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

Chapter Three

PRESENT DAY

"You're glowing," Rachyl announces, sliding into the booth across from me at the campus coffee shop with her usual dramatic flair.

She's carrying what appears to be a venti something-with-extra-everything and wearing an expression that suggests she's been waiting weeks for this conversation.

"Like, legitimately radiant. Either you've discovered the fountain of youth or you've finally gotten laid.

Please tell me it's the latter because I have been worried about your vaginal atrophy situation. "

I nearly choke on my americano. "Jesus, Rach. Could you announce my sexual status a little louder? I don't think the entire engineering department heard you."

"Don't deflect with sarcasm," she says, settling into her seat with the determination of someone who's not leaving without answers.

"You've been mysteriously unavailable for weeks, you're suddenly able to afford organic groceries instead of the ramen-and-hope diet, and yesterday I saw you actually smile at your phone.

That's either new dick or a personality transplant. "

"Why can't it be professional success? Career advancement? Academic achievement?"

"Because your idea of professional success involves explaining molecular structures to undergraduates who think chemistry is just an excuse to play with Bunsen burners.

That doesn't typically generate the kind of income that pays for new clothes.

" She gestures at my outfit—a fitted sweater that actually fits properly instead of hanging off my shoulders like academic depression.

"Plus, you've got that glow. The kind that comes from regular endorphin releases. "

I take a deliberate sip of coffee, buying time to figure out how much truth I'm ready to share.

Rachyl and I have been best friends since freshman year, bonded by our mutual appreciation for intellectual discourse and our shared ability to consume alarming quantities of caffeine and wine.

But there's a difference between close friendship and explaining that your mysterious income source involves explaining advanced scientific theory while undressing for your audience.

"I got a new job," I say finally. "Freelance work. Educational content creation."

"Content creation?" Her perfectly manicured eyebrows disappear into her hairline. "Like YouTube tutorials? Podcasts? OnlyFans?"

The way she tosses out "OnlyFans" like it's equivalent to YouTube makes me wonder if she's more perceptive than I've given her credit for.

"Educational streaming," I clarify, which is technically accurate if you consider adult entertainment educational. "I explain scientific concepts to online audiences. Turns out there's a surprisingly robust market for accessible science communication."

"How robust are we talking?"

"Robust enough that I can afford Kael's treatments without selling the house or accepting charity from well-meaning friends who think money solves everything."

The slight barb hits its target. Rachyl has offered to help financially more times than I can count, always with the casual generosity of someone whose trust fund generates more in quarterly dividends than most people make annually.

I appreciate the offers and resent them in equal measure—appreciation for the genuine care, resentment for the implication that my problems are simply funding issues rather than complex systemic barriers.

"Okay, but seriously," she leans forward, lowering her voice to what she probably thinks is a whisper but still carries to the neighboring tables, "you're being weirdly evasive about this.

What kind of educational content pays well enough to cover experimental cancer treatments?

Are you like, the Bill Nye of cam girls or something? "

Before I can formulate a response that's both honest and socially acceptable, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Dr. Patterson's office. I hold up a finger to Rachyl and answer immediately.

"Ms. Jaspe’? This is Dr. Patterson. I have Kael's latest test results, and I'd like to discuss some new options with you. Are you available to talk?"

My stomach drops. In my experience, doctors who want to "discuss options" rarely call with good news. "Yes, I can talk. Is everything okay?"

"His current markers show that the neuroblastoma is becoming resistant to our standard protocol, which we expected might happen. However, I've been in contact with colleagues at UCSF about an experimental treatment that's showing remarkable results in early trials."

"Experimental meaning...?"

"It's a targeted immunotherapy approach that's still in Phase II trials, but the preliminary data is extremely promising. We're talking about potential remission rates significantly higher than anything we've achieved with conventional treatments."

My heart starts beating faster. "What's the catch?"

