Текст книги "Cam Girl"

Автор книги: Leah Raeder

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

But there was something else there, too. Ironically, in the pics where I looked most corpse-like there was a flash of fury, of desperation. Of life.

Blue didn’t attend those shows. I looked for his name, or a variation. Someone called cyan_of_doma lurked one night but when I googled it, I got some video game character. Ellis would’ve recognized the reference. Never heard of Final Fantasy VI? You need some culture, Vada. Staring at paintings all day will rot your brain.

She came and went to the house but I never ran into her. Mutual avoidance.

“Everything all right?” Frankie said, checking in on me.

“Yep.”

“Jasmine says you’ve been doing breath play all day. Take a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s not a request, Morgan.”

So I turned off my cam and lay in lukewarm water in the bathtub, testing how long I could stay under.

The thing about not breathing is no one tells you how addictive it is. That tingling rush, the buzz in every neuron as they eat through oxygen stores and reach for more and find nothing. It feels like a billion minuscule teeth digging into your brain. A shimmering wave of needle pricks starting in your lungs and skittering up your brain stem like a silvery centipede and spreading over your whole scalp, numbing you like a drug.

Yes, I was in love with my best friend. So fucking what.

That’s all in the past.

We fell apart. Broke each other’s hearts and screwed up our friendship. Now I’m adrift, unmoored without her. I keep treading water, looking for land. All I can see is endless blue.

People knocked on the door, calling, “Morgan? Are you okay?”

But they didn’t really mean Are you okay. They meant Should we call 911. Should we find someone whose job it is to care. Who gets paid for it.

What a strange world where we pay people to listen to our problems, and pay them to fuck themselves while we watch, and pay them to save us.

Three days after the kiss, he came back. No private message. The email arrived first: SoBlue has sent you $1,000 USD. When the chat request followed I hit ACCEPT immediately, and didn’t even mind that it felt like a life preserver tossed to someone drowning.

SoBlue: hi.

I stared at the black feed on his side for a while. Then I typed, Morgan is thinking . . .

SoBlue: what is she thinking about?

Morgan: everything

Morgan: my stupid fucking life

Morgan: how I hurt everyone I love

Morgan: how I’ve wanted to talk to you again

Morgan: and how sad that is

SoBlue: why is it sad?

Morgan: you only said hi once

Morgan: you’re not as excited as me

SoBlue: you have no idea how many times i’ve jerked off to you these past three days.

SoBlue: it’s downright superheroic.

I rolled my eyes, but smiled, too.

SoBlue: i’ve thought about you. incessantly.

SoBlue: analyzed every word i said to you.

SoBlue: edited the script in my head so i sound much smoother.

SoBlue: in my version it ends with me saying i want you.

SoBlue: but i want a connection first.

SoBlue: any two people can get each other off.

SoBlue: i want it to mean something.

SoBlue: for both of us.

This guy. He wanted to know me as a person and I just wanted to use him. Like we’d flipped roles.

Morgan: sorry I got defensive last time

Morgan: I’ve been on edge these days

SoBlue: i like that you’re prickly.

SoBlue: it’s real.

Morgan: what do you want to do tonight, Blue?

SoBlue: just talk.

SoBlue: tell me why you’re on edge.

I sat back with my legs crossed. Still in shorts and a sleeveless tee. “Are you a shrink in real life?”

SoBlue: not even close.

SoBlue: but i’m a good listener.

“Okay. I’m prickly because I’ve been . . . fighting. With my best friend. Things are weird between us. They’ve always been weird, honestly, but sometimes it gets more . . . intense. This is intentionally vague.” I narrowed my eyes at the cam. “I can’t let you into my real life. You know that. It’s a safety thing.”

SoBlue: i can read it in your face.

SoBlue: you look like you’re battling something.

“Pretty observant for someone who’s not a shrink.”

SoBlue: i can’t help it when it comes to you.

SoBlue: i drink in every detail.

SoBlue: what are you and your friend fighting about?

“It’s hard to explain. She wants me to be someone I’m not sure I am. She doesn’t realize how scary that is for me.”

SoBlue: have you told her you’re scared?

“Kind of.” I frowned. “Well. Okay. No.”

SoBlue: well. okay. why not?

“It’s complicated. Her parents were horrible to her. She’s really struggled to accept herself.” Great, here I was defending Ellis to Blue. “I’m scared of facing the same thing. My mom loves me, but not this part of me. She wanted me to be something else.”

