Wingman: Alien Castaways (Intergalactic Dating Agency) Page 13

  The sergeant pressed his lips together grimly and made a phone call. “Get back over to Trudy Beckman’s house. She has a son. Scott Beckman. Find him.”

  * * * *

  Wingman extinguished the flames just before he crashed into the trees. The branches broke his fall, but searing pain tore through his back as he dislocated a wing. He dangled, his injured wing tangled up in a branch. Vision fogged, but he fought to remain conscious. Gritting his teeth, he swung toward the trunk and grabbed a branch with his free hand. Then he gripped the tree with his ankles and hoisted himself upward.

  With the weight off the injured wing, he worked free of the branches and then shoved off from the tree. He landed on a thick bed of pine needles, but the impact sent pain knifing through him. He inhaled deep breaths until he could stand without passing out. The dislocated wing hung limp. Feathers along the outer edge had burned, exposing the sharp blades.

  He couldn’t fly like this, and he’d lost the phone so he couldn’t track the vehicle.

  I have to get Izzy. I have to. If he could pop the wing back into the socket… He eyed the thick, sturdy tree that had broken his fall. Maybe…

  He backed up against the trunk and wiggled around to find the protruding bony end of his wing. Sharp pangs alerted him to the right spot. Taking a deep breath, he slammed himself against the tree. The pain was so great, the world went black, and he fell to his knees. His wing was still dislocated.

  Grunting, he dragged himself to his feet, repositioned himself, and this time used maximum force. On the heels of agony came instant relief as the wing popped into place.

  Gingerly, he flexed. He could move the wing, but two rows of feathers were curled and blackened. Would he still be able to fly? He moved onto the gravel road, took a running leap, and vaulted into the air. He listed, nearly careening into the trees, but corrected in time to veer away. Flapping hard, he lifted up and up but had to keep correcting his trajectory.

  A set of ruts ran along the narrow road, indicating someone had traveled that way, but the path was so pitted and potholed, it was impossible to tell how recent the tracks were. How much time had been lost while he was stuck in the tree? How much farther away had the kidnapper gotten? He was beginning to despair of finding Izzy when he spotted a muddied van bouncing along. Without the phone, he had no way to know if it was the right vehicle.

  He hovered over the van and then dropped onto the roof. The driver swerved and slammed on his brakes, causing the van to fishtail in the mud. Peering through the windshield, Wingman focused on the driver. What looked like a fresh, deep scratch ran from eye to chin. The beard and sunglasses were gone, but familiar tats crawled up his neck.

  When the vehicle lurched to a stop, half on the road, half off, he yanked open the door, dragged the man out, and slammed him against the side of the van.

  “Izzy, are you here? It’s Angel!” Wingman shouted.

  A muffled sound and a thumping emanated from the cargo area.

  The kidnapper’s bloodied fist shot out. His hand appeared to have been bitten. Wingman dodged the swing and retaliated with a left cuff that bounced the man off the vehicle again. Another blow to the right temple snapped the kidnapper’s head against the metal with a satisfying smack. A couple of undercuts to the abdomen dropped him to his knees.

  Leaving him gasping for breath in the mud, Wingman wrenched open the sliding panel.

  Izzy lay on the hard metal floor, her wrists and ankles bound by a plastic band, a strip of silver tape across her mouth. Tears streaked her cheeks. His heart broke. The fright in her eyes turned to relief. She tried to speak, but the words were muffled.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” Very gently, he peeled the tape from her mouth.

  “The ice cream man kidnapped me!” she said.

  “I know. ” With a wing blade, he cut the plastic tie around her ankles and then freed her wrists. She threw herself into his arms. “He told me if I made any noise, he’d hurt me.”

  He should have killed the guy. “He’ll never hurt you, ever. I promise.”

  “I didn’t recognize him at first. He said he was Mrs. Beckman’s son, and she’d sent him to get me because Mom couldn’t do it. Then I saw his tattoos, and I tried to get away. I scratched him and bit him. He stopped the van and tied me up. I was so scared.”

