CHAPTER 14
DRUNK DIALING

SLOANE BERSTEIN WAS going through it.

Upon the recent revelations Peter had given her today, she had pretty much ended up nowhere with the Jawbreaker case. Yet again. Her article wasn't even close to being halfway written. There was a mountain of evidence that all led to dead ends. The Jawbreaker wasn't anywhere near to be found. Oh, and her step-brother might be involved in some kind of serial killer fan club. And still, she had nothing.

This was a crime reporter's worst nightmare: a standstill case coupled with writer's block. Sloane wanted to cry at the hand she'd been dealt.

But instead of crying, she ended up at a bar. It was seven PM, and after spending most of the day trying to create a fluff piece out of the shit she'd been given, Sloane scrapped it all and left the penthouse right after dinner. Sabrina had asked where she was going as she was out the door, and Sloane only had the energy to say, "Out with friends." How sad was it that she had to lie to her mother about going to drink alone at a bar? At her age?

A few blocks from the Rosewell was a hole-in-the-wall pub called Dulaney's. The inside was covered in dirt and trash. There were remnants of old vomit on the floor. The walls had splotches of blood and the cluster of booths near the back had tears in the leather. This place definitely had to be suffering from asbestos. But ... it was the only bar in Queens not crowded. It was the evening before Thanksgiving, and just about everyone went out tonight.

Dulaney's was pretty quiet though. She was the only woman in the five-hundred-foot space, besides the older woman sharing a plate of deep-fried onion rings with a man in the booths. At the bar, two elderly men were seated, sharing a pitcher of beer and wearing the same pair of cracked glasses perched on their noses. Sloane sat at the end of the bar, nursing her third vodka seltzer, and leaned her head into her hand. She tried to distract herself by browsing social media, but seeing everyone's successes while she felt down in the dumps wasn't helping. She was so bored and so drunk and goddammit, why couldn't things just be easy? How did she end up in a shitty bar the night before Thanksgiving, depressed and drunk off her ass, trying to cope with the fact that she had a dead-end story and she had to lie to her fucking mother where she was going at age twenty-six? This had to be some kind of SNL sketch gone wrong.

In a drunken haze, Sloane picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She tapped on the one person she knew would pick up, possibly want to join her, but it would take some convincing to see him in public. But when Sloane was drunk, she believed she was the most charismatic person on the planet. Surely, she could persuade him to meet her at a dingy pub the night before Thanksgiving. Her finger hovered over the call button. She took a drink. And then, pressed CALL.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Sloane?" Spider-Man said as a way of greeting. His voice sounded different every time she heard it.

She sighed heavily into the speaker, "H-hi, good evening."

"You sound upset."

"So you know?" She frowned. "About the s-s-sample results?"

He exhaled and sipped on something that had his lips smacking together on the other end. Sloane couldn't stop herself from biting her bottom lip. "Yeah," he answered. "Why would a serial killer use fake blood as a threat though?"

"Because it wasn't the s-serial killer, Bug Boy." She tipped her glass back and gulped her drink. "It's my goddamn step-brother."

Spider-Man paused, caught off guard. "What are you saying?"

"I found the goddamn bottle of fake blood inside his nightstand. Right next to the f-fucking condoms!" She fought the urge to gag, but she could already feel the acidic bile from the vodka climbing up her throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, and just the sound made something curl within her. "Well, keep it to yourself, alright? Don't let him know that we know. It could just be a coincidence anyway. Something left over from Halloween."

Sloane hiccuped. "That sounds like horse s-shit."

Spider-Man wavered. For a moment, she thought her connection dropped, and she began punching her index finger onto the screen. After a moment, his scratchy voice came through the speaker, "Sloane, are you drunk dialing me?"

"No," she replied haughtily. "I would've done this sober too."

"So you're drunk."

"Listen, it's been a shit day. Actually, a s-shit week –"

"You shouldn't be out getting drunk on Thanksgiving Eve. There's a bunch of crazies out tonight and that makes it very easy for a serial killer to hide in the shadows." She didn't respond, compelling him to continue, "Are you ignoring me? Are you that drunk –"

Sloane released a snort and finished her drink. "No, but I'm about to be." She flagged the bartender with two fingers and pointed to her empty glass, signaling that she wanted another. The bartender gave her an OK gesture with his fingers. Burping into the back of her hand, she added, "I think I'm on my third. Or is it my fourth? W-Whatever. Wanna come meet me? I'm at this place called Dulaney's."

"I can't just ... meet you at a bar in public, Sloane."

She smirked, pressing the phone harder against her cheek. "Afraid to be seen with me, huh?"

He chuckled softly, and it made Sloane feel warm inside. "You can't wear a skin-tight suit just anywhere."

The bartender placed a fourth vodka seltzer in front of her and she grinned hungrily. Twirling the tiny straw in her glass, she said, "Well, you could ... come here as y-y-yourself?"

"Not a good plan you got there." He sighed heavily. "Besides, I've already started drinking myself to prepare for tomorrow's family festivities. Can't swing drunk."

Sloane giggled. "Pretty sure I've seen you do that before, buddy." She took a long sip of her new drink, almost downing half the glass. "S-So," she drawled, attempting to hide her hiccup in the back of her hand again, "I had a d-dream about you recently."

