He left to develop the X-rays.

Stacy returned to the lab and moved the scanner away. Sitting on a stool, she tied a rubber tourniquet around Ben’s upper arm, found a good vein, and inserted a needle to begin extracting his blood into the half dozen vials she’d laid out.

“How many times do you need to stick me anyway?” Ben asked, averting his eyes from the nurse’s work. “You draw my blood every time I come to Houston.”

“You took a bullet today,” Stacy said, “and you’re complaining about a needle?”

She filled the first vial and set it aside. She connected the second vial. The container filled quickly, and she set it aside. She continued the process until all six vials were filled. She eased the needle out of his vein and properly disposed of it.

She ran her fingertips over his chest, touching the area where he’d been shot. “You know, if not for the blood and the bullet hole on your shirt, I couldn’t tell you’d been shot.”

“The wound closed over almost as soon as it happened.”

“We knew your healing rate was phenomenal, but we didn’t realize it was this fast.”

Nelson entered the lab with an X-ray print in his hands. He placed the print on the back-lit board and closely examined it.

“You’re sure you were shot, Commander?” Nelson asked.

“Pretty sure, Doc,” Ben said, sitting up.

“I don’t see a bullet.”

“Well, I never had an exit wound. It should still be in there.”

“Unless your body absorbed it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. We still don’t know the full extent of how that cosmic substance changed your physiology, even after two years since your accident.”

The accident. Commander Benjamin F. Hawke’s life had been changed irrevocably by that event two years ago.

It had been a routine space walk, as routine as space walks were, anyway. He’d done at least five before then, all without incident.

On that day, however, he was tasked with repairing a satellite. It was one of the National Security Agency’s expensive, top secret surveillance satellites. Ben Hawke was one of the few people in NASA with the security clearance to even know it exists, and the only one with said clearance who had the technical background to effect the required repairs.

He had repaired the satellite without a hitch. During his return to the shuttle, however, he was hit by a piece of orbital debris. The pebble-sized chunk of cosmic mineral had penetrated his EVA suit and embedded itself in his body.

He lost consciousness after that, and the next thing he remembered after the initial impact was waking up in a NASA medical facility, two months after the accident.

To this day, no one could determine exactly what the substance was that had hit him, only that it hadn’t come from Earth orbit. It probably hadn’t even come from the solar system. NASA scientists were still, to this day, trying to identify the chemical composition of the substance.

The difficulty was partly due to the fact that the substance had been fully absorbed by Ben’s tissues. It became a part of him, making it difficult for the scientists and medical personnel to isolate the compound itself. No one had a name for it, only calling it the cosmic substance.

Ben had discovered a change in his body shortly after awakening from his two-month coma. He didn’t tire easily, even after a strenuous workout. He was physically much stronger, able to bench more than ten times his own weight. He was also quite fast, attaining speeds of up to thirty miles an hour at full sprint. And any injury he sustained seemed to heal almost as soon as it was inflicted.

“Maybe it’s part of your body’s healing process,” Dr. Nelson said, breaking Ben out of his reverie.

“What?” Ben asked.

“Absorbing the bullet. We still don’t understand the nature of your powers, only that they exist. So we can’t be certain of the mechanics behind your powers’ manifestations. It would seem, though, that your body determined the bullet to be an invasive object and dealt with it.”

“Are you saying my immune system destroyed the bullet?”

Nelson shrugged. “I’m just making theories here.”

“Ben, have you gotten sick at all over the last two years?” Stacy asked.

Ben shook his head. “No.”

“Not even the sniffles?”

“Come to think of it, I always used to catch at least one cold per winter season. Not since the accident, though.”

“Your body not only has a superb regeneration rate for healing physical damage,” Nelson said, “but it also provides an incomparable immune system. Since you’ve taken on the role as real live superhero, have you ever been shot before today?”

“I’ve been shot at, but this is the first time I was actually hit. I’m usually agile enough to avoid getting hit. I guess, deep down, I knew the kid didn’t look like a hardened criminal with that cold, killer look in his yes. I think he surprised himself as much as he surprised me when he pulled that trigger.”

“What if the bullet had hit Ben in the heart?” Stacy asked. “He’d be dead right now, wouldn’t he?”

“I think his regeneration is quick enough that even if he’s shot in the heart, the wound will close over before he bleeds out.”

“You think,” Ben said.

“In theory,” Nelson said.

“Ah, well, I think, in theory, I will continue to evade the bullets rather than stand there and let them hit me.”

“Good plan,” Stacy said. “I like your monthly visits here.”

--

“And now,” the baritone voice boomed over the arena’s PA system, “introducing the gold medalist for women’s figure skating from last year’s Winter Olympics. Hailing from Helena, Montana. The talented, the lovely, the incomparable Ms. Cassandra Starr.”

The audience erupted into applause as Cassandra Starr, dressed in purple sequined leotards, glided out onto the ice. Lithe and toned, her blond locks streaming behind her, the twenty-four-year-old green-eyed champion skated around the perimeter of the ice covering the arena floor of Los Angeles’s Staples Center. She decided to start with the routine that had won her the gold medal.