  He rubbed her back. Over her shoulder, he spotted a metal tool box, next to it on the floor, a bag of plastic ties. “It’s okay. Stay right here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  He hated to leave her even for a second, but the kidnapper was still outside. He grabbed the zip ties and jumped out of the vehicle.

  The kidnapper was hustling down the road. He peered over his shoulder and bolted. With a roar, Wingman tackled him, the force and speed sending the man skidding across the gravel. Pressing his knee to the man’s spine, Wingman bound his wrists with the plastic ties.

  “You fucker! My fingers are going numb. You’re cutting off my circulation.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He yanked hard and tightened the zip tie. After binding his ankles in a similar fashion, he dragged the guy through the mud and dumped him in front of the vehicle.

  He ducked back inside and scooped up Izzy. She clung to his neck.

  “Do you still have your phone?” he asked. His phone, actually.

  She nodded. “In my backpack.”

  He realized she was still wearing it.

  “Let’s call your mom.”

  “She’s going to be mad. She told me not to get into a car with strangers.”

  “No, she’s not going to be mad.” He dug out the device and dialed Delia.

  “W-W-Wingman?”

  “I’ve got her! She’s unharmed. Here—talk to her.” He handed the phone to Izzy.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh god, Izzy!” He could hear her crying happy, relieved tears.

  “I’m sorry.” Izzy started to cry now.

  “No. No. I’m sorry. I was late picking you up. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Angel saved me.”

  “Yes, he did. I love you, sweetie. So much.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They spoke for several minutes, and then Izzy handed him the phone. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

  “Let me rest my arm a minute.” He set her on her feet. “Stay close.” He held the phone to his ear. “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Scott?” she asked.

  “Scott?”

  “The guy who took Izzy—Mrs. Beckman’s son.”

  “He’s not going anywhere. I have him immobilized.” He paused. “Scott Beckman is the ice cream man.”

  “Oh my god! He was here all along. In the neighborhood.”

  He could hear the fear in her voice. The threat had been close, almost next door, the son of someone she considered a friend, who’d supposedly cared for Izzy. “He’ll never have a chance to try to hurt her again,” he promised.

  He couldn’t see any vehicles yet, but he could hear the rumble. “I think your authorities might be arriving,” he said.

  “They left about ten minutes after you did. Your friends followed them on the hover scooter. You’ll have to answer a lot of questions, but please bring my baby home as soon as you can. I’m going to the house. Bring her there?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too. And Izzy.” He smiled down at the little girl.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Delia had expected Wingman to fly Izzy home, but as she watched through the window, a hover scooter materialized on the front walk. Her daughter straddled the alien vehicle, Wingman behind her.

  She flew out of the house.

  Her daughter scrambled off the scooter, and she grabbed her in a fierce hug. “Oh my god, Izzy.” She tangled her hands in her daughter’s hair, kissing her head, her face. “My baby.” She looked up at Wingman. Her heart could explode fr
om relief and joy. She rocked Izzy, squeezing harder, tighter. The police had contacted her and restated what Wingman had already said, that Scott Beckman hadn’t had the chance to do anything. Izzy had only been kidnapped. Only. The abduction had been terrifying. “Are you all right? Really all right?”

  “Yes—except you’re smothering me.”

  “You might have to suffer smothering for a while.” Like for the next twenty years. But she released her.

  She turned to the man she loved who’d saved Izzy. Josh had given her life; Wingman had given her back. There were no words to describe the depth of her gratitude. She stumbled toward him, halting at the sight of his wings. The feathers of one were crispy and curled. Sharp bones, almost like blades, stuck out. “You’re hurt!”

  “I got struck by lightning, but I’m okay.” He fluttered the injured wing. “The med pod will fix it, but this is why I borrowed Tigre’s hover scooter. I can still fly, but I didn’t want to take any risks—with flying or the weather.” They’d gotten a reprieve from the rain and thunder, but if the dark-gray sky served as an indication, another storm could hit at any moment.

