CHAPTER 8
COLD NATURE

SLOANE LEFT THE PENTHOUSE the next night around eight-fifteen PM, her whole body jittering with excitement. She had spent most of the day nursing away a hangover, but now that the day gave way to the night, she knew it was go-time. It took five minutes to hail a cab – her quickest time yet – and instructed the driver to get her to the Brewster Building on Queens Plaza North. The drive was quick, despite the evening traffic, and Sloane had to find a specific way to get to the roof. The building was now the corporate office for JetBlue, so there was no way to sneak inside the front doors. Sloane ended up finding a back door that led to the emergency staircase. That had to take her to the top, and sure enough, it did. The roof opened up to a barren wasteland of trash and a blinking JetBlue sign right above her head.

She stepped out onto the roof cautiously, looking around for any signs of life. A brisk wind ran through her golden brown locks and she hugged her parka closer to her chest. She wished she had remembered a hat, but at least she brought her gloves. Her forehead was starting to feel like it was already crusting over with ice. Boy, did she hope this was all worth it.

Pulling out her phone from her pocket, she watched the clock strike nine and Spider-Man was nowhere to be found. She scanned the perimeter of the building – nothing. With a huff, she watched her breath float into the cold air and replaced the phone in her hand with her flask. Sloane took a big swig, savoring the burn, allowing the vodka to warm her insides. But for the first time, it was not enough defense against the frigid wind. She shook her head and muttered, "Don't fuck this up for me, Peter Parker."

Before she could think about heading out, a tall, slightly muscular figure swung from the adjacent building to the roof of the Brewster. Sloane had been expecting him, of course, but his entrance still caught her off guard. She let out a soft gasp and held a hand to her chest. "Way to give a girl a heart attack!" She exclaimed, tightening the cap of her flask.

"Sorry, sorry," the masked hero said in a groggy voice. He held out a hand and slowly walked out of the darkness and into the yellow streetlight above their heads.

Sloane wasn't exactly sure what this guy was like when he first started – I mean, she hadn't gotten this close up to him as a teenager, nor would she have wanted to, given his affection for danger. But it seemed to her that over the years Spider-Man had lost a lot of his grit. His red and blue suit looked dirty and the ends of his fingertips were frayed. Loose threads hung from certain spots and she was pretty sure a part of the suit was put on backward. Other than that, there was something almost enigmatic about being so close to a masked superhero, something that wanted her to get too close. Maybe it was the anonymity of it all. She couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Sorry, but – um ..." She pointed down. "I think your pants might be on backward."

He viewed down at them. "What? Oh, dammit!" He pulled at the tight material, sighed, and then noticed the flask in her hand. "Mind sharing some of that?"

"Uh – sure, I guess."

She threw the flask over and he caught it without missing a beat. He popped the cap open while turning his back to her, lifted his mask a little, and took a big swig. She watched him grimace.

"I like the cheap stuff," she clarified, "but Peter probably told you that."

The hero yanked his mask down and spun back to her in a sluggish motion. "Yeah, he did."

Sloane scratched the bridge of her nose, which was most likely turning red. "You made it pretty hard to track you down," she said, eyeing him closely. "You really faded into obscurity, huh?"

"Yeah, well ..." He shrugged and tossed the flask back over. Sloane didn't catch it with the same kind of dexterity. "When you've been close to being arrested as many times as I have, or have witnessed one too many people die, it kinda makes you not want to do this anymore. I like to think of myself as an early retiree."

She stuffed the flask back in her pocket. "I guess I can understand that. The guilt and anxiety has probably built up over the years –"

"No," he interrupted, jutting a finger out, "I don't have anxiety."

"Right."

The wind whipped around them, blanketing the silence. Spider-Man nodded slowly. "Peter – uh – told me about the article you're working on."

"Peter! Yes, I'm so eternally grateful for him to arrange this." Sloane swung her purse over her shoulder and pulled out the folders Bobby had given her during their meeting. "I'm trying to write a potential-award winning article on the murders of those two teenage girls found with their jaws broken, and my boss thought you may have some information to help me. You know, seeing as ... you fight the bad guys and all."

