Ghost
The water tower was empty again.
Tuesday. Fourteen days since the kiss. He'd run the same route and nothing had changed. Chelsea, Hell's Kitchen, Diamond District, the water tower. Dust on ledges, no boot prints, no grappling-hook scratches on the brick. The orange cat on the kitchen counter in that Hell's Kitchen apartment watched him cross the fire escape and didn't blink.
Peter dropped into an alley on Forty-third and Ninth. Sat on a milk crate behind a dumpster and pulled his mask up to his nose.
The alley smelled like wet cardboard and grease from the Chinese place. A drain was running. The bricks were cold through his suit. He sat on the crate because the rooftops were making him crazy and the alley was the only place left that didn't remind him of her.
Fourteen days. She'd stopped working, stopped running, gone still somewhere in the city. He didn't know her apartment. Didn't know her civilian name. Cherry lipstick and the sound of a grappling hook. That was what he had.
A rat crossed the far end of the alley carrying something in its teeth. Unhurried. It had somewhere to be.
The compass went from four to six.
The bond tightened in his chest, warm and getting warmer. The pull that meant Cindy was close. Then feet on a fire escape, fast and light, and a body dropping into the alley from two stories up.
She landed in a crouch. Her suit caught the streetlight. White-grey silk, close-fitted, panels of organic webbing layered tight. She'd been refining it for weeks. She stood and pushed her hair back and looked at him on the milk crate.
"You're moping."
"I'm thinking."
"That's moping." She walked toward him. "Milk crate. Alley. Eleven PM. Costume on. That's moping."
"I'm taking a break."
"From what?"
He didn't answer.
"Who are you looking for?"
"Nobody."
"Liar." She stopped in front of him. Close. His knees were almost touching her thighs. "I can feel it through the compass. Four to six every night around eleven, then it drops back when you go home. Three nights this week."
"I didn't know you were tracking me."
"I'm not tracking you. The compass tracks you." She tilted her head. "Whoever she is, she's an idiot for running."
"You don't know-"
"I know you've been doing the same loop through Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen. I don't need to know who." Her jaw was set but her mouth was soft. "I don't care who."
"You don't care."
"I don't care."
She was between his knees now. Her hands on his shoulders. The compass was at seven and the alley was cold and her hands were warm through the suit and the bond was pushing everything else out. The empty rooftops, the fourteen days.
"Shut up," she said.
She climbed onto his lap. Knees on either side of his hips. The crate creaked. Her hands went from his shoulders to his jaw and she kissed him hard, mouth open, and her hips pressed down and the compass went to eight.
She pulled back. Reached down to her hip. A seam in the suit released, a panel of webbing pulling away from the inner thigh, and underneath was bare skin.
"Hands," she said.
She webbed his wrists to the brick wall behind the dumpster. Two quick shots. The silk pulled tight.
"Cindy-"
"Shut up." She reached into his suit at the waist seam. Her fingers found his cock and wrapped around it and he was hard and the bond didn't ask permission.
She pulled him free. One stroke, firm, her thumb dragging across the head. He jerked against the webbing.
"Don't break the crate," she said.
"No promises."
She rose on her knees. Positioned him. Sank down.
All of him. One move. Wet and tight and hot from the inside and the cold alley air and her weight pressing down and her jaw dropped and her eyes went half-shut.
"Oh-" Bitten off. She started moving.
Fast. Her hips rocking forward and back, hard, quick. She knew what she wanted. Her thighs clenched against his hips and her breathing went ragged immediately and the crate groaned.
She grabbed his collar and pulled his face to her neck. She smelled like sweat and something clean through the suit. Her pulse was hammering against his mouth. He bit the tendon at the side of her throat and she jerked and ground harder and a sound came out of her that bounced off the walls.
His hands pulled against the webbing. The brick cracked behind him, a chip falling. She was riding him in an alley on a milk crate and his wrists were webbed to a wall and the compass was at nine and he couldn't think about anything except the sound she was making through her teeth.
Her hand came up. Covered his mouth.
"Quiet." Her palm pressed against his lips. Her other hand gripped the front of his suit. Her hips kept going. Fast and grinding, the wet sounds loud in the quiet alley, and she was looking at him with her hand over his mouth and her eyes were dark and focused.
Her breathing went short. Small sounds caught in her throat. Her thighs tightened. Her forehead dropped against his. Breath hot on his face. Her hand pressing harder against his mouth.
"Nae geoya-" Whispered against his forehead. "Nae- ah-"
She came with her forehead on his and her hand over his mouth. Her body clamped tight around him, thighs shaking, a sound in her throat she couldn't stop. She pressed her face into his neck.
The crate cracked. His right hand had found the edge through the webbing and the plastic split under his grip.
She stayed. Breathing. Her thumb traced from his mouth to his jaw.
He was still hard inside her.
"Feel better?" she said. Her voice was rough.
"Yeah."
"Good." She climbed off. The access panel sealed with a press of her fingers. She tore the webbing off his wrists. Brick dust on his knuckles. "Take me to that taco place."
The cart on Roosevelt Avenue was open past midnight.
The man running it had a Mets cap and didn't look twice at two people in strange clothes ordering four al pastor tacos and a horchata. Jackson Heights didn't look twice at anything.
They sat on the roof of a laundromat three blocks north. The dryers were still running below, vibration coming through the tar paper, warm. The tacos had pineapple and the salsa verde made Peter's eyes water. Red lines on his wrists where the webbing had been.
Cindy ate fast. Committed. Salsa on her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand and missed.
"You've got-" He pointed at his own chin.
She wiped the wrong side. "Got it?"
"Nope."
"Now?"
"Other side."
She swiped again. Still missed. He wiped it with his thumb. Her cheek was warm.
"She'll come back," Cindy said. Chewing.
He hadn't said a name. She hadn't asked.
"People who run from something always come back for the thing they left behind."
"How do you know she's running?"
"Because you wouldn't chase someone who was just gone." She took a bite of his taco. "You're chasing someone who ran. Different thing."
The 7 train rattled past on the elevated track two blocks east. Someone on the platform was yelling into a phone.
"You're the thing she left behind," Cindy said. She was looking at the skyline. "And you're worth coming back for."
She took another bite. Looked at the train. Her hair was still messy from the alley and his sweatshirt collar was visible under her suit at the throat.
He took her hand. She let him.
The 7 train came back later. They were still on the roof. The foil was wadded up and the horchata was gone and her head was on his shoulder and the compass was at two.
They rode the 7 home. His hand on hers. She fell asleep at Woodside and woke at her stop and squeezed his fingers once and went.
The doors closed. Peter rode to Flushing. Walked home. The crate marks were still on his palms.