Page 4 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)

Chapter Two

SIX MONTHS AGO

THE COFFEE SHOP AT UNIVERSITY AVENUE AND FOREST SMELLS like burned espresso and crushed dreams, which seems appropriate given that I'm about to have my own personal financial apocalypse in a public space.

I've claimed a corner table that's seen better decades, my laptop balanced precariously on a surface that wobbles every time I breathe too heavily, surrounded by a paper ecosystem of medical bills that multiply faster than bacteria in an optimal growth medium.

I take a sip and immediately regret the financial decision. It tastes like liquid disappointment with a foam heart that mocks my current emotional state.

The bill on top of the stack reads $127,000.

One hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars for Kael's initial neuroblastoma staging workup, emergency surgery to remove the primary tumor, and his first round of chemotherapy.

The second bill, slightly coffee-stained from my shaking hands, demands $89,000 for the follow-up treatments that didn't work as well as we'd hoped.

The third bill—the one that made me actually laugh out loud in the oncology billing office, because sometimes hysteria is the only appropriate response—requests $156,000 for the experimental protocol that might give him a fighting chance.

Three hundred and seventy-two thousand dollars. For treatments that might help. Not will help. Might.

My grandparents' inheritance covered the first emergency surgery and two rounds of chemotherapy, wiping out their entire life savings in approximately six weeks.

The house they left us—our only remaining asset—is worth maybe $180,000 in Palo Alto's insane real estate market, assuming I could stomach putting Kael through the trauma of selling the only home he's ever known while he's fighting for his life.

Which I can't. Obviously.

I pull up my banking app for the third time this hour, as if the numbers might have magically improved through pure wishful thinking.

Checking account: $847.23. Savings account: $12.

50. (The minimum balance requirement, preserved like some pathetic financial artifact.) Credit cards: maxed out.

Student loans: also maxed out, and specifically exclude medical expenses for dependents in their terms of service.

Insurance? Don't make me laugh. They've already fought us on every standard treatment, classifying essential medications as "not medically necessary" and experimental protocols as "investigational rather than life-saving.

" I've watched them drop families whose children require long-term care, citing "excessive utilization" as grounds for policy cancellation.

The physics are simple and brutal: I need approximately eighteen thousand dollars per month to cover Kael's ongoing treatment, plus our basic living expenses, plus my graduate school costs.

My fellowship provides $2,400 monthly. Even with the part-time teaching assistant position, I'm looking at maybe $3,200 total income.

There's a word for this situation in mathematics: impossible.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kade.

Kade: How's our favorite little warrior doing? Studio session wrapped early if you need anything.

Kade Killian, lead guitarist for Grimoire and the closest thing I have to family outside of Kael.

We met during my undergraduate years when I was still naive enough to believe that hard work and intelligence would be sufficient to solve any problem.

He's the one who talked me through every panic attack during Kael's diagnosis, the one who somehow managed to get the money we needed for the initial emergency bills, the one who called me every few hours from whatever city Grimoire was playing in to make sure I was surviving.

The memory still makes my chest tight with gratitude and shame in equal measure.

I'd tried to refuse—accepting that kind of help felt like admitting I couldn't handle things alone, something I've never been able to do.

But Kade had looked at me with those dark eyes that see too much and said simply, "Kael needs you functional, not proud. Let me help."

I'd taken the money. Hated myself for needing it, hated the universe for putting me in that position, hated the fact that love isn't enough when cancer doesn't give a shit about your emotional commitment.

I type back:

Me: He's stable. Treatment plan updated again. Trying to figure out logistics.

Three dots appear immediately, then:

Kade: Definition of 'logistics'?

Kade knows me well enough to understand that "logistics" is my euphemism for "financial disaster that threatens everything I care about.

" But I can't ask him for more money. Won't ask.

He's already sacrificed enough for our crisis, and his band is still building their career.

Besides, accepting help once was hard enough; making it a pattern would destroy the independence I've fought so hard to maintain.

Me: Just juggling numbers. Nothing I can't handle.

Kade: Bullshit. Want me to come over?

Me: I’m fine. Focus on your music.

