by Ophelia Bell
I’m seeing what she’s seeing, and she is looking at surveillance of herself, as well as every other room in my penthouse, including my own bedroom and my private office. I’m not there at the moment, but judging by the angle, the camera has to be situated somewhere on the bookcase beside the door.
Did she put it there?
No fucking way do I believe Elle is somehow a spy for her father. That’s absurd, especially considering there’s a camera in her room.
The window blinks as she opens another app, and for a moment, all I see are lines of code. Then I’m looking at a file structure and quick clicks as folders are opened and scanned. Leaning closer, I look for her search term.
Drake Stavros + Arturo Flores.
I snort. The sneaky little minx is hacking my network, evidently hunting for information on my connection to her dad.
That explains the view of the cameras—she must have found a hidden feed in her search. When she switches back to that screen, I look more closely. A couple are legitimate security feeds I recognize. I have cameras at every entrance to my penthouse, even the door to the roof, a few newly installed since the twins moved in. But the others, the more intrusive ones, are definitely not sanctioned by me.
I clench my jaw. Did the twins…?
Fuck, I hope not. Actually, I’d rather it is them than the other possibility. I doubt they’d do it, but I’m hoping for a more benign explanation because if it isn’t them, then something else is going on. Something I really don’t want to think about.
I stare at the screen, dread coiling in my gut. The more I think about it, the more I don’t like the conclusion I’m drawing. But after a moment, my brain finally registers movement, and every one of my senses comes alive.
Elle is now sitting at the end of the bed, staring right at the camera as she unbuttons her blouse from the bottom up.
My mouth goes dry, and I can’t look away as the buttons come apart, slowly revealing the smooth expanse of her flat belly, then the faintest curve of the undersides of both her breasts. She pauses and stands, biting her lip as she leaves her shirt hanging over her breasts in an inverted vee, then drops her hands to unfasten her jeans. Swaying her hips as she moves, she undoes the button, then the zipper, then slowly peels the fabric down.
I’m transfixed, even though it’s nothing I haven’t seen. She spent the first weekend after moving in lounging in a bikini by the pool, insisting on milking this change that had been foisted on her for all it was worth.
Except she’s not in a bikini under her clothes. Her snug boy shorts are made from pale lace, and she’s clearly not wearing a bra. Between the plackets of her button-down shirt, all I see is bare skin. The fabric drapes over her nipples, a breath away from revealing everything.
She does a little dance, gracefully spinning for the camera and teasing her fingers at the next button of her blouse. My gaze falls again to her lacy panties, sheer enough to see the faint dark vee of her pubic hair underneath. The security feeds are black and white, but for some reason my brain fills in the color of her panties as petal pink, and my dick hardens at the sight.
Shame roils in my belly, a voice in my head telling me I’m a perverted monster for continuing to watch, but I can’t look away. She’s dancing for the camera, so that means she wants to be seen, right? Does that mean she knows I’m watching?
I skim back through the camera feeds, but find none for my 30th-floor office.
I should fucking shut this down. Not just my watching, but her dancing. But it’s been so long since I tasted the sweet thrill of watching a woman undress behind a camera like this. It’s a dangerously erotic feeling, giving me a rush like an old drug I thought I’d kicked worming its way into my veins unexpectedly. I’m fucking high on seeing her do her thing.
My blood runs hotter when she unfastens the last button, then turns her back to the camera as she lets her shirt slide to the floor with a flirtatious glance over her shoulder. Jesus, she really has dancing down to an art.
When she begins to turn, I lean closer, balls tightening in anticipation. I’m a fucking pervert, but I can’t stop.
She faces the camera, a wickedly mischievous smile on her face, arms crossed over her chest. Then she drops her hands and takes a step closer.
I blink, because what I’m seeing is not what I expected. Her nipples are covered by two black strips of tape crisscrossed into dark Xs, and across her chest in clear, fat print that looks like lipstick, she’s painted the words FUCK YOU.
