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Chapter 6: Bruises, Blondes, and a Bite of Soup
BRIIIIING!
The final bell screamed like the wail of a freed prisoner, and something stirred in my chest.
No—on my skin. In my bones. In my soul.
Freedom.
I could smell it. I could taste it. I could feel it.
All the events from chapters 1 to 5 had occurred in a single, godforsaken day.
One day. One Tuesday.
I don't know whether to be impressed... or terrified of what Wednesday's cooking.
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(Flashback)
"And don't forget to text me back!"
MJ's voice still echoed in my brain, like a sugar-coated chainsaw.
"Oh really now? You have her number already?" Gwen asked, all mischief and murder in her expression. She was stunning. Athletic. Dangerously out of my league. Also, daughter of a police commissioner. So—yeah, I was basically eyeing a future arrest record.
"Ah, Miss Stacy, I bid you a wonderful evening," I said with the grace of a court jester, slowly backing away like a man diffusing a live bomb.
Felicia was nowhere to be seen. Not that I cared. I didn't memorize her bra size or anything.
(B120. K-cup.)
Simp behavior. I accept it. I am him.
(Flashback end)
MJ had insisted I walk her home, even volunteered me for daily morning pickups like I was some kind of emotional Uber. Naturally, I declined—with a totally made-up story about an emergency appointment with my "social worker."
Which explains why I was now cutting through a sketchy alley like a dumbass with "Main Character Energy" and no self-preservation skills.
But you know what I fear most about this sudden attention from the hottest girls in school?
"Well, well, well… if it ain't little Lion boy."
Oh, come on.
I knew that voice. I knew that cologne. I knew that imminent doom.
Xander.
I turned around and immediately caught a right hook to the face. Down I went, kissing concrete like a bad Tinder date.
"Shortcut to my house," I thought. "Shortcut to the ER, more like."
Xander and his goon squad wasted no time turning me into a ragdoll. Classic teen romcom cliché: the protagonist gets a beatdown while the villain flexes like a WWE reject. Talk about Failed NXT project.
BAM!
OOF!
WHACK!
TWACK!
Somewhere between "Please stop" and "I see the light," a blur streaked overhead.
White. Agile. Graceful.
She landed on a wall like a ghost in yoga pants, farming aura like a stealth-chested ninja.
"Get off him, you overgrown toddlers!" she shouted, her voice muffled by a mask but dripping feminine sass.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Spider-Woman.
Xander looked at her like she was just another level in a video game. "What're you gonna do, Web-head? Spank us?"
"Yeah," Moose the Gorilla echoed. "Show us what you got, girly."
Spider-Woman didn't blink. "I'm feeling generous today. Walk away with all your teeth… or don't. Your dental plan, not mine."
They charged.
She moved like a cheat code. Moose swung—missed. She tripped him with a heel-hook and he slammed into a dumpster. Goon #2 grabbed for her—wrist twisted, squealed like a toddler at the dentist.
Xander tried a punch. She Matrix-dodged it and kicked him so hard he folded like a lawn chair.
Ten seconds later, they were all down, wheezing and regretting life choices.
She looked over her shoulder. "Consider this a warning. Next time, I won't be so nice."
Thwip.
She was gone. Swinging off in the night.
I just laid there, groaning, the taste of blood and pride in my mouth. My ribs ached. My face throbbed. But my heart?
That was busy wondering…
Spider-Woman.
The way she moved. Her voice. Her wit. Her fleshy thighs—
No.
Nope.
It couldn't be…
Gwen?
Nah.
Right?
RIGHT!?
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By the time I limped home, I was questioning my whole life.
The only thing I was sure of was this: I was screwed.
And not in the fun way.
I unlocked the door to our totally average apartment—not a secret manor or anything weird like that—and was immediately hit with the smell of—
Chicken soup.
"Master Leon!" Jesse, our butler/part-time therapist/magician of food greeted cheerfully. "You're home late."
Before I could reply, a second voice cut through the air like a mom missile.
"What happened to you?!"
Aunt Carol Danvers.
Also known as Captain freaking Marvel. She believes that her identity as Captain Marvel was well hidden from me... Hehe, too bad I was busy sniffing her panties when I discovered her superhero suit...
Wait what?
"Just a little disagreement at school," I muttered, trying to dodge eye contact.
She touched my bruised cheek. I flinched.
She didn't flinch back.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she said with a sigh, like she was already planning to incinerate Xander's entire family line.
As she patched me up, I knew I couldn't tell her the truth.
Not about Spider-Woman.
Not about Gwen.
Not about the rumors.
Definitely not about the cat emoji from Felicia.
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Later that night, as I sipped soup and tried not to cry into my noodles:
"Ah! Shit—!"
"Leon, language!"
I stared at my phone.
4 texts from MJ.
6 from Gwen.
1 cat emoji from Felicia.
10 fucking spam from LIZ!!!
Carol leaned in. "Who are all these girls!?"
I stared blankly at the phone.
"…I'm so dead."
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*Insert Theme Song*
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Next Time on "The Amazing Misfortunes of Leon 'Lion' Walter": (Lol, thought this method would be funny)
So there I was, thinking I'd survived the worst day of my life. Bruised? Yes. Confused? Constantly. Texted by three dangerously hot girls? Obviously.
But then I made one mistake.
I went to school again.
Big mistake. Huge.
Because the next day, the rumors weren't just rumors anymore. Someone had filmed the fight. And by "fight," I mean me getting beat like a drum while Spider-Woman turned into a one-woman Avengers roster.
Now I'm the talk of the entire city.
"Is Leon dating Spider-Woman?"
"Is he the real vigilante mastermind?"
"Why is he so damn hot in that blurry screenshot?"
Answer: sweat, fear, and accidental good angles.
And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, guess who transferred into my class?
Felicia Hardy.
With a smirk like sin and a walk like jazz, she slid into homeroom like she owned the building. And for some reason... she called me "Darling."
I think my life just turned into a romantic action thriller.
Emphasis on thriller.
Next chapter: "The Talk, Locker Room Lawsuits and Harem Conspiracies"
You're not ready.
I'm not ready.
No one's ready.
But the author doesn't give a fuck.
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