Page 22 of Beg for It

CHAPTER ONE

ALEKS

He’s right where I want him.

I round the corner, ready to take the enemy down. Rifle raised, finger on the trigger. Until a grenade launches through the window and the guy explodes in front of me.

“Boom, baby.” Parker’s posh London accent chimes over my headset.

“Asshole,” I huff into the mic.

Damn it. I wanted that kill.

“Hey, there’s a guy left on the roof,” Jackson’s deep voice swoops in.

Mine.

With only a few seconds left on the clock, I race up the stairs, reloading my ammo as I go. I’m cutting it close as I push through the door and onto the roof.

Ten, nine…

The enemy spins around, throwing out a flash bang. But he’s not quick enough.

Eight, seven…

My bullets rain down on him.

Five, four…

The confirmed kill pops up just as the grenade hits, assaulting me with a fuzzy white light.

Two, one…

I smirk as the word VICTORY splashes across the screen, followed by my match statistics.

31 Kills, 4 Deaths, 15 Assists. Not bad. Scanning the rest of my team, I silently groan when I see that Parker got three more kills than me. He is going to be such a little shit about it.

Parker and Jackson switch on their webcams, their respective blue and green masks popping up on my right monitor. Sighing, I tug off my headset and grab my red LED mask. Once it’s secured over my face, I position my mic closer and turn on my own webcam.

“I just want to say I owned you all that round.” Parker gloats.

“First, we’re on a team, so we all won. Second, you died fifteen times, which kind of cancels you out.”

“Aw, come on. Can’t you give me a little credit?”

“Nope.”

My eyes flick to my third monitor, turned vertically so I can better track the chat board while I stream. Most of the comments are babying the hell out of Parker right now. Typical.

I stretch my arms over my head, leaning back in my chair.

We’ve been streaming for six hours now, and the edge of exhaustion is starting to bleed into my stiff muscles.

I feel a slight breeze and realize the bottom of my shirt has ridden up.

Fuck. My eyes dart back to the chat, and I tug the top back down before shaking a finger at my webcam.

“You guys should know better than to ask me to strip for free.”

Suddenly a donation for two hundred dollars pops up with the message “take it off.”

“You asked for that,” Jackson chuckles. I roll my eyes knowing no one can see it through the mask. Whatever. I’m more than used to it at this point; it comes with the territory.

“Anyway, thanks for joining The System tonight everyone. We’ll see you next Sunday.

” I watch various versions of the sad face emoji fill the chat.

Every time they act like this, as if we don’t stream forty hours a week.

“Come on, you know I’ll be on tomorrow night.

We have to continue my current Death Valley 5 role-play; can’t forget about that nurse I kidnapped Friday night.

” Our moderator drops the link to my last solo stream into the chat. “Alright, Blade out.”

I click the END STREAM button and switch off my webcam without hesitation, leaving Parker and Jackson to do whatever they want. The three of us spend the first thirty minutes chatting before we start playing, so I don’t see the need to stick around any longer when we end.

I let out a sigh as I tug the mask back off and set it next to my keyboard.

Over the course of the stream, I had a total of 239,450 viewers on my channel, which is pretty average for our joined streams as The System.

The numbers always rank a little higher when we are together—probably because my viewers know it’s the only time I show my “face.”

Pushing away from my setup, I stand and stretch out my legs just as Sydney, our publicist, comes barreling into my room.

“I would be congratulating you on having a good stream and for keeping it tame for the sponsor if not for the fact that I found out you haven’t officially RSVP’d to the Vazer Stream Awards after-party.”

“Syd, I already agreed to go to the VSA itself, isn’t that enough?”

Her brow twitches slightly as she levels me with a look.

“Aleks, you had to agree because you’re winning a damned award.”

I groan, falling back into my chair. Ah, yes.

Nothing like being the lucky recipient of this year’s Golden Vazer Award—an award given to a veteran streamer who has significantly impacted and influenced the gaming and streaming community.

It’s a sick award and I’m proud of it, but it’s a pain in the ass that I have to physically receive it on stage.

Well, technically I don’t have to, but Sydney would sooner drug my ass and drag it there than let me skip out.

“I don’t care. You know we can’t drink or eat with the masks on. The after-party isn’t happening, Syd.” I fold my arms and stare at her. She purses her lips, holding my gaze for a solid few seconds before letting out a huff.

“Fine,” she pops a hand on her hip and points a single manicured finger at me, “but you have to promise to actually play nice with Davis Monroe.” I let out another groan, one that borders on a whine, at hearing the name of the Vice President of Vazer.

“Nu-uh, Aleks. You blew him off at the last gala. This one’s in his name, so you can’t pull the same shit. ”

Saying I blew him off is putting it kindly given the fact that I told him I would rather eat glass than sit through another conversation of him trying to kiss my ass.

He was probably too humiliated to give Sydney the exact wording.

Which means that there’s a good chance that I could pull the same shit.

“I’ll promise you a single civil conversation with the man.” I reach out my hand, and she narrows her gaze, turning the words over before meeting me in a firm shake.