I gawk as she mouths the words, then lifts her middle finger to fill the frame.
3
Elle
I hold my middle finger up in front of the camera a second longer. I hope that gets through to them.
The last thing I do is slowly peel off each of the strips of tape covering my nipples, then I walk to the camera and slap the whole sticky wad over the lens.
I throw on a comfy T-shirt and crawl back onto my bed to get to work digging around in Drake’s network again. I haven’t had any luck, but there’s a lot more to search through. The folder the cameras upload their recordings to is just sitting there, taunting me. Do I dare? They’re invading my privacy, but do I really want to stoop that low?
Maybe just this once. It’s only fair. I search for the folder that matches the ID on the camera hidden in Drake’s bedroom, then click to open it.
I have to admit, the striptease was fun. It made me feel powerful to think the guys might be watching, maybe even hoping to see more. Whether or not they even care about what I look like naked, I have no clue. Baz and Ben act like brothers, for the most part. Drake… I don’t know how to categorize how he treats me. He’s more than a boss, but less than a friend, so if he was on the other end…
Well, he can’t fire me, at least.
I grimace inwardly at that thought. I don’t like the person I’m becoming after all these mind-boggling changes in my life. I’m not mean by nature; I care about the people I’m close to. I just get so antsy being cooped up for too long and my aggravation manifests in not-so-nice ways. I’m allowed to be angry at my circumstances, aren’t I? At knowing so little about the two men who are dictating my life right now?
But acting out isn’t cool. If the only way to get what I need to stay sane is to act like an entitled brat, then maybe I need to make an effort to be more creative. Having a little more information at my disposal would certainly help, though.
Clicking into the folder, I find multiple gigs of footage and don’t know where to start, so I click the first. It’s just a fifteen-second shot of Drake entering the room, walking to his bedside table to pick something up, then leaving again. A few seconds after he disappears, the video ends.
The next one is something equally benign. Then there’s one that shows him enter, start undressing, and then wander into his closet. When he emerges, he’s in flannel shorts and a white T-shirt. Meh, not even a dick shot.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I fast-forward to him emerging. Then he crawls into bed and turns out the light. A few seconds later, the recording ends.
Boring, but it seems the cameras are motion-activated, so he should be present in all the shots. Hmm, I wonder where the feed showing his bathroom is.
I click back out, referring to the live feed for the codes each room is tagged with. A few of the views that were live before have disappeared, probably because they’re not actively recording if there’s been no activity for a minute or so. I know Baz and Ben do a check of every door and window whenever we enter the penthouse, so that explains why I could see so many more rooms earlier. But the twins’ rooms are still there, so I make note of the code for each one, then watch for a moment. Baz is seated at the desk in one corner of his room, talking on the phone while he stares at his laptop, clicking with his mouse.
Ben is doing pull-ups from a bar he installed in his bathroom doorway. Doesn’t he know Drake has a full gym right down the hall?
But as I watch the pair, it hits me how off this all is. W
hy would they put such invasive tech in their own rooms if all they cared about was watching over me?
A chill creeps in at that revelation, and I’m staring at the screen with an increasing sense of dread when a sudden barrage of heavy footsteps thunders down the hall, followed by banging on my door that startles me so much I squeak.
“Elle! You need to stop what you’re doing! That camera’s not what you think! Unlock the door!”
It’s Drake, which means he must have seen the video.
I scramble up and run to the door, propelled by my realization, though I’m not sure what to say or even how to face him. What the fuck was I thinking?
When I open the door, he shoves in without a word. The big blob of tape I stuck to the camera is plain as day, but rather than grab the camera, he rips the whole thermostat assembly off the wall, leaving loose wires hanging in its place.
Baz and Ben step in right behind him, looking alarmed.
“What the hell?” Ben says.
“It’s a fucking camera!”
