Cam Girl

by Leah Raeder

  “What if I want all of you? What if I gave you an ultimatum, like he did? No one else. Only me. You wouldn’t do it.”

  Would I?

  Elle stared at the bear and abruptly bit its head off.

  I laughed. “You are being so Freudian right now.”

  For a while I putzed around in the game, killing drunken ogres. I looted a rare item and the tooltip said it’d sell for a ton.

  “Elle, how are you on money?”

  “Rolling in it. I have this system worked out for gaming the auction house—”

  “I mean in real life.”

  She fidgeted. “Oh. I’m fine.”

  “That means you’re not.”

  “Don’t, Vada. Brandt’s family is helping me with bills.”

  “You have that nice big house on the promenade and you’d rather live in a tree. You are an elf.”

  Ellis rolled her eyes.

  “Why are you staying out here, anyway? It can’t just be for me.”

  “It’s easier to meet with Frankie when I’m nearby.”

  “Are you avoiding your cousin?”

  “No.”

  “Do you not want me to meet him?”

  She shrugged. “I just like it here. I like when things are simple.”

  “But you like me, and I complicate the fuck out of you. Explain that, Professor.” I frowned, thoughtful. “If you won’t take my money, you’ll take my gifts. Only a jerk rejects a gift.”

  “Open your mouth.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Is this about looking gift horses in the—”

  “Open.”

  I did.

  Elle scooped up a handful of red gummy bears and stuffed them in. “There. Now be quiet.”

  I choked, trying not to spit. Swallowed. Set the laptop aside.

  Then I tackled her.

  “Oh, no. Truce, truce, truce.”

  “You have violated our peace accord for the last time, Ellis Carraway.” I pinned her to the mattress, straddled her waist, and grabbed some gummies. “Now you must pay the ultimate price.”

  “What price?”

  I leaned in close. “Eating the blue ones.”

  Elle made unhappy noises as I fed them to her one by one. She was too well-mannered to spit them out, but she glared, and bit me, which made me laugh and leave my fingers in her mouth, taunting. Then the humor dissolved. Suddenly I was acutely aware of her body between my legs, her chest heaving. The heat of her tongue on my fingertips. Her eyelashes lowered and she sucked two fingers in to the knuckles, and everything tied to my spine unraveled.

  “You’re drunk,” I said, my voice husky. “We’re just friends, remember?”

  I pulled out but she held on, kissed my fingertips, my palm.

  “Do it for me,” she said. “What you do for him.”

  “You want a show?”

  “No.” She looked at me meaningfully. “Pretend I’m him. Not one of your clients.”

  Well, I was drunk, too.

  I rose from the bed, holding on to her hand. Drawing her with me. I wasn’t really sure where this was going till I pulled the chair from my desk.

  “Sit.”

  Ellis sat obediently, gazing up at me. She still wore street clothes but I was in a cami and boyshorts. I grabbed my phone, queued a track on the room speakers—some slinky, sultry Jaymes Young—and turned back to her.

  I’d done this on cam dozens of times. But my heart had never raced this way before.

  Let’s do this, alcohol.

  I raised a leg and set my foot between her thighs. Instantly her demeanor changed—lower body tensing, upper relaxing. Resisting and submitting at once. I trailed a finger inside her collar, traced her clavicle around to the nape of her neck. Stroked the short hair there. She bit her lip, eyes closing a moment.

  Touching her was like touching water. She responded instantly, fluidly, in a way that felt as if I painted myself into her. I swung my leg astride her lap, grasped her collar. Every time my fingertips brushed her throat I felt her pulse collide with mine. I undid her first shirt button, sketched the V of skin, then the next and sketched lower. Stopped at the top of her bra and instead lifted her glasses off. Without them she looked even more androgynous. When I drew close studies of her face, you couldn’t tell her sex. Sometimes a very pretty boy, sometimes a very dashing girl. A canvas you could fill with anything.

  She was shy at first, but I finally convinced her to pose for me. She sat in a bath of pink-gold afternoon sun while my hand and eye traced her. My strange, bashful sylph. The light inflamed her hair and brought color to her skin, a blush of apricot in cream.

