"Some drivers thrive on winning races. Others love to cause trouble. It's the latter that gives racing a bad name. Hal Jordan is one of those drivers."
—Clark Kent, Special Features, The Daily Planet
There were, in Lois's opinion, three types of men: Those that made you go, "Eww." As in, yuck, look at what the cat dragged in, I wouldn't touch that with a pair of rubber gloves. Those that made you think, "Hmm." As in, if I was tired, tipsy and just a little bit desperate, I might take him home. And those that made you exclaim, softly, of course, "Oh, my."
Superman was a solid "Oh, my."
She'd known that. Of course she'd known that. The thing was, it didn't make it any easier to approach him. So she had tried other ways. Peering around the edge of the security cordon at the crime scene where Superman was fighting a super-villain, trying to be the first on the scene where Superman was busy saving lives and even risking life and limb to attract his attention.
And as she walked around the city, covering news-worthy event, she looked up, up, up in the sky….every once in a while walking forward only to stop suddenly and look up, the large bag she'd sling over one shoulder, with her laptop and notes, hitting her in the spine.
Just now, she was in two minds.
You're being ridiculous. He's just a man. No, he's not. He's a Superman.
Lois Lane, Reporter Extraordinaire (at least in her mind), was on her way to cover events at the drag races. And maybe, just maybe, find a man good enough to take her mind off a certain Superman. It was a busy day at the drag race motorsports complex. People heavily laden with salty-scented sunblock rushed past her, spectators, track officials and crewmen alike. Lois wrinkled her nose as the breeze blew in the smell of engine exhaust and burned rubber tires, not a pleasant one at the best of times but a very macho one.
She much preferred the sweet smell of hot dogs and hamburgers which hung in the air, as if everyone were at an outdoor barbecue rather than a drag strip. On the asphalt behind her, cars took off at regular intervals, their engines so loud, Lois resisted the urge to cover her ears.
She looked around for the man she had come to interview, Hal Jordan.
If Superman was an, "Oh My!" in the Men Category, Hal Jordan came a close second. Definitely worth a look and a feel and maybe a….
Come on, Lois. Sooner or later you've got to do it. You've got to talk to Hal Jordan.
She risked another look. And her whole body just sort of went oomph.
Hal leaned against the side of a big rig that hauled his gear from track to track, looking very…very…
She thought for a moment.
Gladiator-ish, if there was such a word. Almost as if he had just stepped out of Ben Hur. He was watching a mechanic work on his car. Yellow Do Not Cross This Line tape kept fans at bay. Above him someone had pulled a white awning out from the side of the rig. It cast a translucent glow over his darkly tanned skin—as if he stood beneath a photographer's umbrella—and turned his black leather gear a shade of gray. She didn't know how he could stand to wear those leathers on a hot, sunny day like today, but she had to admit, he looked, um, hot in them.
She wiped a trickle of sweat off her own forehead. Go on, she silently urged, watching as he leaned forward and said something.
But Lois was biding her time, waiting for the right moment.
Out on the track, the deafening roar of a race car in the middle of a qualifying run filled the air yet again, but she could still hear the Hal's deep laugh as he talked to the mechanics working on his car.
Do it.
Now!
She readjusted the straps of her purple leather bag, and headed for him.
He became more beautiful with each step. Race-car drivers were not, as a rule, pretty…at least not in her experience. But this guy was gorgeous...
Razor-stubble chin. Dark sideburns in front of his ears.
The lips of Michelangelo's David. Botticelli's wide-armed physique, and the swept-back, wind-tossed hair of a god. Leonardo da Vinci's charisma and eye appeal. She'd minored in Art…a degree that wasn't useful in her current job, but terrific for spur-of-the-moment metaphors.
She paused outside the tape, clenched her hands, then sternly told herself to stop being ridiculous. She'd graduated at the top of her class. With honors.
"Hi, Hal," she said.
Golden light brown eyes – the same colour as the sands of Florida's eastern beaches at sunrise – gave her a puzzled stare. Lois liked Florida and she simply loved sunrises. Had always loved them. She found them more romantic than sunsets. Waking up with someone to watch a sunrise meant commitment and future and hope.
"I'm Lois," she said now, ducking beneath the yellow tape. "Lois Lane."
Hal glanced at his mechanic, gave her a don't-worry-I'll-handle-this look, albeit one tinged with amusement, and pushed away from the side of the semi.
"Can I help you?" he asked, those eyes of his sweeping her up and down.
Not much to see, I'm afraid. "You don't recognize the name, do you?"
"No," he said, his drawl more pronounced when it was oozing male sensuality. "Should I?" he asked suggestively.
Whoo-wee, the man should come with a Warning: Smile May Cause Electric Shock.
She felt that sexy grin all the way down to her toenails. And it figured he didn't recognize her. While she was The Daily Planet's top reporter, she'd only won the Pulitzer a couple of months ago.
