Life with Masked Girls (Chapter 1)

"Ethan, you're up for this year's company meeting. The higher-ups want you to give the report, so make sure you're prepared. Come with me when it's time." my boss, Tony, said, giving my shoulder a firm pat.

"Got it. I'll be ready. Time to show those guys at headquarters that a great leader doesn’t have weak soldiers!" I grinned.

Tony shot me a look. "Cut the cocky act when you're at HQ. You lost that last promotion partly because of your attitude."

He hesitated, then added with a meaningful look, "My second son’s turning a month old soon."

That made me pause. Then I nodded. Tony had been my mentor ever since I started at the company and worked my way up to marketing manager. He was more than qualified to run more than just this branch. The company had been considering transferring him back to HQ in Chicago, where his family was, and he had recommended me as his replacement.

But for a bunch of reasons, I hadn’t gotten the job. Maybe a small part of me hadn’t wanted him to leave. Either way, I had dragged him down with me.

At the office door, he tapped his watch and said, "Don't stay too late. Go home early."

I watched him leave, then stayed another couple of hours finishing my report. Finally, I shut down my computer and headed out.

When I reached the entrance, I realized it was raining. I decided to grab dinner at a fast-food joint near the office. Being single meant I only had to worry about feeding myself. After finishing my meal, I saw the rain had stopped, so I figured I'd take a short walk.

Just then, my landlord, Mr. Smith, called. A potential buyer was coming to check out my place tonight, but he was out of town, so he asked me to handle it. I joked that selling this rundown house was shameless—whoever bought it might as well hand it straight to a demolition crew. He just laughed and sent me the buyer’s info. Miss Laura. 8:30 PM. I checked the time—twenty minutes left. Not enough for a decent walk, so I hailed a cab instead.

As I reached the intersection, a red motorcycle suddenly skidded to a stop right in front of me, splashing muddy water all over my pants. Great. Day four of wearing these, and now this.

The rider, a young woman, spoke first. "Oh crap! Sorry about that. I was in a hurry and couldn't stop in time. Hey, do you know how to get to Times Square?"

I turned to look at her. She was dressed entirely in black—knee-high boots, leather pants, leather jacket, gloves, full-face helmet. Not a single inch of skin visible. Her brown hair spilled out from under the helmet.

She pulled out some cash. "Here, take this for dry cleaning. My bad."

I scoffed. "It’s not about the money. But if you wanna compensate me for these handmade Italian designer pants, 300 bucks ain’t gonna cut it. Anyway, taxis are hard to find right now. Times Square is just two lights down, take a right. I live nearby—how about a lift?"

Without waiting for a reply, I hopped onto her motorcycle.

She seemed surprised but handed me an extra helmet. "Hold on."

The second I secured it, the engine roared. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around her waist.

The moment I touched her jacket, she stiffened like she’d been electrocuted. Then, bam—she slammed the brakes. My helmet smacked into hers, making my head buzz.

"Hands off! What kinda guy can't sit on a motorcycle properly?" she snapped.

"Well, I wasn't even properly seated yet when you took off! Are you a stunt rider or something?" I shot back.

"You good now?"

"Yeah," I muttered, adjusting myself.

Five minutes later, we reached my apartment complex. My legs were completely numb from the cold and wet pants. As I swung my left leg over the bike, my frozen limbs failed me, and I collapsed face-first onto the pavement.

The biker girl gasped, quickly hopping off her bike. "You okay?"

Falling in front of a girl—humiliating. So, instead of getting up, I dramatically rolled onto my back. "Don’t mind me. Just expressing my patriotism. Kissing the ground of my homeland."

Then, I handed her the helmet and started singing while rubbing my knee.

She stayed silent, then went to pick up her bike. As I watched her, I finally noticed—she had a killer figure. Easily 170 cm, long legs in those boots, a tiny waist, and that leather jacket emphasized all the right places. If her body was this amazing, what kind of face was she hiding?

Curiosity killed the cat. I scrambled up and helped her with her bike.

She smirked. "What happened to your patriotism?"

I rubbed my hands together. "Two minutes a day is enough. Any longer, and I might catch a cold. Besides, leaving a lady to struggle with a bike isn’t very patriotic."

She nodded, not pushing the topic.

I helped her push the motorcycle to the motorcycle parking area. She thanked me and seemed to signal that I could leave. My gaze never left her helmet, but she didn't mind. She quickly took off her helmet, and I noticed that under the helmet, she was wearing a black mask that covered most of her face. The only thing I could distinguish was that she had a well-defined jawline.

Her eyes, with purple eyeshadow, looked at me, blinking. Her eyelashes were long, and it seemed like some of them didn’t move when she blinked. This piqued my interest in her appearance even more.

She looked at me seriously, "Thank you for today, and sorry for making your pants dirty. I still need to find someone, so I won't trouble you anymore."

I knew I had no reason to linger, "It's no big deal, I didn’t mind at all. You go ahead." After saying that, I turned and walked into the building.

Just as I turned to leave, my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Hello? Who's this?"

"Mr. Ethan? This is Laura. I spoke with Mr. Smith about the house..." The voice—was hers!

I turned back. She was looking at me, surprised.

I chuckled. "Well, small world."

She waved slightly.

After Tony recruited me into the company, I had been renting this place for almost four years. The apartment was well-equipped with air conditioning, internet, and gas, and the rent was cheap—only a few hundred dollar per month for a three-bedroom unit. Mr. Smith moved to Detroit two years ago, and no new tenants had moved in since. As the other tenants gradually left, I was the only bachelor still living here. Now that I had successfully secured the promotion, it was time for me to move to the city center.

We chatted casually along the way, but she didn’t seem too talkative. The only piece of information I managed to get was that her name was Laura.