She breezed through that routine flawlessly, earning applause from the audience. Upon completing that, she started into another routine, one that she hadn’t performed before. She had practiced the moves during rehearsals, but she didn’t really need the practice. The ice was the one place where she felt truly confident.

She believed in her abilities on the ice, and she was able to ignore many of the barbs directed her way during her rise to compete for a slot on the U.S. women’s Olympic figure skating team. One appellation that seemed to stick, mostly in derisive commentary on late night talk shows, was Ice Princess Barbie, derived from her long blond hair, statuesque five-foot-eight figure, and a bosom that was larger than the average skater’s. Also, during media interviews, she was usually shy to the point of appearing cold and aloof.

All she wanted to do was skate, to prove that she was the best at showcasing her talents. The celebrity and the media intrusiveness was a byproduct of that. She had accepted that. She still didn’t like having dozens of cameras and microphones thrust at her, but she accepted it.

Applause filled her ears as she completed a difficult maneuver flawlessly. That was the feedback she truly treasured—the reactions of spectators. That others could enjoy watching her talents.

With her portion of the show complete, she glided across the ice toward the gate off the arena floor.

“Put your hands together for gold medalist Cassandra Starr, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer cried. “Remember, after the show, she will be signing autographs.”

Cassandra left the ice as the announcer introduced the next performers, Boris Golokov and Irina Malenkova, a Russian couple who’d won the gold medal in paired figure skating almost eight years ago.

She headed to her assigned dressing room and changed out of her leotard. She donned the red sleeveless evening gown she had chosen to wear at the autograph signing and at the post-show dinner. The gown’s decolletage was designed to enhance her generous cleavage rather than hide it—a gesture of defiance, she felt, against those who jealously spoke ill of her attributes.

As she watched herself in the mirror, brushing her long golden locks with even strokes, she thought that right now she truly did look like Ice Princess Barbie.

Her manager, Diane King, entered the dressing room. “Hey, Cassie, that was a brilliant performance. As usual.”

Cassandra smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are you going to wear your hair down?”

“I always wear my hair down.”

“Maybe I should bring in a stylist.”

“No, Diane, this is fine.”

“Okay, but I’m only looking after your image. You’re wearing an elegant gown, so you should have an elegant hairstyle.”

Cassandra spun fully around to show off all sides of her gown. “They won’t be looking at my hair with this dress.”

“Don’t remind me. I wonder why I agreed to let you wear that dress anyway.”

“I should have some say in my wardrobe.”

Diane checked her watch. “The Russians should be finishing their routine. The final performance of the show is the comedy routine with the cartoon characters. We should head up now so you’re ready at the autograph signing table by the time the crowd lets out.”

“Okay.”

The two women left the dressing room and wended their way through the corridors to the open room where several tables had been set up. Cassandra found the table with the stack of eight-by-ten portraits of her with the gold medal around her neck. She seated herself, with Diane hovering near her.

Other members of the show, including Boris and Irina and the cartoon characters still in costume, took their assigned tables. When the room was opened for the signing, the lines at the autograph tables grew rapidly.

Cassandra didn’t mind this part of her fame. As much as she hated the media attention, she enjoyed meeting the people of the general public. Her smile was genuine as she asked the name of each person who came to her table and jotted individual messages along with her signature.

After about half an hour of this her fingers started to cramp from all the writing, but she pressed on until every person who wanted one had an autographed portrait. The room was suddenly empty, and the performers departed for the post-show dinner.

Cassandra dreaded it. The dinner was an exclusive affair limited to invited guests, most of whom were the elites of Los Angeles—the Hollywood A-list celebrities.

Cassandra rode in the same limousine as the Russian couple and a gold medal winner in women’s figure skating from the Winter Olympics before Cassandra’s medal-winning appearance, and all their managers.

The limo pulled up to the front door of the exclusive restaurant, and a valet opened the car door. The performers and their managers disembarked. A doorman opened the restaurant door for them, and they stepped inside.

“Nice ambiance,” Diane remarked as she and Cassandra walked into the posh restaurant.

“It is,” Cassandra said curtly.

As they headed for the table reserved for show sponsor Daniel Kubiak and his guests, many a patron paused to look at the women in their resplendent garb. Kubiak stood as they arrived and gestured for them to sit, his face split with a wide grin.

Cassandra took the empty seat across from one of Kubiak’s guests. Diane sat between Cassandra and Kubiak. The sponsor waved to a waiter to come to their table to take their orders. Tonight’s dinner was on Kubiak’s tab, so the expensive prices on the menu were not a concern. Cassandra had never been in such a nice restaurant, so she wasn’t certain she could decipher what the French fare on the menu actually was.

Diane, who could maneuver herself around a French restaurant’s menu, offered her suggestions.

Give me a short-order diner in Helena any day, Cassandra thought as she pointed the unintelligible entrees to the waiter rather than attempt to pronounce them.

