The Billionaire’s CamGirl

by Wylder, Penny

  5

  Weaver

  It’s been so long since I’ve had a night out on the town, that I’ve been staring at my closet for fifteen minutes hoping something—anything—will jump out at me and say, “Wear me, Weaver.” Where are Cinderella’s little dressing birds when a girl really needs them?

  I reach in and grab two dresses. Both short and tight. I figure I can’t go wrong with short and tight. I scrounge around on the floor looking for the single pair of heels I own, the ones I bought for Kate’s restaurant opening back in Paris.

  I stand in front of the mirror, in my heels and panties, swapping one dress for the other to see which will look better. Silver or black? My gut says black, so I’ll blend in with all the other girls at the club, and then I tell my gut to take a hike because tonight is special, and I want to stand out. The silver dress has a lacey overlay with deep décolletage. It also has the advantage of long sleeves, so I can skip wearing a jacket. I’ll still freeze, but at least I won’t look like a total coatless twit. As I’m putting the black dress back in the closet, I hear a chime from my laptop. It’s a trill little note, and I recognize it immediately as the message notification from Sugar Girl.

  I hang my silver dress on the doorknob and dive onto my bed, clicking accept on the message box from WildCaptain.

  How’s the house guest? Does she love the carafe?

  She’s pretty impressed, I type back. In fact, we’re going to stay in all night and take little sips of water from the carafe. It’s a total crowd pleaser.

  You are party animals, he replies. But really, what are your big plans?

  I’m actually excited to share them with him. I’ve done a lot of research to make sure Kate and I hit up all the best spots this weekend. I feel like I’m hopelessly unhip, so it’s become like a little research project for me. Back when I was waitressing, I never had enough money to go anyplace cool; I just went to the local whole-in-the-wall bars around my neighborhood. But tonight, we are going all out. $20 drinks. Live DJ. Appetizers that all have one ingredient too many and one ingredient I’ve never heard of before.

  Check this out and tell me what you think. I send him a link to the club I chose, Le Bain, a popular club at The Standard hotel in the meatpacking district.

  As I wait for his reply, I shimmy into my silver cocktail dress. It looks amazing. Better than it did when I bought it in college. I guess all that swimming is really paying off. I open my nightstand drawer and start digging around for two earrings that match. Luckily the only pair I find suit my look perfectly. Thin gold hoops with small turquoise beads. I decide to leave my hair down because the only hairstyles I know how to do are messy buns or brushed. So brushed it is.

  Ping.

  I walk over to my laptop and see WildCaptain’s message:

  What are you, a rockstar? Pretty swank, but I know you’ll be the hottest one there.

  You’re a charmer tonight. Well I’m glad it passes the WildCaptain test. I imagine you only go to the hippest places on your world travels.

  “Weaver? Are you ready yet? You’re already gorgeous, get your ass out here.” I hear Kate’s voice calling from down the hallway.

  “Finishing touches. I’ll be right out!” I call back.

  Gotta run. Kate’s up and ready to P A R T Y! Chat soon. xoxo

  As soon as I hit send, I regret that xoxo. What the fuck was I thinking? I’ve never done that before. I mean, the guy has seen all of me lots and lots of times, an xoxo isn’t exactly amping up the intimacy, but why did I do it? I once hung up the phone with the dentist and said, “I love you.” Is the xoxo just a weird social hiccup like that? This situation with WildCaptain is getting murkier and murkier

  “Weaver, these cocktails need to be sipped yesterday!”

  “Coming,” I say, leaving my laptop and xs and os behind.

  Kate is in the kitchen in a cocktail dress of her own. By the looks of it, it’s from Paris. Dark blue silk, with dramatic lapels. Kate look sophisticated and refined. Right off the Paris runway.

  “Oh la la,” I whistle when I see her. “Très, très chic, mademoiselle.”

  “Cut it out,” she laughs, punching me lightly in the arm. “You have to taste this. It’s a specialty cocktail I’ve been serving at L’Arc en Ciel. Let’s call it L’Orgasm. It’s that good.”

  She hands me a tall, deep purple drink, garnished with thin slices of apple and lemon. I take a sip. It’s spiced with cinnamon, clove and maybe ginger. It tastes like winter. And it tastes like vodka. A lot of vodka. It is delicious.

