Bobbi tried to remember who had given her the key. She held it, stared at it with her baby blues, felt it between fingers and lips…but nothing.

The woman had strength, beauty and a number of unique abilities…but a memory like a goalie for the Chicago Blizzard. And that goalie, a man named “Chico” Robinson, was one Bobbi found very hot regardless of the fact his defence regularly hung him out to dry. Super heroine, or not, she was a puck bunny.

That said, it was time to get dressed. Crime in this city was not going to fight itself…at least not in a way that would actually assist her.

Her room was one that princesses would have envied. A mahogany four-poster king bed dominated the room with burgundy sheets of silk and matching sashes from the overhead beams. One wall featured a walk in closet large that had her clothes down one side and a make-up and jewelry filled desk with a lighted mirror on the other. Opposite the bed, a 60-inch plasma-screen television hung in all its glory.

Naked, Bobbi turned in place and studied her room. “How the fuck do I afford this place?” A shrug followed this action. Inheritance was a wonderful thing that usually led to celebrity reputations for some talentless hacks, Bobbi felt, but she had never allowed herself to simply be seen as Barry and Brenda Greggory’s daughter. She had seen too much of what inheritance had done to Bruce Wayne, Paris Hilton and Elmo to ever allow that to creep into her existence.

Her hands reached up and squeezed her nipples to bring back the moment of reality. Much as she enjoyed feeling the air on her naked body as she wandered around the house, it was hard to fight crime, fight evil, and find a good hot dog cart without at least some clothing. The key, for now, was dropped on the bed. Pulling out her pony tail, the brunette curls fell to just past her shoulders.

Some super heroes wore trademarked outfits that were well known. They found sponsors and employers to foot the bill for some of the wackiest fashion statements. Sure, some looked stylish, but for most is was a demonstration of bizarre sponsor colours.

Bobbi, however, had no such luxuries. Miss Direction was a freelancer still looking for a sponsor.

Letting her hair go and threaded hooks through eyes to close her red and black corset until it was tight across her chest. Next she struggled into her black leather miniskirt, high-thigh stockings and black knee-boots. The four-inch heels put her to six-three; a good intimidating height for the average back-street brawler. Her brand was more one of Amazonian height, full red lips, tight brunette curls, and cleavage that mere mortal men would get lost in for weeks. She even had many choices of masques to wear, and yet all knew who she was when she hit the street.

No media shots, so far, had caught her in the same outfit more than once. With no sponsor to buy more clothes and no alter-ego employment, this was not easy.

What’s a super heroine to do? Not like this line of work paid…at all.

“Lace?” Bobbi yelled her question. “Are you coming?”

The voice replying was weak. “I’m sick.”

“Again?” Bobbi shrugged and looked in the mirror. “Again or always.”

“Be there in a sec.”

Ever since their last run-in with Motion Sickness, Bobbi’s self-proclaimed arch-nemesis, Lace had been having stomach issues. Something to do with the man’s aroma and poor choice of green shades for his outfit usually left Lace out of commission for a few days after some less-than-epic battle. Then again, his outfits usually left regular people heaving into gutters for weeks.

The battles were never pleasant, and Bobbi always burned her clothes afterward, but it was a challenge. There was the minor advantage that Motion Sickness, so far as Bobbi knew, had no sponsors either.

“Bobbi,” Roy said through the bedroom door and followed it with a soft knock.

“Come in, Roy.”

Pushing through the door, the large man stopped in awe of tonight’s costume. “Wow, you look gorgeous. As always, of course, but wow.” His crew-cut black hair looked shiny from too much gel in it and made his goatee look dull in comparison.

“Remind me why I’m not sleeping with you simply for my ego?”

He laughed, and the laptop he held against his large belly shook. “Might have something to do with my massive…”

“What do you need, Roy?”

