Page 25 of Wicked Scorn
What’s your idea of the perfect date in the Roaring Twenties?
“Hmm, the perfect date,” I murmur, tapping my chin and letting my eyes flutter closed for a moment as I envision the scene. “It would begin at a hidden speakeasy tucked away behind a secret door, where we would sip illicit cocktails and listen to the sultry sounds of a live band.” My voice grows husky as I continue, my words painting a vivid picture for mycaptivated audience. “As the night wore on, we’d find ourselves on a deserted rooftop garden, lit only by the glow of a thousand candles, where we’d share our deepest secrets and desires beneath the watchful gaze of the moon.”
The guys must like that one because their comments are racing by in a blur of longing and envy. I can feel their desire to be part of my world, to experience the intoxicating blend of passion and danger that permeates every moment of my life.
Then, a new message catches my eye.
Do you always wear that same perfume?
My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. The question feels off. Intimate. I glance at the username—a string of random letters and numbers, unfamiliar yet unsettlingly so. Before I can spin out of control, the viewer adds.
Most women have a signature scent. What is yours? I’d love to send you some.
Relief floods me and I reply in what I hope is a breezy manner, “I switch it up.” I try to keep the shakiness out of my voice. I need to maintain control and not let a small misunderstanding send me over the edge into a spiral.
Is your bedroom always tidy?
Another message from the same user. My pulse quickens. How do they know that? My chat is going fast, but this person’s messages are the only ones I’m hyper-focusing on.
Ever thought about streaming without the mask? Your face is stunning. Why hide it from me?
The words feel like a punch to the gut. I’ve blocked this person before. I’m almost certain that this is the guy who was pushy during my last show, asking for a private chat room.
“Who are you, 3u//y1ovr?” I ask, keeping my tone casual despite the unease gnawing at me. The chat continues to scroll, other users oblivious to my rising discomfort.
Just an admirer. Do you feel close to me? Like you know me well?
The response sends a chill down my spine.
“That’s enough,” I say aloud, moving the cursor to block the user. But in that moment, an ear-splitting bang reverberates through the room. A crash shatters the silence. My heart jumps into my throat as the door flies open.
“Jeremiah?” I barely whisper his name. My eyes widen as he storms in, and I’m gripping my laptop like it’s a weapon. His face is twisted with rage—raw, unfiltered anger.
“A cam girl? Are you fucking serious right now?” Jeremiah’s voice booms, filling every corner of the room. He snatches the laptop and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the wall, fragments flying everywhere. The sound of it breaking echoes in my ears, mixing with the pounding of my heart.
“Jeremiah Blackwood, what the hell?” My voice shakes, but there’s steel beneath the shock. “What are you doing?”
“Stripping for strangers on the internet? Really, Oakley?” His eyes burn with accusation. He advances toward me, and I instinctively step back, my bunny mask feeling suddenly ridiculous and useless.
“That’s not—” I start, but he’s already towering over me. A giant hulking mass that is eclipsing me. His presence is suffocating, his rage palpable.
“Don’t lie to me!” he shouts. His hands grip my shoulders, shaking me slightly. “I saw the photos being passed around the locker room. I know what you’ve been doing.”
“You’re being a judgmental prick right now. It’s not what you think it is. It’s not sexual.”
“Then explain why you’re prancing around in that bunny mask?” He gestures wildly at the mask that is still covering my eyes and nose. “You don’t think every guy in that chat isn’t thinking about you naked and the things—” Jeremiah goes silent like his brain is short circuiting. “I will kill every fucking one of them.”
My breath hitches in my chest when he gently slips the mask off of my face and tosses it on the floor on top of my shattered laptop. Before I can speak, Jeremiah is cupping my face in his large palm.
“Let go of me!” I snap, trying to wrench free from his grasp. But his hold tightens. His green eyes, usually so thoughtful, are now wild with something dark and possessive.
“How long?” His voice drops, becoming dangerously quiet. “Do you touch yourself for those bastards? Answer me!” He’s well past the border of psychotic behavior at this point, and yet I’m not scared of him.
“None of your business,” I spit back, defiant despite the fear coursing through me. “You had no right to break in here and destroy my stuff! I’m not doing what you think I’m doing. Even if I was…” I poke his massive chest with my index finger, “…I don’t have to answer to you. I don’t care what you think of me anymore.” That last part is a boldface lie.
“Your stuff?” He laughs bitterly, conveniently latching onto only one thing I said. “Is that all you care about? Your damn laptop?”
“Better than accusing people of things they’re not doing,” I retort. My gaze locks with his, electricity arcing between us. His grip loosens just a fraction, enough for me to step back but not escape the intensity of his presence.