  “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I tell her. And it’s the truth. “L’Orgasm doesn’t disappoint. My panties are wet. You never did well in any of our libation classes. Picking up new skills?”

  “Well, it so happens the bartender I hired is a pretty good teacher,” she says, taking a sip. I notice a slight blush on her cheeks.

  “Kate?” I say. “Dish.”

  “Well, his name is Perry and he is very, very fine. That’s not why I hired him, of course, but it does make it more fun to hang out at the bar when he looks so good.”

  “And…?” I prod. “That’s the whole story of Perry the hot bartender?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah,” she laughs. “I have no time for dating. Business south of the border is closed until further notice. And I’ve never executed a successful one-night stand. Maybe you can give me some tips.” She winks at me in the most adorable way.

  “Tips from me?” I say. “The only action I’ve seen in months is when my doorman accidentally brushed my ass when he was helping me into a cab. And he’s seventy. What makes you think I could be your one-fuck-and-done mentor?”

  “Weaver, we all saw you leave my restaurant with Chris. And even though you are every ounce a lady and didn’t give me details, well I know there’s only one thing to do with a man that looks that fine. And it’s not crossword puzzles.”

  Oooh, Paris. My “last-hurrah” sexy stranger, Chris. It feels like a lifetime ago, walking down the twinkling Paris street that night with Chris. From the moment he and I left Kate’s restaurant, until the next morning when I slipped out of bed and left him behind, I had a smile plastered on my face. It seemed that night like the universe was giving me a tremendous gift, a wonderful memory that would fuel me for a year of solitude and hard work. It was a gift. A sexy gift of kisses, and nips, and slow touches. A gift I’ve savored ever since, remembering him fucking me in that small Paris studio, my breasts pressed up against the window, the lights along the Seine spread out in front of me like I was in a movie.

  “Hello Weaver,” Kate says, chuckling. “I lost you there for a minute. And you’re blushing, by the way, slut. So I guess you remember who I’m talking about.”

  “I remember,” I say, dreamily. “But I can’t really give you any tips. That night was just…I don’t know, magical. I mean, what were the chances that this stranger I’d run into in the metro would be at your restaurant and then would be interested in me?”

  “Chances of someone being interested in you are high, my dear. Why are you selling yourself short?”

  “I’m not. Or at least I don’t mean to. I’m just saying, Chris, Paris, that night, well I couldn’t have planned it if I wanted to. Some things are just serendipity. Right place, right time.” I pause. “Magic,” I say wistfully.

  After I came home from Paris, I spent hours daydreaming about Chris, wondering if I’d ever see him again, whether he thought of me too. My thoughts often float back to that evening, to those steamy windows in Paris, to his strong hands that left bruises on my hips that only faded after I’d returned to New York. Although lately the fantasies have grown mistier. There’s the hint of Chris still there, his face, his body, but it was morphing into WildCaptain too, I realize with shock. The things I’ve learned about him, his humor, the give and take we so easily developed, it was folded into my vision of Chris.

  I take a long sip of my drink, trying to avoid Kate’s eyes since my own may betray my though
ts. I don’t want to tell her about WildCaptain, and talking about Chris is inexplicably all mixed up with my growing, and confusing, feelings about him.

  “Do you have regrets?” Kate asks.

  “Regrets?! No, it was one of the best nights of my life,” I say, and I mean it.

  “No,” Kate says. “I meant, do you regret that it didn’t lead anywhere? That you had to leave him and Paris behind. Isn’t there a part of you that wonders if it could have led somewhere?”

  How can I explain to Kate that I met Chris, this amazing guy, at the exact wrong time? Everything that night was perfect, but for that night. Just one night. There was never any future for us, and it wasn’t just the distance. It was the email I’d received just before I left for Paris. My acceptance onto Sugar Girl and the year I planned to be a cam-girl, chatting naked with clients to earn fast cash. I couldn’t have expected anyone to want to be with a girl like me. Not like that.

  “The only regret I’m worried about is that you keep playing shrink and we lose our primo reserved booth at Le Bain.” I throw back the rest of my drink, push Kate’s toward her, urging her to finish her drink.