Spider-Man scrutinized the photos of the girls' corpses, and Sloane could tell he was scowling under the mask. It made her curious who exactly could be under there, but ... it wasn't time to think about that now.

"I heard the police are calling the serial killer, the Jawbreaker," he finally replied, closing the folder. "But that's all I know. Again, I've kinda given up this whole thing." He gestured to the suit. "I'm not the amazing Spider-Man that I used to be."

Sloane took a step closer to him, arching a single brow. "But you could be, couldn't you?" She took the folder back when he handed it to her. "If you or Peter have the tools to help me figure out this case and write a killer article, that could put Spider-Man back on the map."

"I don't know if I want to be back on the map. Doing what I do is hard. You have no idea how many times I've almost burnt down the city." Spider-Man shook his head. "Too many people have died under my watch. Everyone hates me. Even I don't like myself most days."

"People would love you if you found the killer going after young girls."

He didn't seem to be letting up, no matter how much she batted her eyelashes at him. Peter was so much easier to fool. Sloane rubbed at her tired eyes and exhaled. "I understand your hesitation. Really, I do. But the police aren't doing anything for this case and they're basically sitting around for another girl to get killed. They've hardly even finished these two girls' autopsy reports. We could do something about it. You have the connections and skills, and I have the laptop to write it all down."

"Wait, how do you know about their autopsy reports?"

Sloane frowned. "I might've snuck into the precinct of the lead investigator and raided his office? I took pictures of the reports, but I realized after they were too blurry." She took out her phone and pulled up the images, holding her screen out for him to look.

He nodded. "Yep, those are the blurriest images I've ever seen." When she stuck her phone back in her pocket, he leaned away. "Don't you think I'm too washed up to be getting on a case so serious as this?"

"I've only known you for five minutes," Sloane replied, inching closer, "and I don't think you're washed up at all." Her mouth curled as she tried to convince him.

Spider-Man stared at her for a moment, tilting his head slightly. "Do you always have, like, bedroom eyes?"

Her face sunk when she realized her charm wasn't persuading him.

He looked away for a moment, staring up at the blinking streetlight. Sloane wondered if grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze would reassure him, like what she did with Peter. Hell, she'd fuck him right then if it made him want to help her. But that was probably her curiosity talking instead of her gut. Was it weird to be kinda, sorta, maybe attracted to a mask? A beat-up one at that?

Finally, the hero sighed and muttered, "I guess ... it couldn't hurt."

Sloane did everything in her power to stop herself from cheering, although the vodka running through her system made that very hard. "Should we shake on it?"

"Sure," he replied, chuckling a bit at the end. He held out his hand. "You've got a deal, Sloane Bernstein."

They clasped hands together and shook. Sloane raised a brow as she replied, "How do you know my full name?"

"That – uh – Peter Parker," he stuttered, fumbling around his words. "He talks a lot."

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Sloane arrived at the penthouse shivering with a ruby red nose. She hung up her jacket in the hidden coat closet right by the door and rubbed at her nose, hoping the color would go away. Her steps in the entrance hallway were light, as to not wake her mother, but as she got closer to the main foyer, she realized the kitchen light was on. Her mother walked out and placed her hands on her hips.

"Sloane," Sabrina whispered, "I thought you were asleep."

"I was," she answered, pulling at the ends of her thermal sleeves, "but I woke up and wanted some fresh air."

Sabrina arched a brow. "You could've just gone out on the deck, you know. And it's freezing out there. Are you crazy?"

"Maybe a little." Sloane stepped in the direction of her bedroom, but upon noticing that her mother had constructed a fire in the hearth, she couldn't stop herself from running over to it and splaying her hands. Her fingers were so cold that the heat made them tingle. She relished it though, the warmth making her insides go numb.

Much to her surprise, Sabrina didn't ask any more questions. She was probably too tired to. Instead, she gestured to the kitchen and said, "Have a drink with me, sweetie."