  Delia slipped her arms around his waist. He’d downplayed the injury, but he could have been killed. He’d put his own life on the line—and had taken care to ensure nothing had endangered her daughter. Tears thickened her throat. “Thank you for everything.” She leaned against him, absorbing his strength.

  Seconds later, Izzy slammed into her, hugging her from behind. Wingman folded his wings around them both. A family. That’s what we are. Just a few hours ago, she’d feared nothing would ever be normal again.

  “I’m hungry!” Izzy said. “Can I have some ramen noodles?”

  She stifled a laugh at the resilience, the normalcy. If Izzy got her way, she’d eat ramen noodles every day of the week. Because Delia avoided junk food, she limited ramen noodles to rare occasions.

  “All right,” she agreed, aware her daughter wasn’t above milking the situation. Today, she could milk it for all it was worth. “Let’s go inside,” she said. Wingman lowered his wings, and they separated.

  “How about a pony?” Izzy asked.

  “Nice try, kiddo,” she said, and Wingman wiped a grin off his face.

  Izzy looked over at Trudy Beckman’s house where a squad car sat in the driveway with another at the curb. “Why are the police at Mrs. Beckman’s?”

  “They were talking to everybody to try to find you.” The half-lie slipped off her tongue in an even tone, though anger spiked anew at Trudy’s willful disregard for Izzy’s safety.

  “Oh.” She shrugged and dashed inside to Delia’s bemused relief.

  Thank Wingman, thank the police her daughter had come home safe, sound, and untouched by the worst that could have happened.

  She would never forgive Trudy who’d known of the danger her son posed. A registered sex offender, he’d done time for molesting his own daughters. Yet Trudy still protested his innocence. My son is a good boy. At least she’d had the decency to bow out of babysitting, but that didn’t excuse her silence about the danger.

  “I can come back later,” Wingman said. “Maybe you want to be alone with Izzy.”

  “No, please, stay—unless you need to get to the med pod?” She’d forgotten all about his injury! He’d been struck by lightning! “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Not so much,” he said. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  They entered the house. Charlie yipped around; she’d forgotten to feed him and rectified the matter. She popped an emergency frozen pizza in the oven and put some water to boil for the ramen. Today was not the day to worry about nutrition or calories. It was, however, an occasion to celebrate with the good stuff. She opened a bottle of expensive red wine. The vintner would cringe that she would serve it with frozen pizza.

  They sat at the kitchen table, talked about nothing important, and ate. She couldn’t take her eyes off Izzy, recommitting to memory her messy pigtails, that mischievous grin, eyes from Josh, Delia’s own nose and mouth. Personality belonging to Izzy alone. Her daughter slurped her noodles, giggling as she stretched out one long strand and noisily sucked it into her mouth. Table manners could be enforced another time. Anything goes today.

  By the time dinner ended, Izzy’s eyelids drooped, and Delia realized it was after nine o’clock. “Bath,” she said. “Then bed.”

  The lack of protest showed how tired she was. Delia drew a bath for her, and when she returned to the kitchen, she found Wingman had cleaned up the dinner mess. He’s a keeper in every way.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “It is now.”

  She didn’t know who moved first, but she was in his arms, in that wonderful winged embrace. She sighed into it. “You’re my hero.” Scarred, battle-worn, imperfect, but a true-blue hero. Hers and Izzy’s.

  She lifted her head. “I never asked how your therapy session went. Do you think it will be able to help you?”

  “It already has. I had a flashback during the storm. The suggestions Psy implanted pulled me out of it.”

  “Oh, you mean like hypnosis.”

  “I’m not sure what he did—but it worked.”

  “I’m glad.” Although she had a strong hunch more than one therapy/hypnosis session would be required, she was happy he believed it had benefited him. He seemed more relaxed, and that had to be a good thing.

  Izzy padded out in her jammies with Jessica the doll and Bubbles the bear clutched in the crook of her elbow.