The orders placed, the menus were folded up and given to the waiter. Cassandra kept her hands clasped demurely in her lap as the others at the table delved into a conversation regarding the continuing tour of the show. They discussed Seattle, the next city on the tour, and how it compared to L.A.

Cassandra cast her gaze around the room, the conversation droning in the background. Every other table in the restaurant was occupied by big name celebrities, including a few that were celebrities not for anything they did in film but because they happened to be the news maker of the day.

One of those, for example, was Roma Chamberlain, heiress to the Chamberlain Hotel chain and its accompanying fortune. She had first put herself in the news by dating, and later dumping, former A-list actor, now has-been, Jimmy Seagrave. While Jimmy Seagrave was now relegated to spots on reality television shows, Roma continued to make the news, even when most average Americans would prefer to just forget about her.

Then she saw Carson Ellis. The twenty-year-old pop star had joined one of those boy bands as lead singer when he was eighteen, and now he was pursuing his solo career. He’d released his first CD as a solo artist last year, to much acclaim.

He struck a dashing figure in his black tuxedo, his hair styled to appear unruly. Cassandra caught him staring at her with his brown eyes, and he averted his gaze.

She resumed looking around the room, and when she returned her gaze to Carson she caught him once again observing her. And again, he looked away quickly.

The food came, and Cassandra busied herself with the meal. It wasn’t bad, for not knowing exactly what she was eating, but she preferred simpler fare. She ate in silence while the others at her table chatted about trivial things.

Cassandra finished her meal and excused herself from the table. She took her glass of wine and headed out to the balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Awed by the lights of the moon and the city glittering off the waves crashing below, she barely noticed that she had company.

“Hi,” Carson said from beside her.

She jumped, startled, almost spilling her wine. “Oh. Hi.”

He extended a hand. “Carson Ellis.”

She accepted his handshake. “Cassandra Starr.”

He held her hand longer than was customary for a handshake, but he eventually released his grip.

“I saw you at the show,” he said. “Excellent performance.”

“Thank you.”

“If I tried to do that, I’d probably be wearing a cold pack on my behind right now.”

Dazzled by his eyes, she didn’t comprehend his joke at first. “Excuse me?”

He gestured nervously. “I mean, I couldn’t do what you did. I’d be falling on my butt all the time. Thus, the cold pack.”

“Oh. Well, I couldn’t sing as good as you can.”

“Oh come on, you have a beautiful voice.”

“It doesn’t mean I can carry a tune.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Yeah.”

Cassandra left her half-full glass of wine with a waiter before leaving the restaurant with Carson.

“I feel like walking,” he said.

Cassandra nodded in agreement.

As the valet approached, Carson waved him off. Cassandra and the young pop star headed down the sidewalk. She periodically shifted her attention between Carson and the moonlit sidewalk before them, relishing the autumn California air. The ocean breeze lifted her hair and tugged at the skirt of her gown. It would be much colder than this back home in Montana.

She shivered against a strong breeze, and she folded her arms over her chest. Carson shucked his tuxedo coat and rested it on her shoulders.

Grateful, she leaned against him as they continued down the sidewalk. He slid his palm into hers and entwining their fingers. She was hesitant at first to allow even this much physical contact, but she relented. Her hand remained in his.

“My manager is probably fuming that I left that high-profile gathering,” Carson said.

“Mine too,” Cassandra said. “Really, I don’t understand the furor. Why am I so famous?”

“You won the gold medal.”

“I’m not the first, nor am I the only gold medal winner from last year’s Olympics.”

“Well, you’re gorgeous, for one thing. And you come across as a down-to-Earth girl that average people can relate to. America loves you, Cassandra.”

“Really. You should hear some of the stuff they’re saying about me in the media.”

“Well, the media didn’t create you like they created Roma Chamberlain back there. America was drawn to you. You come from modest roots in the heartland, not from New York or Los Angeles. America put you up on that pedestal, not the media. So the media has to find chinks in your armor.”

The breeze ruffled Cassandra’s blond hair as she gazed out at the water. “I love what I do. I love skating for people. I feel like I’m losing control of my life, though. Everything I do has to be for the benefit of a scrutinizing camera.”

“I know what you mean. My manager has told me that since I’m going solo with my music I won’t have my band mates’ shenanigans drawing the press to them instead of me. I have to be overly careful of what I do now.”

A bright light flashed from their side for a brief second. They turned to find a compact car pulled to the curb, and a man with a camera leaned out the side window to snap another shot. Cassandra pulled her hand from Carson’s but it was already too late. The photographer had his photo. He grinned, saluted them, and drew himself back into his car. He rolled up the window and drove off.

“That was rude,” Carson said. “I’m sure we’ll see that picture staring back at us from those grocery store tabloid rags.”

“I think we should go back before our managers have a fit,” Cassandra said.

“How long are you in L.A.?”

“Three more weeks.”

“Can I call on you sometime?”

“I’d like that.”