Chapter 3 Madison #2
Knowing I was biding my time here, I didn’t bother to decorate my cubicle.
All I need is my sweater and my purse, and I’m on my way towards security.
The guard at the desk is expecting me, and has the metal detector wand at the ready.
It’s all part of the sudden-departure protocol to ensure I’m not stealing company property.
Because I’ve departed suddenly and stolen company property so many times now, I’m ready.
Most of these guys are retired cops or wannabes who couldn’t hack it at the academy.
They mostly check to make sure you’re not stealing office supplies—intellectual property is above their pay grade.
They never think to check the cute pink panda on my keychain, which can actually hold 128 GB of data.
My breath catches as he glances at my keyring, but he waves me off with a scowl. When I get to my car, I nearly collapse into the driver’s seat.
What a rush! I pulled it off. I never have to see or come back to this godforsaken building ever again.
SmarTech, my great white whale. I’d have loved to hack them properly, but I know my limitations.
To be fair, I did want that security risk closed for my own reasons—it was a happy coincidence that I could kill two birds with one stone.
Because now I’ve got the intel I need for my next payout from my tío, and some bonus data to sift through.
I’ll bet some of the rich, powerful corporations and CEOs who depend on SmarTech tools have some naughty, nasty secrets.
As soon as the door of my apartment shuts behind me, I’m greeted by a cat that’s starving to death. He screams at me; in true cat fashion, it’s somehow both urgent and aloof.
“Hey SB, how you livin’? Same, same,” I tell him, working the panda USB drive off the ring, then tossing my keys into the brightly painted dish by the door.
I feed my fur-child, feed myself, and head back to my room, where my L-shaped desk occupies about half the space. I stick the ass end of the panda drive into the port and jiggle the mouse to start the download.
Since I’m still logged into my favorite IRC, I pull up the window and grin as I see my favorite nerd online—one of the moderators of one of the forums I use to fence my stolen intel. SpyderMan.
On the whole, I don’t much like people, and I don’t have a lot of respect for men—they tend to expect it without earning it, and fuck that shit.
Like Fredward. And Todd. But SpyderMan isn’t like that.
He’s the only guy I ever actually want to talk to.
A top-tier hacker in his own right, he’s smart and resourceful and funny…
and I can get behind what I suspect he’s doing with whoever he reports to.
I’m a hacker. I’m super into pattern recognition.
SpyderMan’s pattern has been pretty clear since the beginning.
It’s sporadic and—until recently—geographically widespread, but his targets are known gang leaders, corrupt low-level politicians, sexually predatory billionaires and healthcare CEOs happily taking six-figure bonuses while their companies reject claims from cancer patients and the physically disabled. Real scum of the earth.
And while it’s not like every job he gives me is about some high-profile asshole, lots of them are. Some of those assholes disappeared or ended up in jail after I sold SpyderMan the secrets I’ve collected and hoarded through the years.
I never ask why he wants the intel because that’s not really how this works—I choose to take the jobs, and the “mind your fucking business” part is implied. But I like to think he’s taking out the trash. I wish I could.
I know I’m probably deluding myself. He’s probably some criminal or mob boss, or working for one, using what I give him to blackmail and destroy lives—potentially even killing them.
At best, I’m in the pocket of some up-and-coming FBI agent using my hard work to get ahead in his career.
Luckily, my identity is buried, and I take precautions against being found by even the biggest brother: the US government.
I’m old enough to know and jaded enough to believe that nothing in our fucked-up system is black and white…
and I know stealing data and selling it isn’t exactly honorable.
But if these people are on the evil side of the spectrum, and my actions help bring them to some kind of justice, doesn’t the karma kind of cancel out?
Good thing I’m totally comfortable with shades of morally gray. And I can mind all of my own fucking business for the right price.
But it’s not just the promise of bitcoin or satisfying my overzealous sense of right and wrong that brings me back to the IRC every day… because the little butterflies in my stomach dance around as I click on his name, then go into a fluttering frenzy when he messages me first.
SpyderMan: Was just thinking about you
mermaidav: Of course you were. I’m your favorite distraction.
SpyderMan: You have no idea. Did you finish your homework?
Aaand I’m already squirming in my seat as I try to shake off the sudden student-teacher roleplaying scenario short-circuiting my brain. That’s got to be a record—horny in 10 words or less. I pull my lower lip between my teeth and bite down on the smile.
mermaidav: Moi? Hmm… Can you narrow it down?
SpyderMan: How you going with Dune?
I nearly roll my eyes. This man and his sci-fi. He’s been trying to find something I like in his favorite genre for months now. Love the dedication, and that he’s never butthurt when I tell him what I really think.
mermaidav: Initial thoughts… main character is named Paul? Really? I’m supposed to take him seriously as a fantasy hero with a generic white guy name?
SpyderMan: Luckily my name is not Paul and I take no offense.
I grin. Another to mark off the running list. From other conversations, I also know his name isn’t Mark or Quentin. That only leaves, like, a million more possibilities.
mermaidav: I’ll be honest—not sure I’m going to finish this one either.
