Page 56 of Taken Off Camera
I’m sorry. I took advantage. You deserve better. —S
Eight words. That’s all he left me with after three days of passion, after sinking his teeth into my neck and changing my life forever.
My apartment reeks of sweat and stale takeout. Coffee mugs form a cityscape across every surface, ring stains marking the passage of sleepless nights. Pizza boxes lean against the trash can, which needs to be emptied.
I stare at my laptop, where the screen has fallen asleep, leaving a glossy, black surface to reflect myface. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes, and my hair sticks up in greasy spikes from running my hands through it too many times. Five days without showering will do that.
“Coward,” I whisper to the empty room, uncertain if I mean Sebastian or myself. “Fucking coward.”
My phone vibrates, and I lunge for it, heart racing, only to find a notification from my bank.
The text glares back at me: PAYMENT FAILED. Twice. Rent and utilities. My stomach drops, a burn rising in my throat like I swallowed acid. All the cameras in the world can’t stop the slow unraveling of the life I built for myself.
The stream used to pay for everything. My apartment, my independence, and my freedom to choose when to let someone close.
Now I can’t even keep the lights on without leaning on Saint.
I’ve been off-camera for almost two weeks now. No streams, no income. All because Sebastian convinced me to go dark while we tracked down Travis.
I kick at a pile of clothes, sending them skittering across the hardwood floor, and my foot connects with a solid object beneath the fabric. Wincing, I bend toretrieve the box Sebastian’s dildos arrived in, now empty because I flung them at the wall the day after he left.
We’d been so excited for my Heat, and instead, it ruined everything.
A knock at the door pulls me upright, my pulse quickening.
Saint has a key, and Sebastian… Well, Sebastian has no intention to return.
Another knock, more insistent.
I set the box down and creep toward the door, paranoia sliding cold fingers down my spine. The peephole reveals a bored delivery person holding a package and scanning the hallway.
My palm flattens on the door, fingers spread. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Micah Barnes.”
My stomach clenches. “Leave it at the door.”
The delivery person sighs. “Need a signature.”
I run through my options. Ignore them and risk them coming back? Or face my fear and deal with this? Five days of silence have left me raw, angry, and reckless.
I unlatch the door, leaving the chain on, and peer through the crack. “Slide the pad through.”
With a roll of his eyes, the delivery person pushesan electronic signature pad through the narrow opening. I scribble a signature with shaking fingers and pass it back, watching as he props the package against the door frame.
“Have a nice day,” he calls over his shoulder, already heading for the elevator.
After they disappear, I count to ten before I unhook the chain and snatch the package, slamming the door behind me. The locks slide into place with satisfying clicks. One, two, three.
The package weighs little, wrapped in brown paper with my name and address printed in computer-generated font. No return address.
I peel back the tape to reveal a manila envelope, and inside?—
I drop the glossy eight-by-ten photo of myself, taken through my apartment window. The angle suggests it was shot from the building across the street, capturing me in profile as I worked at my desk, taken before the blackout curtains went up.
But the image itself isn’t what turns my blood to ice. Red scribbles block out my face, with crude words scrawled across my chest.
Slut.