  I set my pencil down.

  “Did I mess up?”

  I smiled. “You’re doing great.”

  We’d been roommates for months. I knew she’d dropped out of high school. I knew she had an IQ of 161, though she resented her parents making her take the Mensa test. I knew she was gay.

  I knew she had a not-so-secret crush on me.

  I got up and crossed the room. Drawing made me a little drunk, the normal inhibitions—don’t touch your roommate’s face, don’t ask her to take her clothes off—seemingly arbitrary. I perched on the windowsill and pretended to gauge the failing light, running my fingers over her cheekbones. You are so beautiful, I thought.

  “Can I move?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, you can move.”

  Elle’s shoulders sagged. She adjusted her glasses. “Sorry. I’m too twitchy for this.”

  I took the glasses from her face and slid them into my shirt pocket.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey what? You don’t need to see.” I pulled a bang free and framed her face with it. “I have an idea. But you’ll hate it.”

  Those lucent peridot eyes stared up at me. “What?”

  “I want to draw you”—I let the strand fall—“nude.”

  I was sure I knew the answer already. Sure I knew her shyness, her reservation. But she stared back without blinking, then said, in a quiet, brave voice, “Okay.”

  (—Bergen, Vada. What Falling Feels Like. Oil on canvas.)

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whispered now.

  Our eyes met. My blood burned beneath my skin, excitement rippling over me like a film of cool silk.

  I rolled my hips against her, our bare legs grazing, soft as sin. Her hands went to my back and pulled me closer. I unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way, let it fall open. Skin to skin. This body I’d drawn so many times I knew it better than my own. This body I’d held so many nights I hated to sleep alone anymore. Our limbs twisted together and I ran my hands over her ribs, her breasts, her throat. She touched me back with featherlight fingers, wing tips flickering against my skin.

  “Does he touch you like this?” She cupped my ass, pulled my hips to hers, and I groaned and rocked into it.

  “He can’t.”

  “Because he’s not real.” Ellis held me tightly now, looking up into my face with that smoky squint that undid things in me. “He doesn’t make you wet like I do. He’s just words on a screen. This is real, Vada. Us.”

  All the blood in me rose to meet her skin. I was drunk and turned on like fuck and I lowered my head to kiss her, but she put her hands on my face, holding me back.

  “We’re just friends,” she said. “Remember?”

  It had been like this that long-ago afternoon, too. I’d taken her shirt off and my hands wouldn’t leave her body and then hers were on mine. I’d straddled her lap like I did now, twined myself with her, and simply breathed. And even though I was insanely horny and wet, it felt perfect to stop there. Right at the wild trembling brink. Before we kissed, before anything else.

  In the kink world they call it edging. Taking yourself to the shivering edge of climax and pulling back before you come. Stop, wind down, start over. Again and again until discipline shatters. Blue loved it, loved jerking off while he watched me fuck a silicone cock until I was about to explode, then told me to pull out. Wait. Let desire rage and coo
l. Start again, angrier, meaner. Desperate.

  You could do it with intimacy, too. Hold her in your arms and put your hands on her body and stop before you hit the edge. Run full-tilt for oblivion and pull back at the last second, over and over. It was a way of having something without having it. Of having someone. And I’d done it to her so many times because I was just lonely, it was just closeness. We were just friends.

  The lie we kept telling ourselves.

  Ellis slid both hands into my hair and stared into my eyes. I let her have her way, let her press her lips to the cords of my throat, my collarbone, not quite kissing. Let my body sink against hers, my face in the curve of her throat. Hair tangled, hearts aligned. Beating together. Perfectly synced. She stroked my back as if drawing me, shading in the bones and hollows. Filling me with her shadows the way I filled her with mine.

  “How does it feel?” she whispered.

  Just as quietly, I answered, “Real.”

