I start typing out my response. He can come over, and once we’re alone, I’ll confront him and make him tell me what the fuck is going on.
Or… wait, is that stupid? SpyderMan is a stranger on the internet, and it’s possible that he’s stalking me. This is how slasher movies start. He’s had plenty of chances to hurt me and didn’t, yes, but I should treat him like he’s dangerous. An unknown. Even though it feels like I’ve known him all my life.
Taking a step back from our history and unusual connection, what would I say to a friend—if I had one—if she told me that a stranger from the internet found out where she lived, integrated into her life with a false identity, asked to come over to her house alone, and that this guy has been buying secrets and is maybe involved in the murder or disappearance of a dozen or so people…
Yeah, I’d tell her to fucking sprint in the opposite direction. This isn’tared flag; it’s a military parade in China.
A normal girl doesn’t just invite a guy like that into her apartment. She gets a restraining order. But I’m not a normal girl. And I’ve got questions that only he can answer.
Another shiver runs down my spine, but this one brings a smile to my lips. Deep down, I’m more than a little thrilled by the possibility that Peter is SpyderMan. Iwantit to be him, and I know that makes me super weird. I should be pissed, or feel betrayed or violated—and to be fair, Iamannoyed—but I’m also weirdly excited.
Like, yes. Be obsessed with me. Find me. Break in. Just don’t be surprised if I match that energy right the fuck back.
Game on, SpyderMan.
16
Wesley
I’m solution oriented.
Madison
Yes. Come over. In the spirit of our first date, I’ll cook you something from your culture. The internet tells me that means bubble and squeak with spotted dick.
Are those really foods, or has the internet come together to fuck with me?
Her message gets another chuckle from me as I check the time. Wouldn’t want to be late.
I get ready in my rented room at the Ulysses Grand, where I’ve been storing some equipment and changes of clothes—we all try not to return to the mansion too often when we’re on a job. As I shower, shave and change into something clean, I try to remind myself this isn’t a date. Yes, I’m excited to see her, but I’m showering because I want to be clean, not because I’m expecting anything physical to happen. I’m shaving to be presentable, not so I don’t give her stubble burn on her lips or inner thighs. It’s pure coincidence that my shirt shows off my tattoos and hours of lifting at the gym.
And I definitely don’t stop at a flower shop on my way over to buy her a bouquet because I want in her pants. I do it because… well, I’m definitely breaking the news tonight, and part of me hopes it will soften the blow—show her I mean no harm.
I know I have to do it, even if I’m still not certain of what I’ll say, and I’m not certain how she’ll react. For me, uncertainty always feeds fear. Fear of shocking her. Of scaring her. Of losing her.
When I knock on her apartment door, I remind myself that telling her is the right thing to do and the only way to progress to the next phase—in which we start tracking down the General. My hope is that I can leverage the trust I’ve spent the last two years building with her. And if not… well… I have a few contingencies. I’m a hacker—I always have contingencies.
And then she opens the door and all thoughts disappear, swept away in a sudden tidal wave of awe and arousal. I briefly lose my grip on the flowers, and the bouquet hits the ground with a soft shushing noise of plastic and petals against carpet.
She is so damn beautiful. Dark hair tumbles over her shoulders and down her back, and the green forelocks curl artfully, framing her round face. Her features are low contrast—dark eyes and lashes half-lowered seductively, deep red lips tipped up at the corners. She’s in some kind of wrap dress with a tie at the waist that’s cut low enough to show off the deep line of cleavage and a hint of black lace. Her waist nips in before a dramatic flare of hips that I can’t wait to get my hands on again, especially now that I know how perfectly we fit together.
But perhaps best of all is that horrid heart-shaped lock dangling in the hollow of her throat like a fucking collar of ownership. She’s wearing it. She’s wearing the necklace. Satisfaction beats alongside victory in my chest, drumming out all rational thought.
The soft “wow” that escapes my lungs makes her grin.
“Ditto,” she murmurs, and my chest swells as I realize she’s giving me the same kind of thorough once-over. She swallows, drawing my eyes to the motion of her throat, and it makes my entire body tighten. Then her eyes drop to the flowers, and she quirks a brow. “Were those for me?”
Sheepishly, I stoop to collect the bundle. “I’ll just grab my jaw while I’m down here,” I mutter, making her hum an amused sound.
When I straighten and hold out the gift, her eyes light up. “Sunflowers! My favorite! How did you know?”
Because on March 23rd at 4:39 PM, we were talking about art, and you said that van Gogh’s sunflower paintings had made such an impact on you they were your favorite flower.
“They’re my favorite, too,” I say. It’s not strictly an answer to the question, but it’s not a lie. They have been ever since that conversation.
My answer seems to surprise her, because her eyes are wide as her hand closes around the stems. “Thank you,” she beams, accepting them and standing aside to let me in. “Shoes off, please—and feel free to take off your coat and stay a while, too. Any trouble finding the place?”
“Not at all.”
