Hulk Peter David (best motivational novels txt) 📖

his face, looking for . . . well, he wasn’t certain. For something. But there was nothing there.

Nothing.

He looked down at his clothes. The stitching on his T-shirt and pajama legs had ripped at the seams.

That wasn’t nothing.

That was something . . . something confusing, something horrifying, something that he couldn’t begin to cope with.

His gaze swiveled back to the mirror, and suddenly there was a gray haze enveloping him. He wanted to push it away, but he lacked the will, and as he tottered toward the mirror, he thought he saw a faint hint of green reflected in his eyes. Then the gray haze overwhelmed him and sent him spiraling away into blackness.

connections

Betty Ross, moonlight filtering through the shades of her bedroom, put down the phone and stared at it long after she had hung up.

To a certain degree, she was relieved that Bruce hadn’t picked it up. After all, what would she have said to him? “Hi, Bruce. Betty. Look, I had a dream that you might be in some sort of great danger, so I thought I’d call and say, ‘Hi.’ How’s the food?” Oh, yes, that would have worked. It would have gone a far piece toward hastening him to a full recovery.

Nor could she put a face to the danger. She just had images of Bruce, and he was crying out and cringing, and, oddly enough, sometimes he looked like a little boy in her dreams. Still, Betty was a rationalist, and didn’t for a moment think she was having dreams that somehow foretold the future. The explanations for the symbolism were all too readily apparent. The danger element came from the accident that Bruce had been in. The visions of him as a child stemmed from an almost maternal concern about his welfare. After all, didn’t every woman sometimes mother the man she loved?

She leaned forward, her chin almost touching her knees. The man she loved. She still thought of him that way, even though he had made it clear that his own emotional stuntedness made it impossible for him to reciprocate in the way she wanted and needed. But almost losing Bruce had brought some new elements into play for her. Look what he had done: He had risked his life for others. Not just risked his life; he had actually thrown himself into what he must have believed was certain death. The fact that he had survived was pure happenstance, a freak chance, a one-in-a-million shot. The incident said something huge about the man with whom she had broken off a romantic relationship because . . . why? He wasn’t good enough for her? He didn’t smile enough or laugh enough or share his feelings?

She had felt isolated and distant from him, but how much of that was her, as opposed to him? If Bruce were restricted to a wheelchair, would she be angry with him because he was unable to walk? Of course not. So if he was simply psychologically unable to relate to her in the emotional manner she thought she needed, was she being equally unreasonable expecting him to do so?

Betty ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation. She couldn’t get out of her head the image of Bruce splayed across the gamma cannon. Was she some sort of ingrate for even thinking that perhaps he—

The phone rang.

The ring broke the stillness and she gasped, startled. She reached over for it too hastily and grabbed the receiver up. “Bruce?” she said.

There was a pause. “Noooo. It’s not Bruce. Is that acceptable?”

She sat there, confused, wondering who in the world it was. The voice was deep and resonant, and for a moment she thought it might be an obscene phone caller.

And then, abruptly, she realized who it was, and her face flushed as the notion that her father had been making lewd phone calls became not only ludicrous but downright embarrassing.

“Dad?” she said tentatively.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Hi. I, uh . . . well. Heh.” She felt flummoxed. “This is unexpected. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I didn’t have your number.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And it’s unlisted.”

“That’s . . . that’s also right. How did you get it?”

“I ordered my aide to get it.”

“I see. And . . . how did he get it?”

Thunderbolt Ross paused on the other end. “The how doesn’t matter. I told him to get it; he got it. Beyond that, it’s unimportant.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Nice to see you haven’t changed, Dad.” Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, because this wasn’t the time to start mouthing off to her father. She hadn’t forgotten her promise to Bruce, that she would get in touch with Ross and try to do something about reining in Talbot. So now, by happenstance, her father had called. This wasn’t the time to be giving him lip.

“It’s . . . good to hear from you, Dad. It’s been . . . too long, really.”

“Yes. Yes, it has.” His voice sounded surprisingly soft, even concerned. “Betty, I was thinking perhaps we might want to get together. Have dinner. Are you available?”

She was caught off guard. What’s wrong? Is he dying? Am I dying? She made sure to keep a smile on her face, though—not that he could see it, of course, but at least that way her voice would continue to sound upbeat.

“Sure, Dad! Always. When did you have in mind? Should I come there?”

“No. No, I’ll come to you. I’ll have my aide finalize the details and you’ll hear back shortly.”

She glanced at the clock. It was close to midnight. Did the man ever sleep? Probably not. And his aide, whoever that poor nameless devil was, probably didn’t either, although that was likely not by choice. “Okay, that’d be fine.”

“Good.” Another pause. “You . . . sound healthy, Betty.”

“Thanks. I’ve been working out.”

“That’s good to hear.”

And the line went dead. With anyone else, Betty would think they’d been disconnected. But that wasn’t the case here. Thunderbolt