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It’s not expensive for me. It’s honestly pocket change,Terror dismisses.I wouldn’t spend money on you if I didn’t have money to spend. Do you not want them?
No, I want them, I promise, and a moment after I send it, I see that I’ve gotten way more money as a tip than I’d need to cover the purchases and shipping.You sent me too much.I wish I could send some back to you. I could’ve calculated shipping and told you what I needed.Is that guilt stirring in my stomach? Maybe. But then again, it could also just be excitement at theamount of money in my account. There's enough left over to get pancakes again.
I didn’t send you too much. It’s fine, love. It’s perfectly fine. Will you order them for me, please?
I don’t respond until I do so, and in a few quick movements I screenshot the order confirmation and crop out all of my information except for the part that shows that I did, in fact, buy what he wanted me to.
Thank you. You’re such a good girl.
God, it does wicked things to me when he says things like that. But all I can think to say, again, isthank you.
You’re welcome. I have to go ‘attend’ to my boyfriend for a little while, but I hope I’ll see you on Sunday. Get yourself something nice tonight? Coffee, if you like it.
I fucking love coffee.
I will. I’ll get a giant caramel macchiato and think of you the whole time,I joke.Thank you, again. I know it’s kind of a lame response, but I really appreciate this. Thank you so much.
Good night, love.The finality has me certain he’s not going to reply anymore, and I close my laptop then sit back with a sigh.
This is wild, frankly. I don’t understand what either of them sees in me. How can I, when they’re the only two who see anything at all past someone to beg to take off her mask, take off more clothes, and just domorein front of the camera?
And yet, both Mask and Terror don’t treat me like that at all, for all of Mask’s enthusiasm about me being into CNC and wanting to see me in a tail.
“Coffee,” I tell my ceiling, pushing the other stuff from my brain. “You’re going to order coffee and a croissant. And you’re going to stop worrying about your sexy strangers for now.” Though is it really worrying when I wish I had cause to talk to them more often? Or that I wish that somehow, maybe, they were close enough for me to meet at least once?
Never,I tell myself, shutting down that thought instantly.They could be crazy. They could be serial killing cannibals.
Or worse, a soft, unfriendly part of my mind adds.They could hate you in person, couldn’t they?And that, I think, is the scariest part of all.
Chapter 11
Ishould’ve said no.
The thought rings clearly in my brain as my old, worn combat boots hit the sidewalk. I look up at the frat house, able to pick it out from the other houses with ease. It isn’t difficult, after all. The aura of stale, cheap beer and girls who are prepared to lower their standards for the night radiates off of it like steam; and I can’t believe I’ve let Juniper bring me back to this house in particular.
“You okay?” She comes closer to me, looking incredibly attractive in a short black dress that barely covers the top of her thighs. She wears boots similar to mine, but without the cracks and creases, and her purse is slung over her shoulder.
I grimace. “Tell you what. I’ll compliment you all night so you don’t have to swagger around here looking for it. All night, and we’ll watch whatever you want for a week. All I ask is that we go home.”
“No,” Juniper replies, smiling sweetly while shutting down the plea I make every time we do this. “If you didn’t want to come, you could’ve stayed home. It’s not like Idraggedyou here against your will. Hell, you’re the woman who told me she hada new outfit she wanted to wear almost before I finished saying what I wanted to do.”
The sad part is, she’s right. I tend to forget how much I dislike frat or sports house parties until the last minute, and this is it. The eleventh hour. The penultimate moment where this outing tips into compulsory unless I want to get an Uber and go home.
Not that I couldn’t. I have more than enough money, thanks to my new fans, and I could absolutely call a car to take me home. Though, since I spent almost an hour getting ready and came all the way here, it feels like a waste to do so this early.
“An hour,” Jun promises, smoothing her lacy dress that zips up the back from ass to neck. “An hour, and I’ll be over it. Marcus is here, and I would really like to see him. Is that okay with you?” She’s not really asking, but I lift my chin imperiously anyway before answering.
“Fine. I suppose. But I will be counting the minutes,” I sniff, crossing my arms over my chest. If I’m honest, I’m excited to get to wear this somewhere, since the skirt had only come in the mail earlier this morning. It’s dark purple plaid and brushes the top of my knees or just about. Only, one side of it is completely open, like someone forgot to sew it together, and under it you can see the attached black shorts that hug my thighs. A belt sits at my waist, and I’ve skipped the tights today so my legs are bare under the skirt-shorts combo. I hadn’t been sure what to wear with it, and had eventually settled on just a black, cropped tee that’s already ridden further up under my boobs than I would’ve liked.
But hey, at least my tattoos are visible and look great. Without a hoodie or tights, they’re all on display, and I’ve never loved them more than I do now that I have my snake and flower arm and hand tattoo.
“Sure. Why don’t you set a phone alarm so you can be sure to catch merightat sixty minutes. Time starts at the door, I presume?” She sets off at an easy pace, locking the car behind her as I take a few longer strides to catch up. Even with our boots on, we’re almost the same height. She’s an inch taller than me, maybe, but it barely makes any difference unless someone is really looking.
She takes the lead up the sidewalk and we automatically go round to the back of the house, where the large deck looks out into the yard and in-ground pool. Sure enough, other students have jumped in. With clothes or in their underwear. I’d never have the balls to do it, but I can’t help but do a quick survey of those actually in the water before hopping up on the deck with Juniper.
Well, at least it isn’t the hockey house. My fingers graze along my tattoos as we go in, with Juniper flashing a grin instead of a twenty to get us in the house. It works. It always has, and I follow behind her as the scent of weed and, predictably, stale beer slams into my face like a wayward traffic cone.
It takes only a few minutes for my boredom to set in. Though as I watch, Juniper comes alive at the chance to socialize with people she barely knows. She’s a born socialite, and it isn’t a coincidence that her major is in marketing, where she’ll do a lot of face-to-face interactions in her work.