  “Why are we talking about Paris? Paris is so last season, Kate. We’re here, in New York City, together. Again!” I drag her toward the front door, and drag us away from this conversation and hopefully, on our way to making some new memories together.

  6

  Weaver

  My hours of nightlife research have not prepared me for the scene I encounter at Le Bain, and it has little to do with my months of being a practical recluse. One a scale of one to ten, Le Bain is a twenty. It’s a total spectacle from the moment we walk in, and it is the exact right spot for me and Kate to spend our first night together.

  Kate and I pile into the elevator with a gaggle of the most eclectic, the most stylish New Yorkers I’ve ever seen. Velma at the deli wears the same brown smock every night. My doorman always wears the same crisp green suit, so these club goers are a feast for my eyes. The woman in front of me is sheathed entirely in feathers. I’m squinting at the bizarre dress, trying to figure out if they’re glued to her or sewn onto some invisible mesh. Kate pokes me in the side as she sees my hand creeping out to touch her.

  “No touching!” Kate scolds, grabbing my hand back, as if I were a child or a dog.

  She’s right. I guess I need to brush up on my social skills. It has been a while since I’ve been out. I realize if I’d worn my plain, usual black cocktail dress, I would actually stand out amongst this group in ass-less chaps, what looks like a green screen suit, and a woman who’s wearing a completely bejeweled jogging suit. I can’t decide if the latter is worn ironically or not. Are jogging suits in? Is irony?

  The elevators open up onto an enormous room. The lights are blue and pulsing, and immediately I feel like my body is buzzing with electricity. I can feel the steady strum of the music through the soles of my feet. The DJ is in the middle of the room, surrounded by dancers moving around him on the dancefloor. The club has floor to ceiling views of the city, and one entire side is open up to a rooftop deck and the chilly night air. A few brave, nicotine-craving revelers stand out there, their silhouettes dramatic against the New York City skyline. Kate squeezes my hand tightly at my side and I can hear her squeal a little. We look at each other with enormous grins and wide eyes.

  “Drinks!” we say together, heading toward the bar.

  The bar snakes down an entire side of the club, and it feels like Kate and I walk a mile before we can sidle up to it. Kate’s back is pressed against the back of man in a neon yellow zoot suit. He tilts his head back to her and tips his hat in greeting. We are so close to each other our noses are practically touching. It feels like the old days, like we’re back in college, as if we haven’t been separated for the past four months and our lives aren’t diametrically different. As if I’m not hiding an enormous secret from her.

  The bartender comes up to us and we order shots. We don’t want to hold on to any drinks because we are definitely hitting the dance floor.

  “What do we toast to? Pleather pants? Sequins? Getting loaded?” Kate shouts at me, trying to be heard over the impossibly loud beats.

  “How about to old friends?” I offer, feeling a little emotional and grateful to have Kate by my side, again.

  “Boring but ok. To old friends,” she agrees.

  Neon yellow zoot suit had stepped away from the bar, and charcoal gray Prada suit has replaced him.

  “Sorry to squeeze in so tight,” he says to Kate, who looks him over from head to toe, not very subtly.

  Kate looks back at me and winks. “How about to old friends and maybe making some new ones tonight?”

  “Whore,” I deadpan.

  “That’s the spirit. Salut!”

  We throw back the shots, and it goes down my throat like the burning fire of a thousand suns. I’m not a big drinker, and definitely not a big drinker of straight diesel fuel, so my head is swimming instantly. When my eyes stop watering and we’ve put down our glasses, Kate leads me to the dance floor.

  Kate and I loved to dance in college, and since our majors in college were hotel management and hospitality, we joked that all our nights partying were really just homework and research. It doesn’t take us any time at all to get back in the swing of things. Even though I had a hard time walking to the subway in my heels, on the dancefloor I gain back my confidence quickly. The music is a pounding, constant beat, and easy to dance to. I start out timidly, feeling out the song, swaying my hips a bit and moving my arms by my side. Kate though, she throws herself right in. As if all the time she’s been spending at her restaurant has left vast amounts of pent up energy inside her. She’s practically careening. She dances up to me, and next thing I know, she’s dancing with another group of women on the other side of the DJ booth. By the time she’s made her way back to me again, I’ve really gotten into, dragging my hands up and down my sides, taking up more space and enjoying the feeling of my hair whipping against my shoulders and back, feeling like I’m part of this scene, part of something.