SoBlue: what did she want you to be?

“A princess. The Disney kind.”

SoBlue: but you turned out to be a rebel princess.

SoBlue: like leia.

“God, you and Elle would get along so well.” I caught my mistake too late—her real name. Idiot. Divert him. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Send me huge amounts of money. I like talking to you. You can pay the normal private rate.”

SoBlue: how romantic.

SoBlue: run away with me.

I laughed. “Why money, by the way? You’re the first rich guy who just sends me cash.”

SoBlue: various reasons.

SoBlue: for one, you deserve it.

SoBlue: you work hard.

“Taking my clothes off isn’t hard work.”

SoBlue: no.

SoBlue: letting yourself be vulnerable in front of strangers is hard work.

SoBlue: what you’re doing is a type of performance art.

I laughed again, darkly.

SoBlue: i’m serious.

SoBlue: the other reason it’s cash is because you’re not a child.

SoBlue: those men who dress you like a doll are afraid of you.

SoBlue: they’re afraid of women.

SoBlue: your sexual power over them.

SoBlue: they want to control you.

SoBlue: i want to free you.

“You do, huh? Like Han Solo freeing Leia from being a sex slave?”

SoBlue: that analogy is impressively on point.

“Yet here I am, your captive instead of theirs.”

SoBlue: you don’t have to be here.

“Taking payment without rendering service is unprofessional.”

SoBlue: i’m not paying for service.

SoBlue: and i don’t care about the money.

SoBlue: spend it. donate it to charity.

SoBlue: it’s yours.

“Come on. Nobody’s that selfless. Even altruism is motivated by some kind of subconscious self-interest.”

SoBlue: i thought my ulterior motive was obvious.

“Enlighten me.”

SoBlue: if you’re talking to me, you’re not talking to anyone else.

SoBlue: you’re all mine.

I shivered. “So it is about control. You want me all to yourself.”

SoBlue: i’m not noble.

SoBlue: i don’t want anyone else looking at you this way.

“How are you looking at me, Blue?”

SoBlue: like nothing else exists.

SoBlue: like i’d tear the world down just to touch you.

In my head, I saw him. Leaning over his laptop, the cool glow tracing his jaw, the skein of tension running along it.

And I felt guilty, that this lonely guy had fixated on this unavailable girl.

So I did what I do best.

“Listen, this is fun, but I have personal rules about clients. I don’t get involved. This is my job.” I shrugged. “I cam for other men. I get off with them. I’m not yours. The only person I belong to is me.”

It was pure bravada, but the more I sold it to him the more I could sell it to myself. I didn’t need anybody else. Not Ellis, not anyone.

SoBlue: i believe you want that to be true.

SoBlue: but part of you wants to belong to someone.

SoBlue: and i want it to be me.

“You’re paying me, Blue. I’m performing for you. It’s an act. I’m an actress.”

SoBlue: it’s never real?

“Sometimes I fantasize to get in the mood. Like method acting. But that’s just . . . mental lube. It’s an aid, not genuine.”

SoBlue: do i make you feel anything real, morgan?

My breathing sped up. I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed.

Morgan: this feels different

Morgan: you’re different

SoBlue: how?

Morgan: you don’t demand I get you off

Morgan: you don’t pose me like a doll

Morgan: but I still feel how much you want me

Morgan: it’s infuriating

Morgan: you’re the biggest clit tease ever

SoBlue: how poignant.

SoBlue: two sexually unfulfilled people, torturing each other.

SoBlue: dancing around it dizzyingly.

Morgan: you’re a sadistic bastard

Morgan: what are you getting out of this?

SoBlue: i want to see how long you can go.

Morgan: until what?

SoBlue: until you beg me to fuck you.

I pushed back from the keyboard, riled. “I have the power. You’re paying me.”

SoBlue: you’re right.

SoBlue: let’s try shifting the balance.

“What does that mean?”

SoBlue: it means this.

SoBlue: you have your money.

SoBlue: enjoy your night.

SoBlue left the room.

Session ended. Total: 35:44.

I stared at the screen for a good minute after he logged off, dumbstruck.

Then I started to laugh.

You sweet, sadistic bastard.

My night was mine.