SpyderMan: Not even the giant sand worms could tempt you?
mermaidav: Wiener-adjacent, I’ll give you that much, but not quite what I had in mind.
Excitement zings through me as I wait for his reply.
He sends a laughing response, and I grin.
People type “lol” with a straight face all the time, but I like to think that he really did laugh out loud.
I wonder what his laugh sounds like. Is it restrained?
Low and grumbly, in that way that makes me all shivery?
Does he actually get tears in his eyes, or is he one of those guys who says “that’s so funny” without actually laughing?
Dios, I hope not.
SpyderMan: There’s just no pleasing you, is there?
I bite my lip, fingers hovering over the keys as I think of and discard a dozen provocative responses ranging from innocuous to outright horny. I settle somewhere in the middle.
mermaidav: Where’s the fun in being easy to please? I like a man who’s willing to work for it.
SpyderMan: I do enjoy a challenge.
mermaidav: That must be why you made such quick work of the code for patching that vulnerability. Thanks again for your help.
SpyderMan: Happy to do it. I’d say you owe me one, but I’m not even sure who owes whom anymore.
I roll my eyes. Whom. This Shakespearean fucker. I bet he’s British. He talks like he’s British. He says things like brilliant and trousers and spells gray with an “e.” He called the stove a hob once—I had to look that one up.
mermaidav: Pretty sure it’s like 10:1 in me owing you favors now.
Generally speaking, I don’t like the feeling of being in someone’s debt.
And frankly, asking someone with SpyderMan’s skillset to help write the fix elegant enough to patch SmarTech’s vulnerability without being noticed felt a bit like asking Einstein for help with my geometry homework.
But he always says yes, he’s never actually asked for anything in return, and he gives my requests such complete, immediate focus that it makes me feel like a priority—like I’m his first priority.
It’s… nice.
SpyderMan: Pretty sure you’re right. But I’m saving my tickets for the big prize. Something I really want.
My heart instantly kicks me right in the sternum at what is probably innocuous, but feels like a blatant sexual innuendo because I want it to be. I consider my next message, drumming my fingers on the composite desk, but he beats me to it.
mermaidav: like…
SpyderMan: Let’s start with the data sort
Oh, right. The job he gave me. The foundation of our relationship. My heart sinks, then lifts again in the span of a single beat at the thought of my payout. I sort through my open windows and drag a file into the chat box for him to decrypt.
mermaidav: I feel like I should make you wait since I’ve still got a few hours, but I’m feeling generous. And if you are too, I wouldn’t say no to a tip.
The notification comes through from my banking app a few seconds later, and I grin as I see a hefty tip, with the note Earned in bed.
I tell myself it’s not charity that made him give in to my pricing demands, but respect for a consistent, quick turnaround.
And maybe to keep me coming back for more.
Or… maybe—just maybe—he’s even got a little bit of a crush on me, too…
mermaidav: Cute. Being in bed, easy money, a puzzle to solve… add in winning an argument and tacos, and you’ve got my top 5 favorite things.
SpyderMan: Not a bad top 5, though I’d have thought being praised ranked higher on the list.
I bite my lip. Okay, new fantasy unlocked—hearing a deep, British voice calling me a good girl.
mermaidav: who doesn’t like praise?
SpyderMan: some prefer degradation.
Okay, amend that fantasy… a deep, British voice calling me a good little whore.
Dios, is it hot in here, or is that just me?
I consider my next message, drumming my nails against the composite desktop, but can’t get it typed out fast enough before he goes inactive.
He does that sometimes—disappears mid-conversation without explanation or apology.
We’ve been talking regularly for around two years at this point, so I’m used to it, but I’m curious…
as well as really fucking irrationally jealous.
Is it an interruption, like a significant other walking in? Does he have kids? Roommates? A willing harem of women in the cult he formed?
Not that it matters. The anonymity that keeps both of us safe is the very thing keeping us apart.
Do I think I could trust SpyderMan with my real identity?
Maybe… When you engage in illegal activity on the internet, it’s hard to trust anyone enough to cross that line into the real world.
The only thing that keeps me from getting caught is the fact that no one can connect my online persona to my real identity.
Any person who knows becomes a risk or possibly a threat.
So, no. Meeting IRL probably isn’t in the cards for us. Which sucks.
But whenever I get bummed about the fact that SpyderMan and I will probably never actually meet in person, I console myself with the fact that what we have is easy the way it is.
Honestly, it’s the best relationship with a man I’ve ever had, in spite of—because of?
—the fact that I don’t know anything about him.
I’m equally as curious about who he really is as I am worried about doing something that puts what we have at risk.
Because… what if he’s actually a 13-year-old prodigy, or someone’s racist old Pee Paw?
Okay, I don’t really think he’s either of those things… It just sucks when you kind of hate most guys, and the only guy you don’t hate is the only one you can’t have.
Plus, I really, really want to know what he looks like.
And maybe I want to see his wiener, too.