“Wait!” Baz grabs Drake’s arm just as he drops the offending contraption to the floor and lifts his foot to grind it under his heel. “Don’t destroy it! We can use it to figure out who put it here in the first place.”
“So it wasn’t you?” Drake asks, his face red with rage, though he steps back and lets Baz bend to retrieve the busted bundle of wires and plastic.
Baz blinks. “Fuck no! I’m not some kind of peeping tom perv.”
“How did you know it was here?” Ben challenges.
“Oh my god. Please tell me it was one of you that put it there,” I say, even though I’ve already concluded that it isn’t and their exchange only confirms it.
All three of them turn to me. I’ve dropped back down to the edge of the bed, too terrified to stand. I feel ill, not because of my stupid dance, but because it likely reached a very unintended audience.
“Why would you think that?” Baz asks, sounding hurt.
“Because it’s your job?”
“Ellie, keeping you safe doesn’t require spying on you. I can’t believe you’d think that.”
I cast one last hopeful glance at Ben, who holds up his hands and shakes his head. “It wasn’t me, either.” He spears Drake with a hard look. “But you haven’t answered my question. How the fuck did you figure out it was here when her door was fucking locked?”
“You were watching, weren’t you?” I ask. “But I don’t understand. If you knew, why wait to take it out now? It’s been there since I moved in, I think. Longer, even. They’re all over the penthouse. There’s one in my bathroom too.”
Drake winces. “I was, ah, just checking in on your work. You’re using a Typhon laptop. I have software installed on all the Typhon machines that lets me track employee activity. I didn’t have access to those cameras, though. I only saw what I did because that’s what you were looking at.” He gestures at my forgotten laptop.
Baz strides over and grabs it, turning it to peer at the screen. “You hacked the security feed. But that’s not all you tapped into here. What the fuck is all this?”
“You were spying on my work?” I ask Drake, baffled and a little hurt that he’d be monitoring my job performance in some way. I should probably care more about him watching me undress, but I don’t.
“Don’t fucking start,” he snaps. “You hacked my whole goddamn network and were digging for dirt on me. I don’t know what that little striptease was meant to accomplish, though.” He waves a hand at my body. His gaze sweeps down the length of me, and I’m suddenly painfully aware of the fact that I’m not wearing pants.
I blink and open my mouth, but can’t find an appropriate response. He has me dead to rights, but I still feel like I’m the one who should be pissed.
There’s a more pressing concern here, though. Glancing between him and the twins, I say, “Are you guys even paying attention? If none of you were watching, who was?”
“Oh, he was definitely watching,” Ben says, rounding on Drake and baring his teeth. “Weren’t you? Why else would you show up to her door with a fucking boner? Doesn’t fucking matter what she was doing in her own room, pendejo—it’s what you did that matters. I don’t care who put it there, you watched. You’re the guilty one.”
My attention darts back to Drake, my eyes wide. I can’t help but drop my gaze to peek at his groin, but there’s nothing particularly lewd going on. The man is packing, though. It was as evident in the camera shot I saw earlier as it is now.
“Jesus, okay. I watched, but I wasn’t looking for the fucking camera feed. I saw it because it was on her screen. Can we just focus on the fact that this place is riddled with surveillance none of us knew about?”
“We’ll take care of it,” Baz says. “Ben, chill out and go get the signal scanners. Elle, do you know where the one in the bathroom is?”
I nod and shoot Drake a glare just on principle before turning to walk toward the bathroom. Not only did he watch, it also turned him on, if what Ben says is true, and when I glance at the mirror through the bathroom door, it’s obvious his eyes are fixed on my ass in my skimpy pink boy shorts.
I don’t have time to decide whether I like the look in his eyes or not, because he only has a split-second to enjoy the view before Ben’s fist connects with his jaw and he hits the ground.
4
Ben
It feels so fucking good to hit this asshole. I pull back for another swing, roaring at him when he tries to rise, his teeth bared and bloody. Before I can drop my fist, Elle grabs hold of my arm.