  * * *

  In the morning my bed was empty. The old ache surged till I rolled over and saw Ellis sitting in the window seat, staring into the misty milk-white light. She wore a T-shirt of mine and balanced her laptop on her knees. When she gave me a small, serene smile I fought a crazy urge to drag her back into the bed.

  “Hi,” she said. “We’ve got a lead.”

  “Hi. Wait, what? Show me.” I levered myself up on my bad hand and my head filled with neon red. My arm gave out. I flopped back onto the mattress. “Fuck my life.”

  “Is this going to be a bad day?”

  “Feels like it.”

  Elle helped me dress. It felt wrong, letting her do this not because it was sensual but because I physically could not do it without pain. Jaw clenched. Body bristling. I stared at the wall behind her and pretended it was a game, just role-playing. The wounded fighter. The valiant whatever.

  I needed caffeine before I could process new information. Down in the kitchen she poured coffee while I waged a losing battle with the frustration colonizing my face.

  “Talk to me,” Ellis said. “I know you need to vent.”

  I yanked open the cutlery drawer and grabbed a handful of teaspoons in my good fist. Spread them on the counter before her, the silver jingling musically.

  “Ever heard of the spoon theory?”

  “No?”

  “This is me.” I counted out ten spoons and shoved the rest aside. “Like a video game. This is my life bar. These are my hit points for the day.”

  “Okay.”

  I picked up a spoon lefty. “This is what it costs me to wake up, when it feels like a shark is chewing my hand off.” I flung the spoon into the sink and it banged on steel.

  Elle watched me warily.

  “This is taking a shower.” I flung another at the sink. It missed, skidding over the counter and onto the floor. “Getting dressed.” Another. “Eating breakfast.” One more.

  She didn’t blink.

  I nudged the remaining six together. “This is what’s left of me when I start the day. This is how much of me I have to give.” I slumped on the counter, suddenly fatigued. “Six spoons, and everything I do will cost more. When I’m out, that’s it. I can’t pull the zipper on a hoodie, or buckle a seat belt, or cut my meat for dinner. I can’t hold still without being in pain. And tomorrow might be worse, so maybe I should’ve saved a spoon or two today, as a buffer. I never know.” I flung the drawer open, swept the rest back inside. “It’s always in my head. How many I have left. How many it costs to do something. It’s like doing taxes for my body, constantly. And the counting itself costs a spoon. And feeling shitty about feeling shitty costs another.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Invent a time machine.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” Elle gave me a rueful smile, and I softened inside. “Have I ever made you feel bad about this? In any way?”

  “No. You always treat me like me. And I love you for that.”

  Her lips parted but before she could speak, Frankie walked in.

  “Good morning, ladies.” When her eyes settled on me something ticked in them. “Can we talk alone?”

  “You can say anything in front of Ellis.”

  Rose bloomed in Elle’s cheeks. Frankie shrugged.

  “It’s about the private sessions.”

  Fuck. Blue. “Yeah?”

  “You’ve barely earned a dime for me all month. You don’t work the room anymore. No tips. Just these private shows with a guy who’s paying you on the side. But you’re still living here, using my bandwidth, my equipment, my security. And that makes me feel, well, used.”

  “It’s a temporary thing. I have a—motivated client.”

  Frankie leaned on the counter, folding her arms. “I’m not a hard-ass. What you do on your own time is fine, as long as you fulfill your contractual responsibilities. But you haven’t been working for me. You’ve been working for yourself.” She raised her palm and a gold ring flashed, a loop of sun. “If you feel the contract is unfair, we can discuss it. Perhaps renegotiate some terms. But I need to know where your head’s at. If you’re thinking of striking out on your own—”

  “I’m not.” I avoided looking at Ellis. “I let it become too personal. I’m sorry.”

  “Morgan, you know better than that. Clients are clients.”

  “I know.” Clearly not.

  “This needs to stop. Not just for me. It’s for your own good, darling.”

  I rotated a coffee mug on the counter. “So you need me to cam publicly?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if my client doesn’t allow that?”

  “Drop the client.”

  “What if I pay you a percentage of what he pays me? Then you’re still getting a big cut. That’s fair, right?”

