Felicia lived in an Empire Suite in the Carlyle, the luxury hotel where Marilyn Monroe had had her tryst with JFK, thanks to some secret tunnels. Peter guessed knowing that was how some real estate agent had made a mint off Felicia Hardy.
Being gently, but somewhat icily ushered in by the various concierges and door staff, Peter and Darcy made their way to the 28
th
floor. The elevator had a window on one side that looked out large portholes in the building's façade to show them the climb up New York. It was all very impressive, if you couldn't climb the wall with your hands. Similarly, the brisk walk to Felicia's door had enough fine art involved to make MOCA jealous, but it mostly reminded Peter of Tony Stark's powder room. He'd lived a hell of a life. And that was before last night.
Felicia answered the door in a work-out bra and yoga pants, her sweaty white hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Sweat covered her toned midriff like the condensation on a tall, cool glass of Coke—the kind you needed after a long day in the sun. She even smelled nice. A good, physical scent like caviar, almost. How come Peter never ended up smelling like caviar after a couple hours swinging around in a spandex onesie?
Maybe my neckline isn't low enough,
he thought.
"Oh. Hey, reporter monkeys," she called sweetly, stepping back to allow them in. "Just finishing my work-out. I love a good work-out." She said it eying Peter as he came through the door.
On the way up in the elevator, a little video system had narrated the 'story of the Empire Suite.' Felicia's was a three-bedroom duplex on the 28
th
and 29
th
floors that had been owned by a painter whose name Peter couldn't begin to pronounce, until he'd been killed by Ultron one of those times Ultron killed a lot of people. 'Designer Thierry Despont' (Peter could begin to pronounce his name, but not finish) had refurbished the 2,600-square-foot apartment with 'American
and
French Art Deco touches,' 'the rich fabric textures of boiled wool and cashmere,' 'a sweeping staircase that he's referred to as his masterpiece.' Then an MMoA curator had filled the penthouse's walls with Parisian art from the Golden Age, which Peter guessed but would not state as being the 1920s. Maybe the 1930s. He didn't think it was the 1940s. Hard to find time to paint when you were surrendering to the Nazis.
"Felicia Hardy," she said, chugging that new water that came in a glass bottle.
"Darcy Lewis," Peter's new boss replied, with a gesture to him. "Peter Parker, the Bugle's best photographer."
"Guy who gets all the pictures of Spider-Man." Felicia smiled at him. "I have your book."
"It's a good book," Peter replied uncertainly. He hated the whole thing of pretending not to know someone you know as Spider-Man/a threesome haver.
"Like the art?" she followed up. With him, she eyed an Impressionistic painting of the view from the Empire State Building. It was good work. The way the city lights looked at night were somehow realer for being transformed into paint and canvas. Peter'd often marveled at it himself, just in the flesh. "I have to admit, it's not as much fun when you have to pay for it. But at least the IRS can't take it. I need a shower."
And she walked off, kicking a ratty pair of sneakers to the wall.
"What does she mean by that?" Peter asked Darcy, even though there was no way she knew Felicia better than him, other than sharing a chromosome.
"Maybe she wants us to follow her?"
She had to rub the size of her shower in his face.
***
The bathroom was a little like the one at Avengers Tower, with the sinks you could bathe a midget in. Not that Peter saw much of it. Felicia left the door open a crack, enough to see the shower stall that could probably fit four people in it, as well as the showerhead she moved over her sudded-up body.
Keep in character,
Peter reminded himself, standing parallel to that cracked door, his back to the wall. Darcy had no such compunctions, practically standing in the doorway as she interviewed Hardy. She even gave him a look like,
man, you oughta see this chick's cans.
"So hey, how's the detective agency going?" Darcy called, tossing her pocket recorder to Peter. He dutifully held it in front of the door as Darcy used pen and paper to make sure she didn't lose anything to the sound of the shower spray.
"Private security firm," Felicia replied. "It's... fun. I don't like to micromanage. I do the PR, the tweets, occasionally I consult on the more exotic cases." Her voice rose on that, enjoying the recollection. Or maybe it was just that she was washing off her thighs. "Mostly it's just a matter of finding the right people and letting them handle my needs. Would you like to get a picture? I don't think people will believe this happened if you don't."
Darcy and Peter shared an incredulous
hah.
"I don't think they'd let us print it."
"You can try. C'mon now, Parker, was it? Don't be shy..."
Peter hoisted his camera from the strap around his neck, taking care not to be too suggestive adjusting the lens, then stepped into the doorway. Felicia stood in the shower, her side to him, arms against the wall, blocking most of his view of her cleavage. He could still see the curve of her hip, and it made him relive the feel of it under his fingers all over again.
"Say cheese," he said numbly, and took the picture. He thought a Pulitzer might be in order for keeping it PG-13.
"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Felicia turned off the shower and pushed the foggy glass door open. She'd shaved since last night. "Pass me the towel?"
Peter felt Darcy standing on her tip toes to look over her shoulder. "Certainly." Somewhat protective even now, he tried to block Darcy's view a little as he reached over to the towel rack, took what was quite possibly the hide of a skinned polar bear, and held it out to Felicia.
"Thank
you
," she replied, sweet as sugar. When she took it, her wet fingers brushed against his. He felt the heat of the water like the heat of her body. Peter didn't think the shower in his apartment even went that hot.