This week of literal wallowing meant my room was a sty of dirty clothes and lowball glasses sticky with whiskey like caramel. Time to clean. I opened the windows to let the night breeze in, heady with brine and rust, elemental. Starlight winked on the water like fish scales. On my way back from the laundry room my foot hit something crinkly on the attic steps.

A bag of gummy bears. No note.

Ellis.

I clutched it to my chest, my heart going fast.

Max was digging into the accident reports. He didn’t believe my story. He’d tried to talk to Elle alone, knowing she’d buckle without me to guard her back.

If he went after her again, he’d find me square in his path.

Our last meeting played over in my mind. The gun, and his hands on my body. He wanted closure. Maybe he wanted something else, too.

That gun, though.

Why had it been in police evidence? Why did Ryan have it that night?

Something happened, something Max wouldn’t tell me. Something that made him feel like a bad father.

For the first time since the accident, I googled Ryan Vandermeer.

When people die today they don’t disappear, leaving only their best legacies, their highlight reel. Now we leave behind an epic mess of the mundane. Drunk texts. Offensive Facebook comments. Dick pics. Hate memes. All the splintery, slimy flotsam of a life, the stuff that used to be swept out to sea when we died, forgotten.

Now it remains. And you can collect it like driftwood and piece together a life.

Did you know your son was depressed, Max?

Ryan’s Twitter didn’t contain much. Mainly he retweeted others, but the retweets were telling: angsty lyrics, moody black-and-white photos. Quotes about self-loathing and despair.

His Twitter name matched a Tumblr full of photos.

I recognized Maine: long, empty roads running naked to the ocean. Pines so still they looked almost fake, painted in. Profound silence in those photos, a strangled, breathless quiet.

Over time he switched from landscapes to macro shots: broken bottles glinting in the weeds, bullet holes peppering a road sign. Rust so thick you couldn’t tell what it had once been eating: a railroad spike, a chain link, a key.

Body parts.

Hands at first: lithe and long-fingered, rivered with veins. Gripping, clenching. Fists. Then the arms, and then the cuts in the arms, thin hashes from wrists to elbows, bright red ribbons against white skin.

His skin.

Boys who self-harm are at a higher risk of suicide than girls, because cutting is seen as a “girl problem.” We expect boys to lash out and girls to turn inward, on ourselves. Gendered violence. We ignore the signs in boys, more worried that they’ll bring a gun to school, or refuse a girl’s no.

I saw a pain boiling so deeply not even cutting himself open relieved the pressure.

Artists were no strangers to self-harm. Van Gogh sliced his ear off. Petr Pavlensky’s whole career revolved around self-mutilation: he sawed through his earlobe, sewed his mouth shut, nailed his balls to the ground. In a way, tattooing was similar: a rite of pain that forever altered the body, our skin a living canvas. My scars were called “art.” Ryan’s scars were just scars.

He’d captioned some of his photos with fragments of thoughts, feelings.

who am i

i don’t recognize myself

all i see is a stranger

And the most telling, and most cryptic:

there’s a bomb inside me, waiting to explode

There was something wrong with Ryan before Ryan ever got in that car. And Max was trying to hide it. Shift the guilt to someone else. If he found a scapegoat, he’d pounce in a heartbeat.

I knew this because I knew he was like me. Expert blame deflectors. Masters of denial.

And he was eyeing Ellis as a potential target.

If he thought I’d let that happen, he had no idea who I was.

You can fight for your ghost, Max, but I’ll go down fighting for mine.

I peered into the green gloom, then pushed the door open and called, “Burglar here. Anyone home?”

A ruff of ginger hair poked up from the loft bed. There was something of the O RLY? owl in Elle’s just-woke-up face.

“Rise and shine, little bird.” I lifted the bag. “Breakfast.”

Suspicious squint. Her head disappeared.

I’d set the coffee table and sat on the floor by the time Ellis climbed down, all bedhead and confusion, wearing only a tee and men’s tight undershorts. So disarmingly cute. She eyed the food, then me, with astonishment.

“What is this?”

“Bagels and lox and Americanos. Sit.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Hiked up to the café.” I offered her a paper cup. “Olive branch?”

“Vada, you don’t have to—”

My bad hand wavered. The cup began to tilt and she took it just in time.

Goddammit. I couldn’t even apologize right.

“Okay,” Ellis said softly. “Olive branch accepted.”