When we arrived, I opened the door and turned on the lights. Standing at the entrance, I made a welcoming gesture and handed her a pair of slippers. She hesitated at the doorstep and asked, "Can I keep my shoes on? These boots are a hassle to take off."

I glanced at her black knee-high boots and understood her dilemma, but I wasn’t willing to accommodate her. "But it makes cleaning a hassle, and it just rained outside." If it’s such a hassle, why wear them in the first place?

She nodded and stepped inside. She took one last glance outside before shutting the door and reluctantly started removing her boots.

Pointing at the couch, I said, "I’m going to change clothes. Have a seat." She nodded as I turned on the air conditioner in the living room, setting it to 30 degrees Celsius. I also turned on the water dispenser—not only because I was genuinely cold, but also to coax her into removing her mask so I could finally see her face.

I changed into my usual homewear in just a few minutes—technically, it was my pajamas—then returned to the living room. She was still sitting on the couch, wearing her mask. Underneath her boots, she had on jodhpurs that reached just past her knees, and from the knees down, she wore thick, flesh-colored stockings. Her legs were still slender.

I made her a cup of hot coffee. "Here, have some Arabica coffee. I brought this back from my trip to China last year. It’s one of the top coffee!" I said proudly.

She gave me a strange look, "Oh? I have never heard of Arabica coffee from China."

"Right? Haha, well, this one from China tastes better than any. Drink it while it’s hot." I looked at her expectantly.

She reached out to take the cup but then set it on the coffee table. "I’m not thirsty. Can I see the apartment now?" Her purpose was clear.

Unwilling to give up, I picked up the coffee again and insisted, "No rush. Take a sip first. The apartment’s big—you should take your time looking around." I nudged the cup toward her. She was about to refuse, but in the process, she accidentally knocked over the cup, spilling the steaming coffee onto her gloved hands. The water had just been boiled!

"Ah! Are you okay?" Startled, I quickly grabbed her hands in concern. She didn’t say a word, only shook her head. Thanks to her leather gloves, she wasn’t burned.

Still worried, I instinctively grabbed her wrist and pulled off her glove before she could react. She seemed to resist but clearly wasn’t as strong as me.

I tossed the glove onto the table and held her hand up for a closer look. What I saw stunned me—her hand had no fingernails, and its texture was identical to the flesh-colored stockings on her legs. However, her hand was dry; the boiling water hadn’t scalded her at all.

I froze, staring at her hand. She swiftly pulled it back and snapped, "I already said I didn’t want the coffee! And I told you I was fine! Why do you have to be so pushy?"

Her masked face revealed wary eyes as she rubbed her wrist where I had grabbed too tightly, likely hurting her.

"I... I’m sorry. If you’re fine, let’s look at the apartment." I suddenly found this girl very strange but also intriguing.

Noticing that the skin at her neckline seemed to match her hands and legs, I hesitated before asking, "Is your glove connected to your suit?" But I immediately felt that the question was inappropriate.

"Mhm, I always dress like this in cold weather." She answered matter-of-factly.

Her response encouraged me to probe further. "Not a full bodysuit with a hood, right? Can I take a look?"

She gazed at me with clear eyes, then nodded. "You figured it out. But I dress this way to avoid scaring people."

Then she pulled down her mask. "You just wanted me to take this off, didn’t you? Setting the air conditioner this high—it’s suffocating!"

Caught red-handed, I blushed. No wonder she didn’t talk much; even when she blinked, some of her eyelashes didn’t move. Her face looked like those plastic mannequins in clothing stores. I quickly adjusted the temperature back down to 22 degrees Celsius.

"Can you take off this mask so I can have a look?" I was eager to see what lay beneath all her layers.

She pointed to her face and replied, "That’s not happening. I don’t even know you."

After thinking for a moment, she added, "I can tell you’re not a bad guy, and I appreciate everything you’ve done today, but I’m not removing it. Just show me the apartment."

After I finished showing her the last room, I heard her mutter to herself, "It’s exactly the same..." Because of her mask and the way she spoke, I couldn’t hear her clearly.

Back in the living room, she immediately called Mr. Smith and agreed to his asking price without bargaining. I was annoyed, remembering how stingy Mr. Smith had been about rent.

I snatched the phone from Laura—since she was wearing that tight bodysuit, she couldn’t get a firm grip—and yelled into the receiver, "Hey, old man, you can’t scam this girl like that! I’ve had to repaint the demolition notice four times! Who knows how long this place will last? With all the leaks and electrical issues, do you really think it’s worth sixty thousand?"

Mr. Smith remained unfazed. He explained that he had already informed Laura of the situation. He hadn’t planned on selling, but since the demolition compensation was already settled, Laura had reached out to him first.

Stunned, I returned the phone to her and gestured for them to continue talking.

I left them to negotiate while I poured myself a drink and started working on my competition presentation. After the call, she put back on her mask and glove and turned to me, "If all goes well, this apartment will be mine tomorrow. I’d like to move in as soon as possible, so..."

I cut her off impatiently. "Sign the contract first, then we’ll talk about that. And even if you’re moving in, give me some time. How is this rundown place so in demand?"

She nodded seriously. "Of course, I’ll give you time. And thank you for earlier. I’m willing to pay this price—it’s my way of repaying Mr. Smith for taking care of this place all these years."

I figured this place must have some special meaning to her, so I didn’t ask further. Just as she was about to put on her boots, her phone rang again. She answered and gave away my address before apologetically handing the phone to me.

"It’s the city’s disease control center," she said hesitantly.

On the other end, a voice informed me that a passenger on her flight earlier today was diagnosed with MERS and that we both had to be quarantined for fifteen days.

I cursed under my breath. Just my luck.