Spider-Man hesitated. "... Okay?"

"Well," she blinked slowly, "don't you want to know what happened?"

"I don't think I should –"

"It doesn't matter, actually. All that m-matters is –" Another hiccup. "I think ... I like you." She traced the rim of her glass. "I'm just gonna be real honest and say it –"

"Sloane, don't –"

"I really want to fuck you."

Glass shattered on the other end. It sounded so close that Sloane thought it came from the bar. She heard Spider-Man mutter, "Fuck!" Panic seized in her throat.

"It can be in the dark so I don't see your face. I don't care." Her voice was running at a mile a minute, so much that she stopped slurring every other word. She placed the side of her head against the cold bar top. "You can keep on the suit if you want to. I'm not picky. I'm just, like, incredibly horny for you and it's not going away. So I'm giving you the opportunity, right now, to meet me at this bar and find me in the bathroom and –"

"I gotta go, Sloane."

She paused, mouth dropping just a little. "Are you ... are you s-s-serious?"

Shards of glass muddled together on the other end. She could hear him sweeping it into a paper bag and mumbling things to himself. The knot inside her stomach got tighter. Eventually, he replied, voice a little strangled, "Yup."

"You're really gonna r-reject me right now?" She scoffed. "In this f-fragile of a s-state?"

"Yeah, I think I am. You'll thank me later."

"You motherfu –"

The line went dead, igniting an annoying beeping sound on her end. Sloane frowned and looked at her screen. The words, CALL ENDED, were starting to blur together, and she placed the phone back at the bar top, screen down. She lifted her head and huffed.

Well, that had to be her worst drunk phone call as of late. Sloane tended to make them when she was lonely while drinking, scrolling through her contact list and picking the first name she saw. It had become sort of a game to her. And usually, whoever she called – whether it be an ex, a past hookup – they always found her, enveloped their body with hers, until she felt whole again. She knew it wasn't a healthy way to live, but what about her screamed health?

But Spider-Man – that bastard – was one of the first to refute her advances. Rejection stung like an angry wasp. Defeat swelled in her stomach, almost taking over the need that had been growing since she heard his gravelly voice. She looked around at the few people that were still haunting the dirty pub. She was not interested in fucking any of these putrid, elderly men, and she was far too tired to look through her old hookups that stayed in Queens. It was looking like she would be alone tonight, which was probably for the best, considering how drunk she was. At that thought, the desire within her quelled.

Sloane sighed and finished her drink. The bartender put down his phone and walked back over to her, asking, "Want another?"

She studied him for a moment. He had to be in his thirties, judging by the lines etched across his face, and he was bald. He had pretty hazel eyes, but his smile was all yellow from the cigarettes he probably smoked during his lunch breaks. He was an offer presenting itself before her, but ... Ugh. She shouldn't. There was a holiday tomorrow anyway.

"Yes," she said, resting her head in her hand, "but I probably shouldn't go to Thanksgiving with the ultimate hangover. My mom will murder me." With the way her vision was blurring everything together, Sloane was sure that she was going to be celebrating tomorrow with a hangover no matter what.

The bartender laughed. "I'll get you the bill."

Sloane played with the tiny straw in her glass until the check was set down in front of her. She smiled at the bartender as he took away the glass. Her eyes bulged at the price. Vodka seltzers apparently went up at these dingy places. She fished out her last couple of twenties from her wallet and placed them on top of the check, giving the bartender a nice tip because she couldn't be bothered to ask for change.

Leaning her cheek more into her palm, Sloane dreaded the thought of celebrating Thanksgiving alone tomorrow. Her mother was always the worst on holidays, somehow even more annoying than she was usually, and Frank would do nothing but encourage her shitty behavior. Everett was planning on bringing somebody. At least, that's what Sabrina said. That meant Sloane was going to have to sit there, bored out of her mind, as her mother wreaked havoc and her creepy step-brother brought another one of his goons into the penthouse.

Could she maybe call Spider-Man back to see if he could get her out of it tomorrow? No. She was desperate, but not that desperate to call back after he rejected her. Besides, if he refused to fuck her in the bathroom of a shitty bar with all the lights out, he wasn't about to come to the penthouse and distract her from the irritating festivities. She was never going to see him anywhere but at night under a blinking streetlight, was she?

Okay, so he was out of the question, but maybe she did have a number in her phone that would make Thanksgiving a little less lonely.

Sloane smiled to herself as she found the contact in question, immediately dialing and pressing her phone up to her ear. She waited for an answer with anticipation.

"Hello?" Peter answered, sounding out of breath.

"Peter Parker!" She exclaimed into the speaker, causing the two men at the end of the bar to turn their heads. "J-Just the guy I've been looking f-for." The words slurred together like liquid through a straw.

"Me?" He asked hesitantly. "I would've thought you were looking for – um – Spider-Man –"

"Spider-Man? N-No. No. Absolutely not. But I do have a question for you."

He cleared his throat, his voice sounding just as strangled as Spider-Man's did. "And that is ...?"

She smirked against the phone. "You got any plans for Thanksgiving tomorrow?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'll admit I love these fluff and dumb chapters even more than the ones about all the murders 🤭🤭 next chapter is one of my favessss 💘