“Deal. I left your new suits in the living room with the others. And before you whine, yes, Aleksander, you have to do the yellow carpet.” She spins on her heels to leave, but her tiny body smacks right into the naked chest of my roommate as he comes jogging into my streaming room.

She recoils, falling right onto her ass, and glares up at him.

“Whoa, sorry, Syd.” Parker reaches out a hand to pull her up, and she rolls her eyes before taking it.

“What is it, Parker?”

“Just wanted to see if I could switch out that shirt you put out for me to wear on Saturday for this one.” There is an electric blue dress shirt in his hand that he holds up with a wide grin.

Knowing Parker, it’s probably a limited-edition shirt from some exclusive European designer that costs a stupid amount of money.

Parker is the heir to the Covington Hotel conglomerate, a chain of high-end hotels throughout Europe that has recently expanded to the United States.

The number of people he knows, and the depth of his bank account, has no end.

“No. We agreed on all black for everyone.”

Parker places his free hand on her shoulder and leans in with a sneaky smile.

“Come on. Just think how good I’ll look. Blue mask. Blue shirt. Perfectly styled hair. I’ll be a walking PR wet dream for the cameras.”

“Parker, no. I—”

“Thanks, Syd. Love ya, babes.” His accent thickens on the last words before he sprints back out of the room.

She rubs the bridge of her nose muttering, “You boys are the reason I have preventative Botox at the age of twenty-seven.”

“It’s a good thing we pay you the big bucks, then.” I stand up and ruffle her head before dipping out into the living room.

Parker, Jackson, and I all live in a six-bedroom penthouse apartment with a large wraparound balcony.

Three of the rooms we sleep in, three we converted into sound-proof streaming rooms. The place has an open floorplan and is pretty minimalistic, just decked out with a lot of neon signs and limited-edition gaming memorabilia.

There’s even an obnoxious poster of the three of us on the wall next to the black leather couch, which sits in front of a sweet ninety-inch TV with surround sound.

There are floor-to-ceiling windows lining the east side of the room, where the kitchen is, and the south side, leading to the balcony.

The windows and outdoor space were the main things Parker wanted when we picked an apartment, and the twenty-four-hour gym and sauna were the main things Jackson wanted.

I just wanted enough rooms so we could stream and sleep in the same place but in separate rooms. We owned a warehouse a couple of years back where we streamed and edited, but it was annoying to travel back and forth each day to sleep when we were streaming for hours on end.

Half the time we ended up crashing on a shitty couch, which was killer on our backs.

I swipe a water from the kitchen fridge, chugging it as Sydney comes to rest on the island.

“I’m serious, Aleks. Don’t pull the same shit you did at the Streamzies awards, okay? Wear the outfit I put out, please.”

“That leather jacket cost two thousand dollars, Sydney.”

“It was a black-tie event, Aleksander.”

I sigh and grab her hands, looking her directly in the eye.

“I, Aleksander Knight, promise you, Sydney Lake, that I will not only have one civil conversation with Davis Monroe, but I will also wear the exact outfit you have requested with only minimal changes.”

“No changes.”

“I’m wearing my necklace.”

“Fine. Minimal changes.”

I let go of her hands with a chuckle and circle back to the fridge.

It’s almost midnight, and I’m starving. The nights where I stream, dinner falls to the back of my mind.

It’s not until I finish that my body begins to register the hunger.

I pull out one of tonight’s servings of dinner that has been prepared by our chef, Alicia.

Sydney hired her two years ago when she noticed that Parker and I were surviving off packets upon packets of two-minute ramen as dinner after our late-night streams. She said the sodium would kill us one day.

Syd is a cross between an annoying little sister and a mother hen.

You never really know which one you’re going to get on a given day, but we love her all the same.

“Can you heat one for me?” Jackson’s deep voice rumbles into the room as he drops himself onto one of the island barstools.

“Fine. But only because of that triple kill you got in the last three minutes.” I pop the lids off two containers, inhaling the smell of homemade lasagna, before shoving them both in the microwave for a few minutes.

“Alright, I’m heading home. I expect pictures before you leave for the event.

And please don’t screw anyone in the bathrooms.” Sydney pauses right before entering the elevator and spins back around.

“Scratch that, please don’t attempt any sexual acts with anyone at the VSAs.

I hate the media fallout from streamer drama.

Okay, thanks.” The elevator door closes on her tense grin.

“She’s still pissed about that time you finger banged that chick at the Streamzies,” Jackson chuckles.

“That’s because she said no fucking. Fingering didn’t count.”

The event was over a year ago, but Syd still uses it as leverage.

The girl, some stream bunny, had gone around bragging to all of her friends after our little rendezvous.

The news spread faster than an STI in a nursing home, and I was a trending hashtag, again.

Everyone was talking about how, even after all these years of streaming, I hadn’t grown out of my bad boy ways.

And yet these same people wonder why I stopped going to events.

Why I drew back from the toxic limelight.

I wonder just how much trouble I would get in if I sent a body double in my place to the VSAs…

The microwave beeps, jarring me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I toss a set of forks on the island before pulling the lasagnas out and taking a seat next to Jackson.

The food is piping hot, but my starving body inhales it anyway.

All the while, I plan for some way to make this upcoming ceremony a little more exciting.