"The treatment isn't covered by insurance yet since it's investigational. The cost per round is approximately seventy-five thousand dollars, and we'd need to plan for at least four rounds to determine efficacy."

Three hundred thousand dollars. The number hits me like a physical blow, even though I've become accustomed to astronomical medical expenses. But this time, instead of panic, I feel something that might actually be hope.

"How soon could we start?" I ask, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.

"If you can arrange funding, we could begin within the month. I know it's a significant financial commitment, but Sabina, this could be exactly what Kael needs. The response rates in similar cases have been extraordinary."

After I hang up, I sit staring at my phone for a long moment. Three hundred thousand dollars. Six months ago, that number would have sent me into a full panic attack. Today, it feels challenging but achievable. My Behind the Lens income, could actually cover it.

"Bad news?" Rachyl asks gently, her earlier teasing replaced by genuine concern.

"Actually, good news. Potentially really good news." I look up at her, and for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe properly. "There's a new treatment option for Kael. Experimental, but showing incredible results."

"That's amazing! What do you need? I can?—"

"I can handle it," I interrupt, but not unkindly. "The content creation work is going really well. Better than I expected."

"Sabina," she says carefully, "I love that you're independent and capable, but you don't have to handle everything alone. If this is about money?—"

"It's not about money anymore." And as I say it, I realize it's true. For the first time since Kael's diagnosis, financial impossibility isn't the primary obstacle. "It's about finally having options that don't require me to compromise my autonomy or accept charity I can't repay."

"So this mysterious educational content really pays that well?"

I take a deep breath, realizing that partial honesty might be the kindest approach. "I work for a company called Behind the Lens. They produce high-quality educational content for adult audiences. I explain scientific concepts in an accessible, engaging format."

"Adult audiences meaning...?"

"Meaning people who appreciate intellectual discourse combined with... visual appeal."

Understanding dawns across her features, followed immediately by something that looks like respect rather than judgment. "Holy shit, Sabina. You're like, a sexy science teacher for grown-ups?"

"That's probably the most flattering way anyone's ever described it."

"Are you kidding? That's brilliant! You're literally using your expertise to fund Kael's treatment while maintaining complete creative control. That's not exploitation—that's entrepreneurship."

Her enthusiasm surprises me. I'd expected shock, maybe concern, possibly judgment. Instead, she looks genuinely impressed.

"You're not horrified that your best friend works in adult entertainment?"

"I'm horrified that you thought I'd be horrified," she counters.

"You're brilliant, beautiful, and capable of making your own choices about your body and career.

Plus, you've found a way to monetize your PhD-level knowledge while helping people learn about science.

That's like, the ultimate feminist career move. "

"Even if I'm still technically a virgin explaining sexual response to people who tip for educational demonstrations?"

"Especially because of that! You're proving that expertise doesn't require experience, that intellectual authority isn't diminished by personal choices, and that women can control their own narratives in industries that typically exploit them.

" She raises her coffee cup in a mock toast. "To my brilliant best friend, who found a way to save her nephew's life while revolutionizing science education for horny adults. "

"Jesus, Rach."

"What? I'm proud of you. This is you taking control of an impossible situation and creating solutions instead of accepting limitations. That's badass."

Before I can respond, my phone chimes with a notification from the Behind the Lens app—a sound I normally keep muted during the day but forgot to silence after last night's stream. I glance at the screen expecting another generic fan message, but instead see:

Roman: Caught your last stream. Your explanation of chemical bonding was fascinating. We'd love to discuss a potential collaboration. -Roman Cross, Fractured Theory

I stare at the message, my brain trying to process the information.

Fractured Theory—the indie rock band that's been climbing the charts for the past year.

And my current musical obsession. Roman Cross, their lead singer and songwriter, just messaged me through the Behind the Lens platform about my Hidden Chemist stream.

"What?" Rachyl asks, noting my expression.

"I think I just got propositioned by a rock star."

"For sex or science?"

"That's... actually unclear."

"Either way, your life just got significantly more interesting."