His paws turned the laptop to face her. A sweat stain in his white t-shirt remained where the warmth of the laptop had once been. “Police are outside the Peterson Bank. Seems there is a hostage situation going on.”

“And this evening’s festivities begin.” She sighed. “And here I was hoping to hit the Cougar Club tonight.”

Roy’s blue eyes widened as his mouth opened to accommodate a falling chin. “The videos you shot with Master Blaster were awesome.”

“They were, weren’t they.” She put a hand on Roy’s chest and pushed.

He stepped back to allow Bobbi to pass.

Her left hand picked up her masque and key from the dresser, and her right reached between Mel’s denim covered legs for a squeeze. Stopping, she turned and looked down at him. “Keep it massive for me for later, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lace? Are we going, or what?”

“I’m coming!”

Bobbi rolled her eyes. “Roy?” Holding the key up to his eyes. “Do you remember where this came from?”

“Billy Glum’s key party, maybe?” His voice was a whine, trying to stay calm as her squeezing hand continued to coax a good erection through his blue jeans.

“No, don’t think it was Glum’s. Though I did enjoy that key party.”

“Think he’s having another in two weeks. Can I come to that one?”

Her eyes met his. “You have been such a good boy, haven’t you?” Lowering her lips to his, she kissed him deeply. “We’ll see what we can do.” The feeling of him shivering brought a smile to her. The control over him was fun and wonderful, but she always enjoyed the pleasures she could bring to him more.

Lace clicked down the hallway on her own stilettos. “Okay, I’m as ready as I can be.” Her usual black and blue catsuit was a perfect fit, and the thick prescription goggles completed her outfit with the elastic allowing her red curls to flare out behind her. Unlike Miss Direction, Cross-Eyes had a uniform…sort of.

Shifting her eyes away from Roy, Bobbi checked out the petite redhead. “Guess you’re not getting laid tonight.”

Hands across her belly, Lace’s brown eyes peered out through her goggles. “I’m not banking on that.”

“Jesus, woman, we don’t get paid for this. What fun is doing this if we can’t get laid? At least promise me that you’ll see how you feel when we get the chance.”

“Only if you promise we don’t run into Motion Sickness tonight,” Lace said through a sigh and droop of her shoulders.

“We know I can’t promise that, either.”

The silence that followed between the three was only broken when Roy howled in pain at Bobbi’s hand squeezing his balls too much.

“Sorry, Roy. We best be off before I have to pull out that beast and suck on it.”

At first Roy’s eyes agreed, but then confusion seeped over them.

“No worries, I’ll suck you off later, my love. Keep us posted on that hostage situation.”

His blue eyes watched the dynamic partnership of Miss Direction and Cross-Eyes walk out of the condo in a flash of clicking stiletto heels and petty bickering. After attempting to catch his breath, his shoulders slumped and he went back to his office.

The computers along one wall were mostly useless…even to Roy. Miss Direction thought it looked impressive, and that was all that mattered. That most could not even be turned on, never mind that they had no reason to be here at all, was a simple rouse Roy had concocted to keep her happy. The computer screen at the centre of the desk was one of the two that mattered. It continued to flash reports on the ongoing hostage situation.

The room’s only other furniture tenant was a cot that had a large plastic tote at the foot where all of Roy’s clothes were kept.

Sitting down at the keyboard, Roy tapped a few keys. Voices and sounds from the scene came from the speakers. Then red flashed across the screen. Roy smiled and rolled down the desk to the only other computer that mattered. One punch and the monitor flared to life showing a single email on the screen. His eyes scanned it and he typed out his response:

“They took the bait, as you anticipated. – R“

A moment later a new email appeared:

“Excellent work, Roy. I will begin phase two of this evening’s plans. Sincerely Yours, Motion Sickness CEO Motion Sickness Enterprises Operations Manager, The Really Bad Guys Corporation“

Roy stared at the email. Often as he might try to say something, Roy never quite understood Motion Sickness’ need to personally sign every email.

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