  “Let’s go to bed, sweetie.” They both tucked her in. Delia kissed her, breathing in her scent. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  Izzy peered up at Wingman. “Did you use the dream catcher?”

  “I did!” he said. “I hung it right over my bed.”

  “Good.” She grinned.

  He kissed her forehead, and then they both tiptoed out.

  In the hall, Delia plucked at her wrinkled, still-damp clothing. She’d never changed after getting caught in the rain. She knew without checking, her hair was a mess. Wingman looked rumpled, too, his wing tips charred, his clothing dirtied with soot and mud. Aren’t we a pair? Like two chipped, mismatched teacups that nevertheless created a perfect set, like the tea service she’d found at the antique store for Izzy’s party. Her birthday hadn’t been that long ago, but it seemed like forever. A bemused smile tugged at her lips.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Us.”

  His eyebrows arched. “We’re funny?”

  “Perfect in our imperfections.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself to his hard body. “See? Perfect.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  She tilted her head, and he kissed her. Yes, that was perfect, too. His lips moved over hers, stirring emotion and desire. She would have guessed she’d be too mentally exhausted from terror and stress to become aroused, but her body awakened. She needed the affirmation, the union, the commitment to the whole. But not while she felt so grungy. “I need a bath.” She slipped out of his arms.

  “I need one, too.” His mouth twisted ruefully.

  “Take one with me?”

  “That’s an offer I won’t refuse.”

  She led the way to her bath, located off her bedroom. The rental house was old, outdated, the rooms small, typical of its era, but the bathroom boasted a magnificent claw-foot tub, deep and big enough for two.

  The ancient pipes groaned as the faucet filled the tub. She retrieved two fresh towels from the linen closet and placed them on the sink. Feeling a little shy, she began to disrobe. Wingman did the same, pulling off his shirt and pants to reveal an already impressive hard-on. Not waiting for the bath to finish filling, they stepped in.

  By tacit agreement, he sat opposite the faucet, his wings drooping over the sides of the tub. He crooked his finger, and she settled between his legs, her back to his front. Against his erection.

  S
he wiggled. He palmed her breasts and kissed her neck. She tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes, letting the sensation of his touch wash over her. As his thumb played with her beaded nipple, desire tugged between her legs. She stretched out a foot and shut off the faucet before allowing her head to loll against his chest. He stroked her, his hands moving over her body, his lips caressing her shoulders, heightening her need but leaving her wanting to touch him.

  She twisted around onto hands and knees to plant her mouth against his lips. They kissed deep and slow, exploring with tongue and teeth. She scooted closer so her nipples rubbed against his chest. Her ass stuck out, which he took as an invitation to palm. His cock bobbed in the water, the crown breaking the surface in an irresistible enticement. She bent and drew him into her mouth.

  His hips came up, pushing more of his cock out of the water. She sucked and swirled her tongue around the crown and shaft, as he held her head and stroked her tangled hair. He groaned, and she hummed, the vibrations eliciting more throaty rumbles from him. When she tried to draw him deeper into her mouth, she miscalculated and came up snorting water. He pulled her close and kissed her while exploring between her legs. She rocked against his hand as he found the right spot.

  More. She needed more. She wiggled into place, straddled his hips, and lowered herself onto his shaft. Grateful muscular walls gripped him greedily. She moved then, raising and lowering herself. Water washed away natural lubrication, making the fit all the tighter, but his busy fingers ratcheted up her desire, driving her to the brink of ecstasy.

  The orgasm rolled through her on a body-quaking tidal wave. She buried her face against his neck to muffle her cry. His body shook, his low groans rumbling in her ear as he came. She collapsed in his arms, a tangle of limbs.

  She panted. “I needed that.”

  He chuckled, his breathing as fast as hers. “Me, too.” He stroked her back, massaging lightly. He groped in the water and produced a bath sponge to wash her. She pulled away so he could do the front—he took his time, she noticed—before taking the sponge from him so she could bathe him.