Spider-Man 2 Read online

  “Well, of course. It meant that I was so filled with joy that it was all I could do to keep myself from dropping dead with ecstasy.”

  “Ah. That’s good. Because, I don’t know,” she said, and her voice was slightly singsong, “see, to me, it made it sound like I was some sort of vampire or something. That the moment I had my arms around you, that’s when you spotted the fangs and knew that you were in a world of trouble.”

  He shook his head. “That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there. How is it that someone so fundamentally upbeat is able to come up with a worst-case scenario out of thin air, no matter how positive the inspiration?”

  “Practice. Years of practice.”

  With that, her voice had become uncharacteristically somber and he leaned over toward her, nudging her shoulder with his own. “Something bothering you?”

  “Nah. It’s nothing.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I told you, it’s all good.”

  “Yes, you told me that,” he said firmly, “and you can see by the look on my face that I’m not buying it. Now spill.”

  “ ‘Now spill.’ Sounds like some old crime drama where the—”

  “Honey.”

  The sharpness in his tone brought her up short. “I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  “Well,” she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, smoothing the front of her skirt, “it’s just that… I’ve never had much luck with fathers. My own father was…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I thought you’d sorted out things with your dad,” he said gently. “That he’d changed, at least a little, after he and your mom broke up.”

  “He has. A little. I mean, we can actually, y’know, spend time in the same room now. But he still acts like a jerk sometimes, and those eighteen years when he was doing it regularly, berating me, beating me down… it takes a toll, y’know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Plus there’s the fact that the last time I met a boyfriend’s father, it didn’t exactly go well. He was… well, he was kind of mean. So mean it wound up killing the relationship, because my boyfriend took his dad’s side, and, well,” she shrugged helplessly, “that was kind of that.”

  “If the relationship was so fragile that it couldn’t withstand a disapproving parent, then it wasn’t that strong to begin with, honey. Ours is made of sterner stuff than that.”

  “You think?”

  He squeezed her hand firmly. “I’m sure of it.” Then he grinned encouragingly. “Besides, don’t worry about it. See, my dad has yet to approve of a single girlfriend of mine he’s ever met, and never once has a relationship gone bust because of it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, well, that’s great, John. If it wasn’t his disapproval that killed the relationships, what was?”

  “Well, jealousy, for one thing. See, I was so much prettier than they were…”

  “Which isn’t a problem in our case,” she assured him teasingly.

  “Of course. Plus I wouldn’t leave the space program for them.”

  She turned and stared at him with genuine surprise. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “But why… ? I mean, to me, that’s so amazing, what you do.”

  “And dangerous. They’d hear about the accidents and be worried I was going to be blown to bits due to some malfunction. Because, you know, as soon as something goes wrong, millions of Americans listen to CNN and suddenly everyone’s a rocket scientist, capable of second-guessing everything NASA does.” He studied her thoughtfully. “So it doesn’t bother you? What I do for a living?”

  “Of course not. I know it’s dangerous, but it’s part of who you are. So much a part of you that I have to accept it.”

  “You know what, honey? Just say that to my father, and I guarantee you, everything’s going to go just fine. And by the way, anyone who would toss you aside just because his father acts like a jerk deserves to be your former boyfriend. Oh!”

  “Oh what?”

  “We’re here,” he said, leaning forward and peering out the window.

  The limo pulled up in front of the Ascot Club, situated in a neatly adorned brownstone on Lexington Avenue. The chauffeur came around and opened the door next to John’s girlfriend.

  She sat there, hands on her lap. Then, to John’s confusion, she reached over and pulled the door shut.

  “Honey!”

  “Okay, one other thing,” she said. “In the interest of, y’know, total honesty.”

  “Yeah?” he prompted warily.

  “I have a friend and… well, he sort of works for your father.”

  “Peter Parker?”

  She blinked in surprise. “How did you know—?”

  “I’ve seen his photo credits in the paper, and you’ve mentioned him by name a few times. Like, ‘As my friend Peter Parker always says… ’ That kind of thing. So I made the connection.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know… uh, this is kind of awkward, then… I didn’t want you to know that it was Peter who… um…”

  “Let me guess,” John grinned. “He’s had less than flattering things to say about my dad. Horror stories, in fact. And you don’t want to get him in trouble because he was the one who said them. But because of what he’s said, it makes you nervous about meeting Dad. Is that in the ballpark?”

  “Right down the middle of home plate, actually.”

  “Honey.” He shook his head. “You think I’ve known my father all these years and remained unaware of how he can be with people? Not just girlfriends who he thinks aren’t good enough for me, but everyone? He can be bellicose, bombastic—”

  “And many other ‘b’ words whose definitions I’m shaky on,” she said.

  “The point is, you shouldn’t think that’s all there is to him. Because he’s still my father, he wants me to be happy, and deep down he’s a caring, affectionate guy.” When she just stared at him, he added, “Deep, deep down. Way deep. Marianas Trench deep.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Honey, do you trust me?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said impatiently.

  “Then shouldn’t that be all that matters?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  She steadied herself and obviously forced a smile. “You’re right. It’s just me and my baggage. It’ll be fine. Oh,” she added urgently, “you won’t mention what I said about Peter, right?”

