Or… maybe—just maybe—he’s even got a little bit of a crush on me, too…
mermaidav: Cute. Being in bed, easy money, a puzzle to solve… add in winning an argument and tacos, and you’ve got my top 5 favorite things.
SpyderMan: Not a bad top 5, though I’d have thought being praised ranked higher on the list.
I bite my lip. Okay, new fantasy unlocked—hearing a deep, British voice calling me agood girl.
mermaidav: who doesn’t like praise?
SpyderMan: some prefer degradation.
Okay, amend that fantasy… a deep, British voice calling me agood little whore.
Dios,is it hot in here, or is that just me?
I consider my next message, drumming my nails against the composite desktop, but can’t get it typed out fast enough before he goes inactive. He does that sometimes—disappears mid-conversation without explanation or apology. We’ve been talking regularly for around two years at this point, so I’m used to it, but I’m curious… as well as really fucking irrationally jealous.
Is it an interruption, like a significant other walking in? Does he have kids? Roommates? A willing harem of women in the cult he formed?
Not that it matters. The anonymity that keeps both of us safe is the very thing keeping us apart. Do I think I could trust SpyderMan with my real identity? Maybe… When you engage in illegal activity on the internet, it’s hard to trust anyone enough to cross that line into the real world. The only thing that keeps me from getting caught is the fact that no one can connect my online persona to my real identity. Any person who knows becomes a risk or possibly a threat.
So, no. Meeting IRL probably isn’t in the cards for us. Which sucks.
But whenever I get bummed about the fact that SpyderMan and I will probably never actually meet in person, I console myself with the fact that what we have is easy the way it is. Honestly, it’s the best relationship with a man I’ve ever had, in spite of—because of?—the fact that I don’t know anything about him. I’m equally as curious about who he really is as I am worried about doing something that puts what we have at risk. Because… what if he’s actually a 13-year-old prodigy, or someone’s racist old Pee Paw?
Okay, I don’t really think he’s either of those things… It just sucks when you kind of hate most guys, and the only guy you don’t hate is the only one you can’t have.
Plus, I really, really want to know what he looks like.
And maybe I want to see his wiener, too.
4
Wesley
We just… get each other.
By the time I call it quits for the day, my eyes are nearly too bleary to drive, but I make it to the house and pull the Bugs-B-Gon van in the bay next to my bike. Usually I’d park such a distinct vehicle at one of the warehouses we own, far from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors, but after over 24 hours in that blasted surveillance van, I desperately need sleep, food, a workout, and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.
The “house” where my teammates and I have set up shop is really more of a compound. Nestled into one of the first developed areas as the city crept outward, we lucked into a property a previous owner had made of several lots combined into one. Built on 11 acres, it’s got a main house with all the amenities and a few auxiliary buildings, all set back from the road behind an old wood grove for as much privacy as one could hope for on the outskirts of a city.
The iron fence that completely surrounds the property has a gate with digital codes and fingerprint access, and the feed from the security cameras streams directly to all our phones, filtered through a program that alerts us to unexpected movement. If someone tried to go over, the cameras would catch it. If someone tried to go under, the perimeter of pressure plates would notify us.
When you kill people for money, it tends to make you a target, yourself, so we all take safety seriously.
I spy Dimitri’s SUV, Mac’s nondescript blue sedan, and Eleanor’s zippy Mini Cooper on the other end of the long garage. Nicole doesn’t have a car—she’s still under house arrest until we completely resolve someissueswith the remaining members of the VolkevichBratva.
Gang’s all here, then.
The foyer is dark, since Dimitri has begun daily sweeps of the house, turning off lights and lowering the thermostats in every room the girls have left, muttering to himself about wasteful Americans. But I know Eleanor and Nicole like the prisms of light cast by the intricate chandelier that hangs between the staircases. It’s flashy and somewhat gauche, and it makes me smile, too. So, I flick it on as I hang my jacket in the closet in the entryway.
It almost always smells good on the first floor of this house with Eleanor in residence. And though she’s nowhere to be seen in the sparkling clean kitchen, there’s still an incredible, savory scent wafting from the 12 neatly stacked black containers cooling on the center island. My stomach growls—how long has it been since I filled it with anything other than caffeine and B-vitamins?—but eating can wait. I’ll grab a meal on my way back to my office after the debrief with my team.
I’m betting after patching Dimitri up and some sharp words, Nicole put him straight to bed to recover comfortably. I’m also betting Dimitri’s awake now, and Mac is already running his mouth to an irritated but captive audience.
I cross the stone patio and knock at the door of what was once the most pointlessly well-appointed pool house. The patient is on his stomach, laid out on the massive king bed that dominates the entire right wall, with a pillow propping up his hips, and a thick layer of padding creating some additional bulk around his left arse cheek in a thoroughly comical image.
Mac is perched on the arm of the sofa, arms crossed, clearly exhausted from his night’s work, with dark circles under his eyes and a slight slump to his posture. He also missed some flecks of blood on his forearms when he was cleaning up. He’s lucky he didn’t get pulled over on his drive back.