“Benny, no!”
Baz grips my shoulder from my other side, but all their interference does is give Drake a chance to rise again and throw a punch right into my gut, then another at my jaw. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood.
“Stop it!” Elle yells.
“What the fuck?” Baz shoves between us, catching Drake’s second swing on his shoulder. He takes it, grabbing Drake by the shoulder with one hand while gripping mine with the other, holding us away from each other. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but you two need to chill the fuck out. In case you missed it, there’s surveillance peppered around this whole fucking penthouse that we didn’t install.”
“We don’t know that,” I say, glaring at Drake, who takes a step back and wipes a finger across his bloody upper lip. His gaze darts to Elle again, dropping to her hips, and I can just see the heat in his eyes. I growl again, but he jerks his eyes to the ceiling, uttering a whispered prayer. Then he finally looks into my eyes and sighs.
“I didn’t know about the cameras. At first I thought she put them in. They’re in every goddamn room, even my bedroom and office. If I installed them, why the hell would I do that?”
“Plausible deniability in case we found them, maybe?”
“Waste of resources,” he retorts, then turns and paces to the big window overlooking the bay and back, gingerly squeezing the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t look broken, but I can change that.
Elle approaches slowly, holding a hand towel out, which he takes and gingerly dabs at his nose. Baz releases me, but I cross my arms, waiting for someone to give me a fucking explanation.
Baz settles on the end of the bed with Elle’s laptop. When he utters a curse, I look over. He points at the screen. “This isn’t our security feed, brother. There are cameras in our bedrooms too. How the hell did you find this, Ellie?”
“By accident, really. I was just poking around…”
“Where you have no fucking business looking,” Drake says.
Elle flashes him another glare. “If you’d tell me the fucking truth, I wouldn’t have to go digging. I found the camera feed by accident anyway. I thought you guys put it in.”
A cold, prickly sensation begins at the base of my skull. I don’t like where this is going.
Drake straightens up and points at Elle’s closet. “Pack a bag. Now.”
Her mouth drops open and she stares, then faces him, feet rooted to the
ground and arms crossed. “You’d better not be kicking me out over this.”
He shoots a desperate look at me, but we’re on the same wavelength for once.
“He’s not kicking you out. If the cameras weren’t installed by any of us, this apartment isn’t safe for you. Do what he says. We’re moving you as soon as we can.”
“Where to?” she asks. “Arturo’s?”
“It’s the best option,” Drake says.
“No. There have to be a dozen better options that don’t require us to face that motherfucking liar,” Baz says. I can’t help but snort at how painfully appropriate his assessment of Arturo is.
Drake sighs. “I have an idea, but I’ll need to make some calls.”
I fish into my pocket and hand him my phone, which I know is secure. “Use this. Give me your phone so we can verify it hasn’t been compromised. Elle, go pack.”
I take his phone, and he sits in the armchair by the window, already barking orders on a call. It sounds like he’s talking to Leland Duffy, his driver, one of the most tolerant, patient human beings on Earth, considering what he puts up with.
Elle hasn’t moved. She just stands staring at each of us with wide eyes, arms crossed over her middle.
Baz glances at her and smirks. “So you thought Ben and I were the ones watching you?”
His bold question seems to kick her into gear. Her cheeks redden and she turns, striding into her closet as she says, “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess? I assumed you were taking advantage of the opportunity. Thought I’d fuck with you a little…”
I look at Baz, who stares back with both eyebrows lifted. I know what my twin is thinking, and this puts an entirely new spin on our friendship with Elle. This isn’t some benign selfie taken from above, giving us the perfect view down her shirt to those luscious breasts that suddenly appeared sometime in eighth grade. I doubt she even realized how fucking sexy all those pics she used to share with us in high school were. But I haven’t seen the actual show she put on today, so I don’t know what she means by “fuck with” us. Whatever it was must’ve been hot enough to bring Drake to her door like some randy dog.