"We've actually talked on the phone about this interview," she said. "I work for The Daily Planet."
"The Daily Planet?" he asked, as if he didn't recognize that name, either. But of course he did. They had done a full-length feature on him two years ago. Of course, it was not a piece written by Lois, Clark had done the story, but she remembered every word.
"The Daily Planet," she repeated, shifting the bag to the other shoulder so she could lift the wide flap and pull out a business card. "I'm the Chief Reporter."
He glanced at the card, recognition dawning. Again, the eyes scanned her, and for the first time Lois found herself wishing for a six-foot-one frame, voluptuous cleavage and sexy, pouty lips (If only I looked like Wonder Woman, she thought). Alas, she was five foot six, had to work to look good, with hair as light brown and wispy straight as a Lhasa Apso.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
All amusement had fled. There was no longer any hint of a smile. No word of greeting. Just the steely-eyed glare of a man who wasn't happy to see her. Well, she'd expected that. After all, he'd been ducking her calls for days.
"Actually, Perry White requested that I come. Well, Perry wanted my colleague, Clark, to come. But he's too busy. One of his pet rocks needs attention. Terrible thing. Maybe the end of the road for the rock. Clark went down to, um—", she stopped.
She didn't continue.
"What does Perry White want with me?" he asked, one of his dark brown eyebrows lifting. He crossed his arms in front of him, something that made his shoulders appear twice as wide.
He knew. He had to know. The Daily Planet features were read by half the planet and that meant at least 2.5 billion people. Hal would have to be stupid not to know what that coverage could do for his career, but if he wanted to play dumb…
"Well, the interview with you is part of a series on adventure sports for our readers, and Clark really thought that you might enjoy letting the public know what makes you tick," Lois smiled. Then she continued with what she thought should clinch the interview and close the conversation. "And The Daily Planet has cleared the interview with your agent. She was quite happy to approve your talking to us."
Hal swore underneath his breath. He just did not have the time for this. Not after he had to deal with the after effects of Parallax. Sure, he was grateful enough for the job, but no way was he going to let some fancy chick boss him around, agent or no. So, just to rile Lois and to send a message to his boss, he said, "Tell my agent to go blow."
"Excuse me?"
He'd started to unzip his leather race gear. Lois felt her mouth go dry. The black material slid off his shoulders, exposing a white cotton tank beneath. Arms so sculpted they belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine flexed as he shrugged out of the material.
"Mr. Jordan, Hal" she quickly added when it became clear that he wasn't undressing to pose for interview photographs—or to make her mind go blank. Which it did! Momentarily.
"I understand your reluctance to do the interview, but obviously I can't tell your agent to, um, go blow. That's for you and her to sort out. I'm not your messenger. We can do the interview or we don't. But either way, I'm going to go away with a story that will sell the newspapers. So, its ok if you don't want to talk, I'll meet people who will talk about you."
All Hal Jordan did was shrug before he turned away. She watched him cross to a green-and-white cooler where he pulled out some sort of orange-colored drink. When he turned back, he almost seemed surprised to see her still standing there.
"I don't have time for this," he said after cracking the can open and proceeded to down half of it in a few loud gulps.
"Its out of the question. I don't have time to talk to anyone right now."
Hal Jordan watched Lois Lane walk away, although why the hell she'd gave up so easily, he had no idea. He shook his head, turning away.
There was more to that woman than met the eye. Well, good for her.
"What was that all about?" Janice, his mechanic, asked, pausing in the middle of the aisle that ran up the length of the hauler. She stopped before a cabinet full of drawers, opened one up and began to fish through it.
"Nothing," Hal said, shaking his head.
"Didn't sound like nothing." Janice might be blonde, petite, chewing gum, and sporting a tattoo or two, but she wasn't dumb. "You bucking the system again?"
"What of it?" Hal asked, turning his attention to a race card someone had left on the counter. It was a picture of him standing next to his car. A cheetah on steroids, that's what he called his beloved machine with its fat tires and power-hungry engine. Sitting behind the wheel of it gave him a rush unlike any other. Okay, maybe there were two other things that were better. One was being Green Lantern. And the other, well, he needed a woman for that.
"Look," Janice said, whatever she was looking for apparently forgotten, "I know you're used to doing as you please. But after everything that's been going on, are you sure thumbing your nose at your new boss is wise?"
Obviously, Janice was worried about her next paycheck. Hal didn't blame her. If Hal Jordan didn't start making some serious money, then it would be difficult for him to keep body and soul together. And he had already lived through that one, and didn't think he wanted another experience.
"Don't worry about it, Janice. I've got it handled."
Janice flicked her chin up. "Yeah, sounded like it."
But Hal just shrugged. What could he do? He needed to race. He needed to win the damn prize money, but nobody knew how perilous his financial situation had become. And nobody would know. Sure, if he raced, his new boss—James Hannigan—might get torqued, but he'd get over it. Owners always did.
