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Chapter One

Mikah

This is getting stale—unsubscribe!

I stare at the comment for far too long. I shouldn’t let it bother me; people unsub from my page daily. It’s common when you have such a high number of followers. But do we need to comment about it? Do we have to be so damn snarky? Is there a reason we need to throw it in the creator’s face? Porn is a dime a dozen. If I’m not doing it for you, shut up and go somewhere else.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I snap my laptop shut, jolting when the loud music next door starts up again. This fucking guy is going to be the death of me.

When I moved into this neighborhood, I was told it was quiet, calm, and peaceful. The perfect neighborhood to raise a family—not that raising a family was my intention, but it’s the setting I wanted. The realtor assured me it was filled with elderly people who walk their dogs just as the sun is coming up and go to bed before it’s dark, and happily married couples with children on the honor roll. And it was like that—until my sweet neighbor Clara died of a heart attack and the arrogant jerk, Dominic Blake, moved in.

Clara was kind and would bring me dinner occasionally, dessert a few times a week, and we’d even sit outside on our porches and chat with each other. Our houses are built close together, just ten feet between them, with a white picket fence running through the middle to separate our property. It made for relaxing and memorable evenings, sitting on our swings, and talking about the good old days.

Well, she talked about the good old days. I listened and chimed in now and then because I’m only twenty-seven and don’t know a damn thing about the old days . Listening to her stories filled a part of me I hadn’t known was so empty. She was like the grandmother I never had.

What I do know is that Dominic Blake is an asshole who doesn’t belong in this neighborhood. He blasts music at all hours of the day, the engine on his car sounds like an airplane, and there are people constantly coming and going from his house—I’m pretty sure he’s a drug dealer. Meaning, he should be living in Chicago or New York. Hell, maybe even Detroit, if he’s feeling so damn brave.

The problem is, I’m the only one who sees how disruptive he is. He’s charmed every single person on this block into thinking he’s an angel. Flashing his bright smile and straight teeth, batting those thick lashes that surround crystal blue eyes. And waving at them as he gets out of his too-expensive car. It’s pathetic. I thought these people were smarter than that.

I moved here for peace and quiet. Coming from a big city and a life of pure chaos, I craved the serene setting of a rural town, and when I found this house, I knew it was perfect. Just the right size for me, and the price range was even better. Thanks to my job—as a cam boy for Behind the Lens—I was able to put a hefty down payment on the house, and then have it paid off in just a few months. Soon after that, my car was paid off too. I make sure my bills are paid a week before they’re due, and everything extra goes into savings because you never know when an emergency is going to happen. Yes, I splurge on things because I want to enjoy my money, but I like a big safety net too.

My life is good. I’ve made something for myself here, and the only thing ruining it comes in the form of a man who doesn’t deserve to be as handsome as he is.

Captain Fluffy Paws, my overweight orange cat with an attitude problem, jumps onto the couch beside me and crawls into my lap. I run my hand along his back and scratch at the spot just before his tail. He kneads my thigh, his claws digging into my skin as he gets his daily quota of biscuits made, and I ignore the bites of pain. CP, what I call him for short, isn’t always so lovable. He must need something if he’s being so affectionate—probably food.

“You know you’re on a diet, mister,” I tell him, which causes him to look up at me, his golden eyes bright. He hisses at me, then runs off .

I should have gotten a dog.

I head upstairs to my bedroom to grab clothes for a shower. Just as I reach the doorway, I pause, catching a glimpse of Dominic in his room through my window. Our houses are mirror images, and I know this because Clara would invite me over for dinner for the holidays since we were both alone. There’s no way I’d be caught dead in that house now that he owns it.

Upstairs consists only of a bedroom and a bathroom, while the downstairs is an open layout, with the stairs in the center helping to break up the different “rooms.” As I said, it’s perfect for me—for one person who intends to stay single forever.

Dominic stands in his room, looking in the full-length mirror he has on the wall across from his bed. He’s wearing only a pair of maroon sweatpants that are slung low on his hips and showcase his juicy round ass. He runs his hand up his defined abs, then across his chest and back down again. Jesus, he is so full of himself. Scoffing, I go to my window to close the blinds, but before they move down, Dominic turns toward me and winks when he sees me. Jerk . I scoff, then tug on the cord, thankful that I no longer have to look at him.

After gathering my clothes, I go into the bathroom and before getting into the shower, I make sure my camera is on and recording. Once I check that the settings and angle are correct, I turn on the water and wait a minute for it to get hot before getting undressed and into the shower.

