Midnight Ch. 01

But she wasn't, not really. That was the thing. She had the full, if at times uneasy, cooperation of the police department, and what's more, she had publicly stated that she carried no gun, and did not intend to take anyone's life. She merely wanted to fight on behalf of the innocent. She would help to put criminals behind bars, to serve as an aide to the law. But she made it clear that she worked under the law . . . she was no rogue madwoman.

Still, many people in the community were uncomfortable with the idea of a costumed night-fighter, swinging among the rooftops. Was this real life, or a Spider-Man comic book, one citizen was quoted as asking in one of Julian's op-ed pieces last July, when Midnight was still a novelty. Now, in mid-October, the city had become accustomed to her. While still a controversial figure, she had so far proven true to her pledge. She had not taken a life, and if anything, the city was safer than ever since she'd been on the loose.

He had tried several times to get an interview with her, but she hadn't taken him up on the offer. Well, one day he'd find her out. He had sources, he had ways.

And beyond her identity, she was just a great story. She made great copy. Who had ever heard of anything like this in real life? A sexy babe in a jumpsuit who prowled around town each night kicking ass? It was a gold mine for an editorial reporter like him—to the point that, if he did unearth her identity, he might be tempted to keep it to himself. After all, once she was discovered, her aura, her mystique, would evaporate. She'd still be a public figure, but the level of intrigue would no longer be there. It wasn't as if he needed to expose her identity anyway. That wasn't even important to him. He wanted to learn who she was for himself. It was a personal ambition. And mmm, think of the corner he would have her in. Imagine. The sexiest, most mysterious woman in the city would need to do anything he wanted for him to keep her secret safe. He got a hard-on just thinking of it.

But now, he needed to focus on the woman he was writing to. He doubted anything would come of this, he'd probably get no reply back, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He wrote the following . . .

"Hey, callmecallme6969, your pics are definitely sexy. You keep yourself in fantastic shape. And it looks like we're on the same page with what we're looking for. I can't send you a pic of my face, because I need to be discreet, but trust me, I'm no pug-ugly." (He wasn't, either. He had a rugged, strong jaw line, deep blue eyes, and black hair. Tall, dark, and handsome, that's how he liked to think of himself.) "I am up for meeting you for coffee sometime, and we can see how we click. If we click the way I think we will, we can then go back to my place. Or, hey, we can just talk. I'm in no hurry. Tell you the truth, I'm really looking for a regular FWB. I'm sick of the one-nighters, know what I mean? So if you want to have some sexy fun with someone on a regular basis, but without the hassles of being in a 'real' relationship, and without those damned strings, then I'm your guy!"

He went back, proofread his message (a habit he had formed after years of being a reporter), and clicked on Send.

"Well," he said. "Hope you write back, babe."

But even as he said this, his mind went back to Midnight. Damn, how he wanted to have her under his influence, controlled by his blackmail. It was hard getting fired up about the women on some Web site when he could one day have Midnight.

But he was horny. Before he could enjoy the main course, he at least needed to nibble on some hors-d' oeuvres.