Page 43 of Masked Sins
I’m hard already.
Give me a minute. I’ll call you.
For the first time in months—years—I wish I could take a couple of shots of alcohol to calm my nerves. Then again, I want to remember everything about this, and being drunk would mean I couldn’t think clearly and offer sound advice.
I adjust my erection and pull the burner phone out of the box, activating it in just over a minute and creating a place for it on my bookshelf so that there’s only a white wall behind me. Grabbing the dry-erase board just in case, I dim the lights slightly, grab my desk chair, and set myself up. I also make a mental note to disguise my handwriting in case Layla recognizes it.
Taking a deep breath, I ensure my hood and mask are on correctly before dialing Layla’s number.
Here goes fucking nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE VIDEO
Layla
My phone rings with an unknown number. I make a note of the local area code, and despite trying, I can’t seem to steady my erratic pulse. Despite my nerves, anticipation and excitement make it feel like my heart is being jump started.
I’m currently sitting at my two-person dining table and my phone is propped up on my fruit bowl. I smooth my hair and sit up straighter before answering, and when I do, it takes a second to connect the video. I don’t take a breath until it does, and when he comes into view, I try to swallow down the nerves, but my mouth is too dry to do anything but stare.
Starboy is on mute and sitting in a chair against a nondescript white wall. He’s wearing black pants, and a black hoodie is pulled over his signature skull balaclava. The lighting is dim enough that I can’t make out any distinguishing features like eye color, though his biceps are pronounced well, and I can see them through the thick cotton fabric of the sweatshirt.
My eyes skirt to the small rectangle that shows my video feed, and I realize with heated cheeks that I’ve just been staring at himwide-eyed. I’d changed into sweatpants, and my hair is loose and wavy around my shoulders. I’d debated wearing somethingsexier,but I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression, and also, I’m not exactly known for my sex appeal. When I wasn’t dancing, I was just Layla—a single cat lady who spent her Saturday mornings grocery shopping and her evenings reading about women who got railed by thousand-year-old demons.
I hadn’t even bothered putting in my contacts, so he was getting the real me with glasses, no makeup, and an old shirt that said“Men are better in books.”
Do I say something first? Should I use sign language?
Crap, I’ve even forgotten how to say hi in sign language. In fact, I’ve forgotten how to do anything but stare at the person on the other end of this call.
He leans forward and grabs something, and it takes me a second to see him set a small dry-erase board on his lap and write something out. A second later, he holds it up.
Hi.
I blush. “Hi,” I answer, wincing. “Can you hear me?”
He nods and moves his hands, and it takes me a second to realize he’s asking how I am in sign language. Fortunately for me, sign language has always been easy for me to observe and interpret. I think it’s because I learned it at such a young age, but whenever I see it in real life, I can usually decipher it. I had a student a couple of years ago who was hard of hearing, and I picked it up again really quickly then, too.
“I’m good,” I tell him, slowly signing. “I’m definitely rusty with sign language.” I laugh. I swear he smiles, but I can’t really tell with the mask covering his face. “How are you?” I ask, signing. It helps me to speak the words as I sign.
He shrugs and grabs the dry-erase board, rubbing the previous words off before writing something new. His handwriting is bold and blocky—all caps.
Tired, but better now that I’m talking to you.
My mouth opens and closes. My heart gallops inside my chest, but I decide to play it cool and resist melting into a puddle on top of my dining room table.
“Same,” I say lamely.
He signs something else, and I squint, trying to decipher it. He repeats the motions, and I realize he’s telling me about the book.
“So… the book. Can you tell me about which parts, exactly, you’d like to act out?”
I swallow. “Umm, all of it.”
His shoulders shake, and I realize he’s laughing.
God, I wish I could see what he looks like when he laughs.
