“I did notice that,” Priya says. “But she’s probably just not good at dealing with stress like this. Most moms don’t need to deal with amnesiac daughters.”
I grunt in response, not wanting it to spoil my mood. This is my happy place, a comic convention.
For sixty adrenaline-fueled minutes, I scour the crowd, my body tense with anticipation at each glimpse of a Daredevil. My pulse races, spikes, and crashes every single time, when I realize it’s not him.
Whoever the hell he is. Since I haven’t seen him in real life, I’m clutching at straws. In the photo, he looks tall and solid, a good head above me, but for all I know, he could have been standing on a soapbox. I’m idolizing this nameless, faceless Daredevil.
By the time The Death-Defying Daredevil #360 strolls by in his glossy red and blue suit, I barely sparehim a glance. The girls’ energy is also fading, despite the beer fuel.
“Luce,” Priya voices the obvious. “We’ve looped this place five times. Isn’t it time to give up looking for him?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” My shoulders slump.
She’s right. Disappointment settles in, sour in my gut. There is no Daredevil here for me. It’s all just a fantasy conjured up by my stupid, overactive imagination from a single photo. Pathetic.
“Come on,” Libby says. “Let’s grab one last drink then hit the road. We’ll go to your favorite Eritrean restaurant.”
“Thanks, you guys,” I mumble, threading my arms through theirs as we navigate the cosplayers toward the bar.
We snag three stools, squeezed among an assembly of Spider-Men.
Surveying the wild circus of spandex and fake swords, I feel a warm fuzziness—probably the beer. This beats a therapist’s office any day; real-life dramas can’t touch me here. Not the sex shop, Spider, Taylor, or that little thing called amnesia.
Plus, being Miss Nova does wonders for my confidence. I feel utterly content. Invincible, even.
“I’ll do one last sweep, then we’re done,” I declare with newfound determination.
Priya narrows her eyes. “You said that an hour ago. But fine, one more, then we’re seriously leaving.”
“Promise,” I say, my mind already plotting the path through the stalls.
With a grin, I slip into the crowd, pretending not to have a destination. But I know exactly where I’m headed.
My steps slow as I spot it—the erotic graphic novel booth. Obviously.
Daredevil’s not here in the flesh, so paper and my imagination will have to suffice.
My fingers glide over the glossy illustrated covers. Why aren’t more women into these? Real men are fine, but they can’t compare to a billionaire superhero in a weaponized metal bodysuit.
A sly smile curves my lips as I scan the selection of cheeky titles. “The Incredible Bulk” elicits a chuckle, but it’s not what I’m after today.
There! My breath catches at the sight of familiar red and blue. Lev Gleason’s Daredevil in all his glory—every inch of that suit clinging to muscles honed for power, speed, and raw pleasure. There’s a half-naked woman molded to his body, head thrown back in ecstasy like she’s about to… blast off.
Sexy solo session material: acquired.
At least I know he’ll be waiting for me later, between the pages, primed and ready to go. I wander, flippingthrough the explicit scenes featuring “me” and my fantasy lover, cheeks heating.
“Escaping the masses?” a deep, velvety voice rumbles behind me.
My heart stutters, then races into a frantic beat. It can’t be. This isn’t possible.
I spin around and freeze in disbelief. There, leaning against the wall, is Daredevil himself—watching me.
It’s him. The real deal.
All lethal grace and coiled power, encased in a distinctive suit of deep red and vibrant blue metal, molded perfectly to every inch of muscle. A body made to lift me up and pin me in place… or crush me without effort. His face is completely obscured behind his iconic red and blue mask, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze raking over me like a physical touch.
He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us in a few steps. My pulse skyrockets as he stops barely a foot away, looming over me, gazing down through the slit in his mask.