I close the messaging app before he can argue further and return to my spreadsheet of impossibilities.

Maybe if I take on additional teaching responsibilities.

.. but that would mean less time with Kael, less focus on my dissertation, and the financial improvement would be marginal at best. Maybe if I apply for additional emergency assistance programs..

. but I've already been denied by every foundation and charity organization that provides pediatric cancer support.

Apparently, our household income is "too high" for need-based aid, despite the fact that graduate student stipends weren't designed to cover catastrophic medical expenses.

Maybe if I just accept that the universe is fundamentally unjust and some problems don't have solutions...

"I'm telling you, Lorna pays better than any cam site I've worked with," a voice behind me says, cutting through my spiral of mathematical despair. "And the production values are actually professional. It's not some sketchy webcam-in-a-dorm-room operation."

I freeze, my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

"How much better?" her companion asks, and I can hear the skepticism in her voice.

"Like, enough-to-pay-off-my-student-loans-in-six-months better. I made more last week than I used to make in three months working retail. And Behind the Lens has health insurance, retirement matching, the whole corporate benefits package. It's legitimately the best job I've ever had."

Behind the Lens. I find myself typing the name into my browser before I've consciously decided to eavesdrop on strangers' conversations about adult entertainment careers.

The website loads: clean, professional, tastefully designed.

Nothing like the exploitative garbage I'd imagined when I heard "cam site.

" This looks like... a business. A legitimate company that happens to operate in adult entertainment, featuring artists rather than victims, creativity rather than desperation.

"The application process is intense though," the first woman continues. "Full background check, health screenings, mandatory financial counseling to make sure you're making informed decisions rather than desperate ones. Lorna doesn't want anyone working there who might regret it later."

Informed decisions rather than desperate ones. Right. Because sitting in a coffee shop calculating whether I can afford both groceries and medication this week is definitely the pinnacle of informed decision-making.

I click through their "Artist Information" section, my scientific brain automatically cataloging details: profit sharing structure, creative control provisions, comprehensive safety protocols, educational benefits including tuition assistance for continuing education.

Most importantly: Remote work available - no geographical restrictions for streaming content.

Tuition assistance. Remote work.

The numbers on my medical bills haven't changed, but suddenly they don't feel quite as insurmountable. If these women are telling the truth about earning potential...

I close my laptop with decision-making speed that would probably concern my dissertation advisor. Some reactions happen instantly when the right catalyst is introduced, and apparently learning about financial opportunities that could solve my impossible equation qualifies as the perfect catalyst.

I'm dialing Rachyl before I've fully processed what I'm doing.

"Hey, I know this is last minute, but could you pick up Kael from school today? I need to drive somewhere for a potential work opportunity."

"Of course! Everything okay?"

"Maybe. I'll explain later. Thanks, Rach. I owe you."

Four hours later, I'm walking into the industrial district in Soda Springs, having driven through Central Valley farmland with my windows down and music up, trying to convince myself this isn't completely insane.

The converted warehouse has discrete signage and surprisingly elegant landscaping.

This doesn't look like exploitation—it looks like opportunity.

Which is exactly what I need, pride and preconceptions be damned.

Because sometimes survival requires expanding your definition of acceptable solutions. And sometimes the universe provides answers in the most unexpected places, delivered through overheard conversations in coffee shops where you've spent your last discretionary dollars on liquid courage.

I push open the glass doors and approach the reception desk, where a professionally dressed woman with kind eyes looks up from her computer.

"Hi," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'd like to speak with someone about artist opportunities. My name is Sabina Jaspe’.”

And just like that, I stop being a desperate graduate student drowning in medical bills and become someone exploring options I never thought I'd consider.

Me—virgin doctoral candidate in biochemistry at Stanford University, who had never progressed beyond heavy petting with her college boyfriend—applying to work in adult entertainment.

The irony isn't lost on me. I can explain the molecular mechanisms of human sexual response, discuss the neurochemical basis of arousal, and analyze the sociological implications of pornography consumption patterns, but I've never actually experienced an orgasm with another person present.

But maybe that's exactly what makes me perfect for this—I can approach it clinically, professionally, without the messy emotional complications that come from lived experience.