Sloane whipped her head in her mother's direction, nodding quickly. The kettle went off then, and Sloane realized Sabrina had meant tea and not alcohol. You'd think that the woman who taught her the phrase, "It's twelve o'clock somewhere," would refer to a glass of wine when asking her daughter to have a drink. Apparently not.

She plopped on the couch in front of the fire, sinking into the ultra-plush cushions. God, she thought, I could easily fall asleep here. Her mother came back a moment later with two steaming teacups sitting delicately on their matching saucers. "It's chamomile," Sabrina said as she handed her the cup. "Your favorite, remember? I used to make it for you when you were sick. We used to go through so many of those tea packets."

Sloane nodded, but the memories of her being sick sort of blended together with hangover days and then the grieving days and everything in between. It was hard to distinguish the differences now.

The hot tea shot right through her system, warming her from her hands to her toes. The flavor did evoke memories of her childhood, somewhat. But it also reminded her even more how tired she was.

Sloane placed the teacup on her saucer. "Why are you still awake, Mom? Is Frank also up?"

Sabrina chuckled. "He's been out for hours," she answered, taking the tiniest sip. "I have a confession to make: I knew you were gone, but I didn't want my panic to show when you arrived home safely. I almost called the police. I was worried about you, Sloane."

"You don't have to worry. I'm a big girl now, Mom."

"Big girls are the ones that murdered by this stupid serial killer running around," her mother chastised. Sloane knew she had a point. "And it's hard to think of you that way. So much older, I mean. I can't help but still see you as Everett's age."

Sloane's brow crinkled as she recalled the vandalism story once again. The memory of the Hot Dog Man attempting to wipe off the spray paint from his stand replayed in her head when she blinked. She saw Everett's glare as the story played on the TV. Sloane swallowed hard and placed her cup on the coffee table. "Speaking of Everett, I think there's something going –"

"I wish you got to know him more," Sabrina interrupted with a heavy sigh.

Sloane blinked at her, dumbfounded. "Mom, he's seventeen. I have nothing in common with a teenager."

"Fair point." She sighed again, and then met her daughter's eyes. "Well, you could at least get to know Francis. He's a sweet man."

Sloane viewed at the crackling fire, holding in her laughter. Frank, the rich tycoon, who cared about his image more than his family, was a nice man? She found that hard to believe. "Does he even let you visit Dad's grave?" She mumbled.

Sabrina's forehead creased. "Excuse me?"

Turning her head, Sloane looked right in her eyes – an act that would've scared her as a kid. "Do you visit Dad's grave?" She asked calmly, and then wrinkled her nose. "Or can you not because you're a Harper now?"

Her mother tsked. "You're causing drama for nothing. As usual. Francis is one of the best things that has happened to me." She downed the rest of her scalding tea and got to her feet.

"Mom," she called, and then said it again, harsher, "Mom. You didn't answer my –"

"You know, this is why I still see you as a teenager. All you do is act like one." Sabrina said, pointing at her with the same sourness Sloane would witness as a child. "You really need to learn a few things, Sloane. The first thing is how to get closer to people, like your family, but I can guarantee that'll never happen. You have your father to thank for that gene."

Sloane furrowed her brow in response, unable to form words.

Sabrina looked off and pondered her next words. "And it's probably why ... I think ... I never loved you. Or maybe I loved you too much."

The room went silent. Sloane's mouth was suddenly dry, and her lips parted a little in shock. Her mother then strode over, took her half-empty teacup, and began to walk back to the kitchen.

"You were born to it – that cold nature." Sabrina stood in the doorframe of the kitchen. She blinked and straightened her back, smiling casually at her daughter. "I hope that's some comfort to you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: sloane and spidey have finally met omggggg I can't wait to write more scenes with them!! especially because she doesn't know the big secret 🤫

btw the last couple lines were taken from sharp objects and I do not own them! it's one of my FAAAAVE scenes omfg