It’s amazing what people will spend their hard-earned money on. I’ve built my platform around my everyday tasks, with the slight adjustment that I’m naked when doing them. Showering—which, obviously, I would be naked for. Getting dressed—people love this for some reason, especially when I take my time. Cooking, though sometimes I will wear an apron because grease burns aren’t fun. Reading, which is one of my favorite things to do. The fun part is—they never see my face.

I record just about everything I do, have cameras set up in multiple rooms, and then go back and edit them all to make sure they can’t see my face. Sometimes there’s a slight side view, but that’s all they get. And it’s not that I don’t want people to know who I am, it’s because this is more fun. More alluring. People like it. They want to know who I am while also not wanting to know. The mystery of it is what people enjoy. I’d considered doing the mask thing, since that’s popular nowadays, but I like having my own spin on it.

I tend to be a homebody and don’t like to go out clubbing or to bars, but that doesn’t mean I’m a hermit and don’t want to meet people. It just means I prefer to stay in my house because this is where all my things are. The things that I like and enjoy. People are rarely on that list.

When I’m done with my shower, I turn the camera to face outside of the shower then dry off, my back to the lens the whole time. Once I’m dressed, I shut it off. The video will automatically upload to my drive, and I’ll work on editing it later tonight. I try to edit videos each day, or else they pile up and it becomes overwhelming. I’d considered getting 24-hour feed, so I don’t have to go through the hassle of turning cameras on and off, but those get hacked all the time. I’m trying to make money here, not gain a stalker or two. I like my skin on my body, thank you very much.

I’ve been working at BTL for six years and I love it. It’s the perfect job. I get to work alone, do things on my own time, and I come— a lot . I mean, who wouldn’t want their job to physically satisfy them?

Once I’m downstairs, I notice my phone blowing up. Ding after ding after ding. Not having any clue what that could be, since I don’t have enough friends for a ridiculous group chat, I rush over to it. Panic seizes my chest when I see it’s the app I use to monitor my accounts.

Someone has hacked my accounts…

Oh, no. No, no, no!

I log in with trembling fingers, hoping like hell it’s a mistake. I’ve had the app for a while, as a safeguard, but never thought something like this would happen. After scrolling through the tens of notifications, I notice the report fraud button and click on it. I go through the prompts, fill in all the information they ask for, and then just stare at my screen as the notifications keep lighting up my phone. What the hell am I supposed to do? How do I stop this? Notifications about password updates and incorrect passwords and email changes and charges and— charges?

I pull up my bank account app, tap on it, log in, and close my eyes. I know what I’m going to see before I see it and I’m nearly in tears, the weight on my chest getting heavier with each second that passes .

“Please, please, please do not be empty.”

Swallowing hard, I force my eyes open, and the weight of a freight train smacks me right in the chest.

My account isn’t just empty—it’s negative. By more than five thousand dollars.

I’m going to be sick. Oh my god, I am going to be so sick.

I lower myself to the couch, gripping the arm of the chair for dear life, afraid I’m going to pass out.

This has to be a joke. A sick, terrible joke.

My phone rings, waking me.

“Hello?” I answer, still half asleep and confused.

“Mikah, it’s Nova. Lorna needs to see you in her office first thing tomorrow.”

A weird tickling feeling goes through my chest, and I jerk upright, remembering what happened to me earlier. Someone hacked into my accounts—no, not just that. It seems they stole my identity. All my money is gone. I’m broke. I’m in debt! Oh my god, I’m in debt… I’m going to throw up.

“First thing?” I say, trying to stay calm, considering she’s my boss’s receptionist.

“Yeah, it’s important. Don’t be late.”

I blink a few times, trying to wake myself up. “Can I ask what it’s about? ”

Lorna never wants to see me in her office. I pretty much have free rein to do what I want. I make my own content, put it up on their host website, they take a percentage. The end. I’ve filmed some things at their warehouse before, some solo stuff and quick shots with other people, but I prefer to work out of my home. It’s what I’ve built my platform around, what my fans like, and most importantly, what I like. It’s all perfectly crafted around voyeurism, which far more people enjoy than they are willing to admit.

“Lorna will explain everything tomorrow,” she says, which has a pit forming in my stomach, even though there is a smile in her voice.

