Page 12 of Taken Off Camera
My camming setup barely covered rent, let alone furniture, but Saint never complained. Not when the springs dug into his back. Not when I burned the first meals I tried to cook.
We’ve been watching each other’s backs ever since.
“How’s the arm?” I gesture toward the sleeve that covers a knife wound he got last month while dealing with another predator we tracked down.
Saint rolls his shoulder in demonstration. “Stiff in the mornings. Fine otherwise.”
I frown in concern. “You should let it heal before the next one.”
His expression shifts, the hunter awakening. “Naw. I don’t like that this guy’s already gotten so close. I’ll deal with him before he escalates.”
The familiar cocktail of guilt and gratitude washes through me. Saint has his own career now, working security for various clubs and offering the occasional muscle for hire, but he drops everything when I call. Eight years since that night at Omega House, and he’s still showing up with metaphorical baseball bats when I need him.
“You hear back from your contact at the cybercrimes unit?”
“Yeah. They picked up the Alpha who was targeting the young Omegas online that you flagged last month.”
Pride swells within me. Another one caught. Another predator off the streets. “Charges sticking?”
“Enough evidence to put him away for fifteen years, minimum.”
We share a look of grim satisfaction. This is what we do now, what we’ve done since I taught myself to hack and Saint taught himself how to hurt people without getting caught. We hunt the hunters, protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
“To the next one.” Saint raises his glass in another toast.
I click my glass against his. “To justice on our terms.”
“So,” Saint begins in a way that makes my spine straighten, “you’ve been quiet about your Tuesday night regular.”
I scowl at him. “Didn’t we agree not to talk about him?”
“I just worry about you.” His finger traces the rim of his glass. “It’s not healthy to get too caught up in the fantasy.”
“Mind your own business,” I mutter, though there’s no real heat in it.
“You’re my business.” The edge of protectiveness in Saint’s words would annoy me coming from anyone else. “Two-hour private sessions where you do what, exactly?”
I trace a water ring on the tabletop with my fingertip. “We talk.”
“Talk.” His flat tone conveys his skepticism.
“Yes, talk. Not everyone wants to see me naked, believe it or not.”
Saint leans forward, elbows on the table. “So this rich guy pays premium rates to chat? Don’t you think that’s weird? You’re selling a product he’s not using.”
My skin prickles with the memory of GentlemanX’s low murmur in my ear last night, theway his presence seemed to wrap around me even through the digital distance. “He’s sweet. He ordered dinner for me.”
“He what?” Saint straightens in alarm. “You gave him your address?”
“No, of course not. He sent me tokens, and we ate together. On camera,” I add, seeing Saint’s expression darkening. “It was nice.”
“Nice.” Saint repeats the word like it’s foreign. “An anonymous Alpha who won’t show his face spends hundreds of dollars to watch you eat, and you think that’s nice instead of creepy?”
Put that way, it does sound weird. But the memory of falling asleep to GentlemanX telling me a story doesn’t come across as predatory. It carries an intimacy my other sessions never reach.
“When he talks, it feels…” I trail off, unsure how to explain the strange sense of safety that comes from a man who’s never shown me his face.
Saint’s eyes narrow. “You’re blushing.”