  “What, mention to Dad that he’s pissed off one of his employees? Boy, is that the worst-kept secret of the year. But yes, don’t worry, not a word.”

  Thus assured, she opened the door of the limo. The chauffeur, now confident that she was going to emerge, caught the door as it swung, and opened it the rest of the way, helping her to step out onto the curb.

  Together, their arms linked at the elbow, they entered the main foyer. J. Jonah Jameson was waiting for them, looking pointedly at his watch. “Our reservation was for ten minutes ago!” he said, his mustache bristling.

  “Traffic, Dad.”

  “Traffic!” bellowed Jonah, approaching him. “How could traffic possibly be a bother to you! My son, the astronaut? Traffic is for mere mortals! You should be able to leap over it in a single bound!”

  “I could have if I’d remembered to wear my tights and cape. Sorry.”

  “Don’t let it happen again,” said Jonah, embracing his son warmly. Then he looked at John’s companion. “And who is this?”

  “Dad, may I present Miss Mary Jane Watson. Mary Jane, my father, J. Jonah Jameson.”

  “What’s the ‘J’ stand for, Mr. Jameson?” she asked.

  “Jolly,” deadpanned Jonah. “And please, ‘Mr. Jameson’ is so formal. Call me…” He stopped, considered. “No, on second thought, ‘Mr. Jameson’ will do. Now come on: We’re eleven minutes late and counting.”

  They followed in his wake, walking briskly through the corridors, and arrived at the dining salon less than a minute
later. The walls were deep, rich oak, lined with scowling paintings of famous members of the club going back centuries. If even one of them could have seen women eating there, they’d have died a second time.

  Once seated, menus in front of them, Jonah stared at Mary Jane, his eyebrows furrowed. “You look familiar, Miss Watson. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve seen you, though. I never forget a face.”

  “Mary Jane’s an actress, Dad,” said John helpfully.

  “Oh! And there’s my billboard!”

  “That’s got to be where you know her from, Dad,” John assured him. “There’s this billboard out, twenty times bigger than life, with her face plastered all over—”

  “Osborn’s kid. Harry,” Jonah said abruptly.

  Mary Jane paled visibly. “W-what?”

  “You used to go out with Norman Osborn’s kid, Harry,” said Jonah, pointing at her. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Y-yes.” She glanced at John to see his reaction. “How did you—?”

  “Hah!” and Jonah thumped the table triumphantly. “Sherlock Holmes lives. Can’t slip anything past me.”

  “Mr. Jameson,” Mary Jane said cautiously, “I wasn’t trying to slip anything past, I just… How did you—?”

  “Saw photographs of you with him. Parker snapped them during that whole World Unity Festival debacle. Right before that armored nut attacked.”

  “Parker,” John said, taking exaggerated pains to explain, “is one of Dad’s photographers. Peter Parker, I think his name is. Right, Dad?”

  “That’s him. And I remember looking at that photograph and thinking, I wonder if young Osborn is paying for her time.”

  “Dad!”

  Mary Jane’s jaw dropped, but before she could say anything, Jonah added, “Believe it or not, young lady, that was intended as a compliment.”

  She found her voice, although it wasn’t easy. “I was leaning toward ‘or not,’ actually.”

  “All I was saying,” Jonah informed her, “was that considering how weak-kneed and unpromising a man young Osborn was—his own father’s assessment, by the way—I was amazed he was able to engage the interest of such a striking young woman.”

  “Well, thank you… I guess,” she said uncertainly.

  “What were you doing with young Osborn, though?” Jonah demanded.

  “Dad, I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “She’s dating you. That makes it my business.”

  “John,” Mary Jane put up a hand, “your father’s right. It is his business. The fact is, Mr. Jameson, there was more to Harry than his father gave him credit for. Maybe I just saw things in him that his dad didn’t, but might have eventually, if he’d lived long enough. And let’s face it, not every son is as lucky as John, to have a father who’s perceptive enough to see all his potential. I mean, you had to have been supporting John for many years for him to get to where he is today, true? A son like this doesn’t just spring up out of nowhere. He’s molded and shaped by a father with vision.”

  Jonah considered that, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “That’s very true,” he said at last.

  John brought his hand up, covering his mouth to hide his grin.

  Mary Jane leaned forward, warming to her topic. “The fact is, sometimes I think John doesn’t realize how lucky he is, to have a father like you.”

  “See! See there!” Jonah demanded, thumping John on the arm. “How many times have I told you that, eh? And you, you ingrate! You never believe me! You just smile that perfect smile—which is only there thanks to the braces I funded, thank you very much.”

  “You wore braces?” Mary Jane stifled a laugh.

  “Don’t start,” John warned her.

  Jonah continued, “And you say to me, ‘Of course, Dad. Whatever.’ What is this ‘whatever’ young people are always spouting about these days?” he asked Mary Jane.

  She propped up her chin and gazed at him doe-eyed. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s what they say when they realize their parents have pretty much won an argument and they just don’t want to admit it.”

