The Cat and the Bullet

Chapter 8

I push Bruce into a storage room and shut the door behind us. A roach scurries out of my way and disappears behind a discarded bucket and mildewy mop. In the dim lighting, my scarlet cape sticks out like a traffic light on a stormy day. Bruce crinkles his nose at the mountain of a mess surrounding us and glowers at me, "What are we, twelve, Kent?" he growls. There it is again, that familiar patronizing undertone that speaks volumes.

I wince. "You can't call me that," I hiss. "Look," I start. "I appreciate you trying to save my bacon and all. . ." Though I have no idea what in the world could possess Bruce Wayne, of all people, to pose as me. I'm not one to question my luck.

"I seem to be always saving your bacon," he adds his two cents rudely. In what universe is that a reality? I raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him. Bruce is off his rockers if he believes that for a second. I swallow down some choice words of my own and refrain from commenting on Bruce Wayne's massive ego. Last time I checked I'm the one who holds the record for most 'saves,' not that it is a competition.

"But you are single-handedly blowing my cover," I say in the politest way possible. "I would never say 'bloody' or compare Cat to a vulture."

"You're doing a fine job of blowing your own cover," he says harshly. "What do you suppose she thinks we're doing, canoodling?"

Oh, drats. I blush all the way to the roots of my hair and squirm under his cold gaze. He's right. "I did not think about that," I say. People would want to know why Superman singled out Clark Kent. And by people, I mean Cat Grant.

"Obviously," Bruce's frown deepens. "Relax Kent," Bruce softens his tone a smidge and claps a hand over my shoulder. "It won't hurt for you to have a backbone for one day."

"That's rich coming from someone who hasn't worked a single day in his life," I grind out. "It won't hurt for Bruce Wayne to have a helping of humble pie!" I match his self-righteous tone.

"It won't hurt for you to be less stubborn," he returns.

"Takes one to know one," I glare at him.

"At least I don't need my girlfriend to give me a pep talk every second of the day."

"No, that's what Alfred is for."

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking exhausted. "Alfred will wring your neck if he knew how irresponsible you've behaved."

"For the last time!" I raise my voice. "Lana attacked me!"

"You think he cares about your stupid love triangle?" Bruce shakes his head and swears. "You have no business being in the field in your condition."

"I'm fine. Alfred doesn't need to worry." My parents worry enough already.

"Someone fine doesn't attack their friends."

"It was an accident."

"Kryptonians can't afford to have accidents or mental breakdowns."

"You think I don't know that?"

Bruce suddenly turns away from me, pressing a finger to his ear. He nods gravely, and says, "Copy that." I gape at him. Embedded in his ear is a small earpiece. How did I miss that before? My senses are all out of whack today.

Without warning his hand shoots out, grabs mine, and starts to shake it vigorously. What are you playing at Bruce? He awkwardly pushes my glasses up the bridge of his nose, slouching over. I still can't figure out how Lois managed to borrow those without my knowledge. "No need to worry Mista - uh Superman," he stutters exaggeratedly, sounding more like Bibbo Bibbowski than Clark Kent. I'm about to comment on his weird shift in behavior when I hear the telltale sign of high-heels stomping down the hallway.