We ate in silence while the sun rose, a line of Day-Glo orange torching the horizon. Sunlight streamed through the leaves like stained glass, dappling the cabin with patches of rose and gold. Smoked salmon melting on my tongue. Wood creaking in the breeze. It calmed me, the smallness and peace of this moment. We’d had so many moments like this, me and her. A breakfast spent sitting quietly in the sun. A smile from a train window that stuck with me all day. They gathered in my mind, bright grains of sand shoring up against a dark wave.

As we finished our coffee I said, “I want to show you something.”

I sat beside her on the couch. She shifted her bare leg away from mine.

“There’s some stuff we didn’t know about Ryan. Stuff that might be important.” I switched my phone on. “These will be hard to look at, but I need you to.”

I showed her his photos. The tame ones first. Then the bloody ones.

Ellis covered her mouth.

“He was a cutter,” I said. “This was going on for months, at least.”

She stared at the screen. “Do you think he was trying to kill himself that night? Like, intentionally drunk driving?”

“I don’t know. But some weird shit’s happening here.”

Our gazes flickered toward each other. Then she touched me, briefly, tracing the heart of my palm. Just once, but it lingered in my skin like the buzz of a tattoo needle.

“There’s something else,” she said. “Tell me.”

“Promise you won’t get mad.” Before she could consent, I said, “I’ve been going to see Max these past few months.”

Her mouth fell and I realized how it sounded.

“Not like that. Nothing skeezy.”

“But why at all? Vada, what are you doing?”

“I needed someone to talk to. And so did he. His girlfriend left him; he rarely sleeps. He just works on his boat or sits around obsessing.” I looked away from her face, self-conscious. “I could relate.”

“I see. All that time I was texting you, begging you to respond, and you were talking to him.”

I thought of Blue. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

“Well, I’m glad you found somebody.” Her voice was dry and cool. She stood and paced away from me. “What have you been talking about?”

I almost snapped, What about you and whoever’s in your house?, but the absurdity stopped me. She’d said she hadn’t moved on. When we’d kissed, I believed it.

“Nothing important. Until last time, when he unveiled those reports. Elle, he’s going to find things that’ll cause trouble for us.”

“What things?”

“Discrepancies.” A beach-glass dreamcatcher hung from the branch above us, and when the sun shot through, it sprinkled our skin with aqua confetti, like sea spray. “But there are discrepancies in his story, too. The last time I was there he had a gun.”

“Oh my god.”

“He didn’t threaten me. But he said strange stuff. Ryan had the gun the night he died, and the police took it. Then Max said he was a bad father and clammed up.”

Elle frowned, spooling her bangs around one finger.

“It’s weird, right?” I said. “Why would they take the gun?”

“Criminal evidence.”

“But there were no charges in the accident.”

“Maybe he’d already used it. Or planned to.”

We stared at each other, our minds whirring.

“Something happened to Ryan,” I said. “Before that night. All of this points to something really bad.”

“What does it have to do with us?”

“Max won’t let this go. Trust me, I know him. He has nothing but this. He’ll obsess.” Just like me, obsessing over what’s gone. “He’ll keep digging till he finds closure. And if he does, I could go to jail.”

“Why?”

“I lied to the police, Elle.”

She sank to the couch, eyes wide and imploring. “Tell me exactly what happened that night.”

“You weren’t driving, I promise.”

“Don’t lie for me.”

“I’m not.”

She was holding on to a breath, scared to let go. “I remember things, sometimes. Little pieces come back at random. Vada, I remember getting in the driver’s seat.”

I put my hand on her knee, and she didn’t pull away. “You did. But I made you get out.”

“Is that our story, or the truth?”

“Both.” My palm slid higher, unambiguously. “Art is a lie, remember? And all communication is art. We’re never entirely honest. It’s not possible.”

“Do you really believe nothing’s honest?”

“This is. Feeling.” The heat of her skin drew at mine. My hand ran up her thigh to the hem of her tight boxers. “I missed you, Ellis. So much. Eres mi todo.”

You’re my everything.

Her eyes half closed. “Don’t start with the Spanish.”

“Why not?”

“Your voice gets this little growl in it. Like a cat.”

I gave her my best Cheshire grin. “Esta gata te quiere, pajarito.”