  Jonah Jameson thudded the table with such vehemence that he almost knocked over the centerpiece. John quickly grabbed for it, and just managed to prevent it from toppling over. Oblivious, Jonah bellowed so loudly that heads turned throughout the room. “By thunder, John, this girl is a treasure! A treasure!”

  “By the way, Mr. Jameson,” said Mary Jane, clearly deciding to push her luck, “I hope I’m not being too forward here, but I simply have to say, that’s very exciting hair you have.”

  “Really!” Jameson grinned broadly. “Who says you can’t get a good two-dollar haircut anymore?”

  “Not me.”

  “I trust my barber,” he said sincerely.

  “It’s trust well placed, Mr. Jameson.”

  He displayed his teeth, stained yellow from cigar smoking. “Call me Jonah.”

  For the second time in the afternoon, John Jameson went slack-jawed. His father fired him a look. “What are you gaping at? Haven’t you ever seen two people bonding before?”

  “Yes,” said John cautiously. “It’s just… you were never one of them.”

  Jameson waved him off dismissively and turned his attention back to Mary Jane. “Where did you two meet?”

  “Well, actually, I bet you can figure it out, Jonah,” Mary Jane said challengingly. “You know I’m an actress. So what do most actresses spend most of their time doing to make a living?”

  “Waiting tables,” Jonah replied instantly. He glanced from one to the other. “You met her when she was working at a restaurant?”

  “You’re amazing,” Mary Jane said, and turned to John. “Isn’t he amazing, John?”

  As far as John was concerned, Mary Jane was the amazing one.

  “Actually,” Mary Jane continued, “it was more than just ‘meeting.’ John bailed me out of a rather dicey situation…

  Mary Jane had had it.

  It was bad enough waitressing at a dive like the Moondance, knowing that only the money passed under the table was keeping the Board of Health from closing the place down. Bad enough that the food was for crap and that the boss, Enrique, was constantly on her case.

  But when the burly trucker reached over and pinched her backside for the third time in five minutes as she went past, that was it. Mary Jane spun, glared at him, and dumped a plate of spaghetti into his lap.

  The guy leaped to his feet with a strangled yelp, and Enrique bolted out of the kitchen in response to the shout. Mary Jane stood in front of the trucker, arms folded, looking defiant.

  “You did that on purpose!” he bellowed.

  “It slipped,” Mary Jane said, but she didn’t sound convincing, nor was she trying to.

  “You apologize to the man, right now!” Enrique told her. When she hesitated, he shouted in her face, “Do it, or you’re out of here!”

  She hesitated, her resistance beginning to slip. And then a calm, commanding voice said, “Don’t do it.”

  Mary Jane looked in the direction of the speaker. He had been sitting on a stool at the counter, sipping a cup of coffee. But now he was standing and walking toward the situation with a confident grace. “Don’t apologize. He had it coming, and if you say you’re sorry when you know you’re not, you’ll only regret it.”

  “How’d you like to have a big piece of regret?” challenged the trucker. He took a step toward the man who had spoken. “This ain’t your business.”

  The man reached into his jacket, pulled out an official-looking I.D. and flipped it open. “Threatening an agent of the FBI is a federal offense, friend.” Then he snapped it closed.

  The trucker promptly seemed to wither as he stepped back and said, “Yeah, well… whatever. Forget the apology.”

  “And forget this, too,” snapped Mary Jane, yanking off her apron. “Take this job and shove it, Enrique.”

  She tossed him the apron and stormed out
the door as Enrique called after her, “Don’t bother using me for a reference!”

  Mary Jane stomped into the street and, a moment later, the man who had intervened was at her side. “You did the right thing,” he assured her.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see how right it is when I don’t have money for the rent. Nice of you to jump in, though. What were you doing in there? You’re a lot classier than the guys we usually get.”

  “Actually, I was just killing time waiting for the Auto Club. My car battery died… Ah!”

  Mary Jane looked where he was pointing. A tow truck had come around the corner and was pulling up in front of a red sports car that was parked at an angle at curbside. “I can give you a lift as soon as the car’s up and running,” he said.

  “That’d be great, actually. So… being a Fed must pay pretty well if you can afford such a nice car.”

  “Hmm? Oh… Lord, no. I’m not a Fed. I just asked him if he knew threatening an FBI agent was a federal offense. I never said I was one.”

  She gaped a moment, and then laughed. “Then what did you flash at him?”

  “My pilot’s license.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  “Occasionally. Actually, I’m an astronaut.”

  “Wow. That’s even cooler than being a Fed.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” he said. He extended a hand. “John Jameson.”

  “Mary Jane Watson,” and she shook his hand firmly.

  Jonah Jameson was laughing at his son’s audacity. M.J. thought he had a very strange laugh, like a seal barking. “That’s my son. Never afraid to jump to the rescue of a lady fair. And frankly, you didn’t need that job. I’m sure you could do far better.”

  “Actually, she’s done much better,” John assured him. “There’s not only that billboard ad she told you about, but she’s starring in a play.”

  “It’s not one of these new-wave things that you have to take your clothes off for, is it?” Jonah asked suspiciously. “Trash like that is what’s killing the theater.”