Page 47 of Anti-Player

Chapter Fourteen

Mikel

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I'm sitting in my livingroom when my phone beeps.

The notification makes my hair stand on end.

Fawn of the Dead has begun streaming! Watch Now!

After trying to get in touch with Paige for two days, having all my texts, calls, and even knocks on her apartment door ignored, I'm desperate for her to reach out to me. But I don't expect this. Why would she go into hiding to escape all the harassment just to pop up in the place that had destroyed her?

I fumble with the beer in my hand, drop it, see it spill all over my thick white carpet, and ignore the resulting mess because this is more important. Quickly I click the link that takes me to the app on my phone where I can watch Paige's stream.

The chatroom is packed with viewers. Apparently there's plenty of people eager to see what she's up to even if many have unsubscribed. I'm afraid to log-in after my last fiasco with the tip; the insane number of threatening emails I have gotten makes it clear people hate me.

My security guard downstairs is working over-time to keep hecklers out of the building. I even disabled my buzzer because strangers were running up to the Rometto Complex, pressing it to alert me, then running off again before anyone can see their face.

So now I watch Fawn's stream anonymously. I can't type messages, but it doesn't matter; she isn't responding to my phone texts or calls—this won't be different, I assume. Beyond causing more chaos if MikelH of sudden internet trolling fame appears.

I join the mounting thousands watching the black screen. I don't know what's going to happen. My heart is tortured by anxiety that continues to ratchet up as I sit there. I wish I didn't spill my beer, alcohol could dull the edge somewhat.

The screen flashes—I gasp out loud. There she is. There she really is.

Paige Pixley, the woman I love, is sitting in front of her camera. There's no VR suit or cute cartoon persona to hide behind. Her video is poorly lit, not as nice as she normally has. Over her shoulder I can see a white wall, the corner of some sort of movie poster. Where is she streaming from?

The corners of her eyes are red, bloodshot, and swollen. Even the tip of her round nose is ruddy like she's been playing in the snow. Paige isn't crying right now, but she was recently. And god, she looks exhausted. I want to reach through the screen and scoop her into my arms, protect her from all the terrible people wasting their energy to make her miserable. I hate all of them—hate them to the marrow of my bones—because they dared to harm my woman.

“Hi everyone,” she says, her voice cracking. My heart cracks along with it. Her pain is written on her face in the purple hollows under her eyes. She lifts her fingers—they're shaking—and tucks her brown hair behind her ears. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. I mean it. Because what I'm about to say is incredibly important, and I want all of you, everyone who has ever been a part of my world, to hear it.”

My neck twinges from how tense I am. My face is inches from my phone, eyes itching, but I don't dare blink. What is she going to say?

Paige clears her throat. I glance briefly at the chat, see the rude messages already scrolling by. I ignore them and pray she does the same. She says, “I owe everyone an apology.”

“No,” I hiss, “you don't!”

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