  “It’s not just about money. I’ve shaped our brand around you. On the traffic you drove to the site. You were my number one cammer all summer. Our reputation rests on you, Morgan.” Frankie sighed. “In the last month traffic’s been down thirteen percent. The only change is you.”

  “Okay. What’s my deadline to fix it?”

  She laid a hand on my arm. “No ultimatums. You’re an adult, and a friend. Just take care of it.”

  Somehow that was less comforting than a simple deadline.

  “I’ve got to run,” she said. Then her gaze flicked between us rapidly, taking in our messy hair, Elle wearing my shirt.

  “What?” I demanded.

  Frankie pursed her lips as if holding back a smile.

  When she left I faced Ellis. She had that too-innocent look that meant she was trying not to smile, either.

  Great.

  Even when I wasn’t sleeping with my best friend, people thought I was sleeping with my best friend.

  I lifted my mug. “So, what’s our lead?”

  * * *

  Sergio Iglesias. Twenty-one. Bartender up in Bar Harbor this tourist season. About to head home to Boston.

  Alleged ex-boyfriend of Ryan Vandermeer.

  “This is pretty much our only hope,” Ellis said, “because now our cover’s blown.”

  One of our fake profiles was outed. Word spread about someone poking into Ryan’s past. In an apt Maine idiom: they clammed up.

  “Then we’re going to Bar Harbor,” I said.

  Ellis and I eyed each other a moment. We both took a deep breath.

  But I said it first.

  “I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  We headed northeast through trees turning shades of vermilion and cantaloupe, a wildfire frozen in a single still frame, the flames caught midleap against a hard blue sky. I took coast roads, threading along the ragged rocky shore. The last time we were in a car together was the night of the accident.

  I hadn’t really driven since then, boats notwithstanding. And it felt so good being back behind the wheel that in less than ten minutes, I was speeding. Just a touch. Everyone speeds, anyway. I was smart about it.

  “Detective, I didn’t have a
single moving violation in seven years.”

  Ellis was edgy. I switched on the radio and she switched it off. We drove up ocean roads splashed with crisp champagne sun, the air cool and tinged with the sweetness of dying leaves, and I started singing Chester French’s “Nerd Girl” to cheer her up. It was pretty much her theme song.

  She flipped the radio back on.

  “Is that commentary on my voice or song choice?”

  Elle turned the volume up.

  I laughed. She scowled, but I saw the tug of a smile.

  We were cruising up a two-lane highway, approaching a semitrailer in the oncoming lane, when it happened. An SUV darted out to overtake the semi. It barreled straight at us, easily going sixty, the driver instantly panicking and veering left. Elle shrieked something unintelligible. The truck edged to the right to avoid our imminent collision.

  In my head, it played out in cinematic slo-mo. The SUV peeled one way and the semi the other and I angled smoothly into the opening zipper of space between them. I hit the horn with my bad hand, too weakly to even trigger it. We slipped between two roaring walls of steel, coming out unscathed and untouched on the clear blacktop beyond.

  “Oh my god, oh my god,” Elle was saying.

  All three of us pulled onto the shoulder, signaling that we were okay—the trucker concerned, the SUV driver rattled. I waved back, totally calm.

  Then I looked at Ellis and unbuckled my belt. “We’re okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “Hey, look at me. We’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

  She would not stop shaking.

  “Are you going to be sick? Do you need to get out?”

  “No.” She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. “Oh god. I’m so glad it was you.”

  “Glad it was me what?”

  Elle pulled back to look at me. “Driving.”

  I held her for a long moment. The way she said it made me wonder.

  Are you finally starting to remember?

  We were quiet the rest of the way to Rockland, where we stopped for lunch on the harbor. But neither of us was super hungry so instead we walked down the long granite breakwater, a stony finger stabbing deep into the blue heart of Penobscot Bay. In the distance the tiny sails could have been stuck on toy boats. I took photos of smashed whelk shells and algae braided like mermaid’s hair while Elle perched on the edge of the breakwater, vaping, staring at the horizon.