  Gray Prada suit must have noticed Kate’s attention at the bar, because he’s heading straight toward her on the dancefloor. When he reaches her, he touches her hips from the back and starts swaying with her. She must have seen him coming, because she instantly backs into him and wraps his arms around her waist. His suit brings me back to that night in Paris with Chris. Remembering how he covered my shoulders with his suit jacket against the cool and damp Paris air, and later, the way I tied his hands with his tie and went down on him. I remember the feeling of the soft wool of his pants under my knees, the way he tasted in my mouth, and the hours we spent after, fucking in that cramped Paris studio. The small space filled up with the smell and sounds of our sex.

  As the memory becomes vivid, I feel my body come more alive. I feel the silk of my dress moving against my body, the friction on my nipples. I run my hands through my hair, tugging a little bit to remember how he grabbed my ponytail and fucked me from behind. And then I remember the pull, the strong urge to not sneak out the next morning, or to at least leave him my number in case he ever made it to New York. But I didn’t do that, and you can’t turn back time.

  WildCaptain. Out of nowhere he pops into my head, and I’m filled with guilt. Guilt for enjoying myself tonight and wondering what he’s doing. Guilt for thinking about Chris, as if I’m betraying him. Wondering if I have any chance of a relationship as long as I’m a cam-girl. Or if any man will ever want me after I stop camming. Maybe WildCaptain, I think. Surely, he doesn’t judge me. But does he want a relationship at all? Probably not since he’s set up this situation with me.

  The thoughts are coming a mile a minute, and I dance harder, I focus on the lights, strobing from blue to bright white and back to blue. I listen to the pulsing music, and let it flow through my body, moving me practically against my will. I block out my thoughts and let my senses take over. Stay here. Stay now, I tell myself. I close my eyes and turn, l
etting my arms fly out and hair spin, dancing all my worries away. And then a hand touches my shoulder, stopping me.

  I stand there stunned; not sure if I trust my eyes. Has the shot of diesel sent me into hallucinations? Did my fantasies conjure the man that’s standing in front of me, whose gorgeous mouth is moving but whose words I can’t hear? He’s pointing to himself, and nodding, but the music is blaring, and my ears are ringing from confusion. Because it is Chris in front of me. Paris Chris. Metro Chris. Fucked me until my eyes watered and my throat was sore from screaming Chris.

  “Remember me? Chris!” he says. I can hear him now, and I think I nod, but I’m so dazed I just stand there dumbly, not really sure what to do or how this is happening to me.

  “You remember me?” he says, now looking at me worried.

  “I’m Weaver,” I shout. I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “I know,” he shouts back. “Glibba vrom up to you.”

  “What?” This is going nowhere. “I can’t really hear you.” I point up to the ceiling indicating the loud music, and then scrunch up my face and cover my ears.

  “DANCE?” he shouts, and I understand that, and it comes as a relief. I can’t form a coherent sentence. I’m confused and my feelings are overwhelming me. I don’t understand how he’s ended up here, although I remember how we ran into each other once before, so serendipitously, and I think that the universe does have weird ways of working. I’m also excited. I spy Kate across the dancefloor grinding with Gray Prada, and I can’t deny that dancing and thinking about Chris has me turned on, and if this is what the universe is offering me, well the timing is perfect and who am I to resist.

  So we dance. The music is fast, and we dance around each other. I can smell his cologne every so often, a sexy breeze of spice and cedar float past me as he spins around me. He’s dressed formally again, but he’s skipped the tie tonight. He’s wearing a blue button-down, and even though the shirt is likely specially tailored for him, it’s tight enough that I can see the hard muscles of his pecs straining below. The collar is popped open, and my eyes keep darting to that spot of exposed skin, at the bottom of his neck, and imagining how I’d feel his pulse if I pressed my lips there. And when he turns, I see how perfectly his dark crepe pants hug his ass, and my eyes follow his waist as he turns, until I’m staring at his smart belt buckle, and everything delicious that I know sits right below it.