Lorna’s going to fire me. I’m not sure why she would. I haven’t done anything wrong, but it’s obvious I’m on a bad luck streak. After everything that happened this morning, why wouldn’t I get fired? Things in my life have been too good for too long. There’s no way my life would stay so simple—why would it? The universe doesn’t love me that much. I was born with bad luck hovering over my head—a Friday the 13th baby and a full moon! If that doesn’t say I’m cursed, I don’t know what does.

We get off the phone and I lay back down, covering my face with my hands. The only thing I want to do is go back to sleep, where I can forget all this nonsense that’s going on. But I have this awful homesick feeling that happens every time something bad happens in my life. It’s like the negativity around me is begging for more, knowing this isn’t the life I belong in. That it’s all fake and on a time limit. My bad luck is trying to find its way home; trying to remind me I shouldn’t be here and instead go back to where I came from. It’s a sickening feeling.

I scroll through my call list and press on Zach’s contact. He answers on the second ring.

“Long time no talk,” he answers, and I hear the smile in his voice.

“My life is falling apart,” I mutter, fighting back tears and staring up at the ceiling.

“Considering you’re there and not here, I’d say you’re doing just fine.”

Always the positive one, he is.

“Someone stole my identity, took all my money, who knows what else, and my boss needs to talk to me tomorrow.”

He whistles, following it up with a, “Yikes.”

I groan. “My life is ruined!”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic, Mikah. I’m sure you’ll get it figured out. You always do.”

“Not the point.” Though I know it’s true.

It’s true, but it’s tiring. I’m sick of fixing my life all the time. I just want to live it. Fighting to survive is exhausting. When is it going to stop?

I’ve been fighting to survive since the day I was born. I nearly died being born addicted to crack because it’s my mother’s drug of choice. I’m lucky I don’t have any long-lasting effects, I understand that, but that doesn’t cancel out all the awful shit I’ve had to deal with in my life.

I’m not sure how I survived as a baby or a toddler; I got into her stash more than once when I could barely walk. How the hell did she get to keep me? I’ll never know. She had a new man every week, and as I got older, they got meaner, intimidated by me for whatever reason. They’d threaten my life and hit me, sometimes more than they’d hit her. It was always my fault, of course. My mother blamed me for everything. I’m not sure if home life was worse than school, since everyone picked on me because I was trailer park trash with a whore mother, even though half the kids in the damn school lived in the same park. I was an easy target because my mother made it so. So, when I found a way out of that place, I left and never looked back.

Zach is my one and only friend, and he’s still there, so I call but won’t visit. And when I have shit days like today, something in me tells me I should just go back and live the life I was meant to. That things won’t look so bad if I’m there.

“How can I help?” Zach asks.

There’s nothing he can do, but I appreciate him asking. He’s supportive and kind and caring, and I wish he would have come with me when I left. But unlike me, he has a loving family and a mother who isn’t a piece of shit.

“I’m not sure you can,” I say. “I emailed someone about it already.”

“So, you just need some patience.”

“Yeah, my favorite thing.”

“I heard that eye roll,” he responds with a laugh. “Maybe you should come visit. ”

“Hell fucking no. I want to feel better, not worse.”

“Seeing me won’t make you feel better?”

I don’t miss the flirty undertone there, though I know better than to take it seriously.

Zach isn’t only my best friend, he’s my ex. Ex-friends with benefits, I guess. We hooked up on and off for years, and he’s the one who got me into being a cam boy. He liked recording us fuck, told me how good I looked on camera, and so I kept with it. When I realized it could make me money, I jumped on that bandwagon, ready to get the hell out of hell. I told him he should do the same, considering how much money I make, but he was worried about people finding out and his family getting shame for it. Plus, he doesn’t have the time to edit and film the way I do. His mother is chronically ill, and he has five younger siblings, three of which are still under eighteen. I offered to help, but still, he wouldn’t accept it.

“Maybe, but I don’t have any money to get there.”

“Like that’s an excuse…”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, locking eyes with CP, who looks like he’s plotting my murder. He’s loafing in front of his food dish, subtly telling me he’s hungry. I already fed him his breakfast and he won’t eat again until it’s lunchtime, no matter how mean he wants to be about it. I’m in charge here; not him.

I stay on the phone with Zach a while longer, and it helps my mood a little. With nothing else to do, I get on with my day, hoping the dread will settle and these people will get back to me about how to fix this. It must be something as simple as reporting it to the companies, right?

Normally I’d make more videos, because I didn’t even come in that last one, but I’m just not in the mood for that. When the sun goes down, and Dominic’s music reaches an all-time high, I put on headphones, listen to my own music, and fall asleep.