On a sun-scoured L train platform in Chicago, the concrete reflecting heat like foil, three Latinos hassled a girl, talking loudly in Spanish about the “red birdie” and flicking their tongues at her and meowing. She got the gist. She clutched her messenger bag to her knees, trying to hide her long bare legs.

I walked up to the group of guys, smiling. “Hey,” I called. “Hola.”

The ringleader, handsome, all stubble and sharp jawline, smiled back.

“¿Qué tal, mami?”

“Déjala tranquila o te arrancaré los cojones, cabrón,” I said.

His eyes bugged. His friends burst into laughter, wild and yipping. He hustled them away, elbowing them when they glanced back at us.

The redhead gave me a quizzical smile. “Thanks, I think. What did you say?”

“Just told him to leave you alone.”

She seemed dubious. I sat beside her on the bench.

“We have a class together,” I said. “I’m Vada.”

The girl stuck her hand out. “Ellis.”

I looked at it, laughed, shook. “Got a business card?”

“Oh, sorry. Not on me. But I can give you my—” Then she saw my face and blushed. “You’re making fun.”

I laughed again, warmer, and she lowered her gaze shyly, but a smile crept over her lips. Her face had an elfin androgyny, fey lines filled in with a soft bloom of watercolor. Orange-red hair raked around her face like flames. She was tall and reedy, sylvan. Instantly I was dying to draw her.

“What did you actually say to that guy?”

“ ‘Leave her alone or I’ll rip your balls off, asshole.’ ”

Ellis’s mouth dropped.

“Think he got the message?” I said.

“Yeah. Probably. Jeez.” She laughed, fluting and sweet. “Can you teach me that? How to swear in Spanish?”

I grinned. “Sí, mi pajarito rojo.”

“What does that mean? What you just said.”

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me something.”

Her eyes flashed, nervous, thrilled. “What?”

“Let me draw you.”

(—Bergen, Vada. My Little Red Bird. Watercolor and ink on paper.)

Ellis framed my face with her hands. “Why did you leave last time?”

“It was too intense.” I combed my fingers into her hair, leaning closer. “But when I was alone I couldn’t breathe. Everything feels like drowning except you. You’re my oxygen.”

“We have to talk about this. For real.”

“Can we not and pretend we did?”

“Yeah, sure. Because normal people talk about their relationship, and we’re obviously not—”

I cut her off with a kiss.

It was light, halting, because I wasn’t sure it was okay, only that looking at her made my chest ache, made me feel the stark hollowness in my lungs, that place where I was unfilled. But once her mouth was on mine, warm silk parting against my lips, I was certain. This was right. This was air and light and life. I pushed her against the couch, kissing her harder. My hair tangled across my eyes and my knee slid between hers and I wanted every inch of our skin to touch, to totally connect. Her legs tightened around my thigh. She pulled me close but held my face, stopping. Ran her fingers against my mouth. I kissed them, felt her heart slamming like a sledge beneath mine.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Not fighting it anymore.”

“Not like this, Vada. I want this, but it has to be real. And you’re not ready.”

“You started it last time.”

She slipped out from under me and got to her feet. Flushed, palms upraised. “Let’s call a truce.”

I sat up calmly. “A kissing truce?”

“An everything truce. Tabula rasa. Start over.”

“We can never really start over, Elle.”

She turned solemn. “Well, let’s try. Let’s be friends for now, and see if we can even get along.”

“I thought you wanted more.”

“I do. But not the way it was. We have to do better.”

At that moment I just wanted the old us. I wanted to go back to how things were before that night. When we went to art exhibits and comic cons, rode trains across the city so we could sit shoulder to shoulder and scuff our sneakers and talk, moved in together because not seeing each other every day was unbearable. Then we hooked up with people we didn’t love so we could break up and console each other, cuddle on the couch in pajamas and watch Netflix all day, as friends. Just friends. The pretense wore thinner until one day, we stopped pretending. Then we were best friends with benefits.

That was my naivete. There was a reason it didn’t work out.

“Okay.” I stood and cupped her shoulders. “Just friends. But you’re still my prince, always.”

The look in her eyes made me shiver. It seemed so sad.

We couldn’t really go back to square one. Couldn’t undo our closeness. It was mixed-up forever, one part friendship, one part something else. So I put my arms around her, and though she stiffened she let me hug her, then returned the embrace, softening. No words needed. Just her head on my shoulder, and her cheek to my cheek, and her heart against mine.