Page 1 of Sweet Shots

Chapter One

Mikah

This is getting stale—unsubscribe!

I stare at the comment for far too long. I shouldn’t let it bother me; people unsub from my page daily. It’s common when you have such a high number of followers. But do we need to comment about it? Do we have to be so damn snarky? Is there a reason we need to throw it in the creator’s face? Porn is a dime a dozen. If I’m not doing it for you, shut up and go somewhere else.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I snap my laptop shut, jolting when the loud music next door starts up again. This fucking guy is going to be the death of me.

When I moved into this neighborhood, I was told it was quiet, calm, and peaceful. The perfect neighborhood to raise a family—not that raising a family was my intention, but it’s the setting I wanted. The realtor assured me it was filled with elderly people who walk their dogs just as the sun is comingup and go to bed before it’s dark, and happily married couples with children on the honor roll. And itwaslike that—until my sweet neighbor Clara died of a heart attack and the arrogant jerk, Dominic Blake, moved in.

Clara was kind and would bring me dinner occasionally, dessert a few times a week, and we’d even sit outside on our porches and chat with each other. Our houses are built close together, just ten feet between them, with a white picket fence running through the middle to separate our property. It made for relaxing and memorable evenings, sitting on our swings, and talking about the good old days.

Well, she talked about the good old days. I listened and chimed in now and then because I’m only twenty-seven and don’t know a damn thing about theold days. Listening to her stories filled a part of me I hadn’t known was so empty. She was like the grandmother I never had.

What I do know is that Dominic Blake is an asshole who doesn’t belong in this neighborhood. He blasts music at all hours of the day, the engine on his car sounds like an airplane, and there are people constantly coming and going from his house—I’m pretty sure he’s a drug dealer. Meaning, he should be living in Chicago or New York. Hell, maybe even Detroit, if he’s feeling so damn brave.

The problem is, I’m the only one who sees how disruptive he is. He’s charmed every single person on this block into thinking he’s an angel. Flashing his bright smile and straight teeth, batting those thick lashes that surround crystal blue eyes.And waving at them as he gets out of his too-expensive car. It’s pathetic. I thought these people were smarter than that.

I moved here for peace and quiet. Coming from a big city and a life of pure chaos, I craved the serene setting of a rural town, and when I found this house, I knew it was perfect. Just the right size for me, and the price range was even better. Thanks to my job—as a cam boy for Behind the Lens—I was able to put a hefty down payment on the house, and then have it paid off in just a few months. Soon after that, my car was paid off too. I make sure my bills are paid a week before they’re due, and everything extra goes into savings because you never know when an emergency is going to happen. Yes, I splurge on things because I want to enjoy my money, but I like a big safety net too.

My life is good. I’ve made something for myself here, and the only thing ruining it comes in the form of a man who doesn’t deserve to be as handsome as he is.

Captain Fluffy Paws, my overweight orange cat with an attitude problem, jumps onto the couch beside me and crawls into my lap. I run my hand along his back and scratch at the spot just before his tail. He kneads my thigh, his claws digging into my skin as he gets his daily quota of biscuits made, and I ignore the bites of pain. CP, what I call him for short, isn’t always so lovable. He must need something if he’s being so affectionate—probably food.

“You know you’re on a diet, mister,” I tell him, which causes him to look up at me, his golden eyes bright. He hisses at me, then runs off.

I should have gotten a dog.

I head upstairs to my bedroom to grab clothes for a shower. Just as I reach the doorway, I pause, catching a glimpse of Dominic inhisroom through my window. Our houses are mirror images, and I know this because Clara would invite me over for dinner for the holidays since we were both alone. There’s no way I’d be caught dead in that house now thatheowns it.

Upstairs consists only of a bedroom and a bathroom, while the downstairs is an open layout, with the stairs in the center helping to break up the different “rooms.” As I said, it’s perfect for me—for one person who intends to stay single forever.

Dominic stands in his room, looking in the full-length mirror he has on the wall across from his bed. He’s wearing only a pair of maroon sweatpants that are slung low on his hips and showcase his juicy round ass. He runs his hand up his defined abs, then across his chest and back down again. Jesus, he is so full of himself. Scoffing, I go to my window to close the blinds, but before they move down, Dominic turns toward me and winks when he sees me.Jerk. I scoff, then tug on the cord, thankful that I no longer have to look at him.

After gathering my clothes, I go into the bathroom and before getting into the shower, I make sure my camera is on and recording. Once I check that the settings and angle are correct, I turn on the water and wait a minute for it to get hot before getting undressed and into the shower.

It’s amazing what people will spend their hard-earned money on. I’ve built my platform around my everyday tasks,with the slight adjustment that I’m naked when doing them. Showering—which, obviously, I would be naked for. Getting dressed—people love this for some reason, especially when I take my time. Cooking, though sometimes I will wear an apron because grease burns aren’t fun. Reading, which is one of my favorite things to do. The fun part is—they never see my face.

I record just about everything I do, have cameras set up in multiple rooms, and then go back and edit them all to make sure they can’t see my face. Sometimes there’s a slight side view, but that’s all they get. And it’s not that I don’t want people to know who I am, it’s because this is more fun. More alluring. People like it. They want to know who I am while also not wanting to know. The mystery of it is what people enjoy. I’d considered doing the mask thing, since that’s popular nowadays, but I like having my own spin on it.

I tend to be a homebody and don’t like to go out clubbing or to bars, but that doesn’t mean I’m a hermit and don’t want to meet people. It just means I prefer to stay in my house because this is where all my things are. The things that I like and enjoy. People are rarely on that list.

When I’m done with my shower, I turn the camera to face outside of the shower then dry off, my back to the lens the whole time. Once I’m dressed, I shut it off. The video will automatically upload to my drive, and I’ll work on editing it later tonight. I try to edit videos each day, or else they pile up and it becomes overwhelming. I’d considered getting 24-hour feed, so I don’t have to go through the hassle of turning cameras on and off, butthose get hacked all the time. I’m trying to make money here, not gain a stalker or two. I like my skin on my body, thank you very much.

I’ve been working at BTL for six years and I love it. It’s the perfect job. I get to work alone, do things on my own time, and I come—a lot. I mean, who wouldn’t want their job to physically satisfy them?

Once I’m downstairs, I notice my phone blowing up. Ding after ding after ding. Not having any clue what that could be, since I don’t have enough friends for a ridiculous group chat, I rush over to it. Panic seizes my chest when I see it’s the app I use to monitor my accounts.

Someone has hacked my accounts…

Oh, no. No, no, no!

I log in with trembling fingers, hoping like hell it’s a mistake. I’ve had the app for a while, as a safeguard, but never thought something like this would happen. After scrolling through the tens of notifications, I notice thereport fraudbutton and click on it. I go through the prompts, fill in all the information they ask for, and then just stare at my screen as the notifications keep lighting up my phone. What the hell am I supposed to do? How do I stop this? Notifications about password updates and incorrect passwords and email changes and charges and—charges?

I pull up my bank account app, tap on it, log in, and close my eyes. I know what I’m going to see before I see it and I’m nearly in tears, the weight on my chest getting heavier with each second that passes.

“Please, please,pleasedo not be empty.”

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