Page 9 of With This Mask

I’ve seen his videos before. He simply goes by the username Vice. He always, always wears this beautiful skull mask that somehow looks like a 3D printed mask of the most expert ever face paint job. His face is painted black beneath, so it’s impossible to tell what he really looks like. But damn… Over the last few months I’ve learned that masks do something for me.

Somehow, Vice’s two minute long videos can turn into ten, fifteen minutes. The masked figure on the screen exudes an effortless confidence that both intrigues and intimidates me. It’s a transition video. He starts out dressed all nerdy, acting insecure. And then the beat of the song drops. The lights switch to a deep red, and suddenly the masked man is shirtless. The camera angle changes and let’s just say I’m suddenly flat on my back staring up into that skull mask as he does a very impressive and steady rhythm.

A spark of jealousy ignites in the pit of my stomach as I watch. I wish I could be this bold, this confident. The man just owns the camera. He likes that hordes of people are watching. He isn’t self-conscious about a single inch of his body. He unapologetically embraces it, and his own desires.

As the video ends, leaving a lingering heat in its wake, I find myself falling into the pit of my own mind.

Embracing the fact that I have sexual desires and fantasies is something I’ve never been able to do. Why? Probably a thousand factors. The world telling me that if I act a certain way, I’ll be labeled a whore. Maybe it has something to do with my very religious grandmother who always told me to press it so far down, it most certainly doesn’t exist. Maybe it was the two boyfriends I’ve ever had who seemed completely oblivious to how a woman’s body works and the fact that a man has never brought me to orgasm. Or maybe it’s just an overall lack of confidence. I’ve always been the academic one who had to prove herself with snark and sharp wit. Leaning into my feminine side was a sign of weakness. So allowing that to come through in the bedroom?

I don’t even know how.

How liberating it must be to shed inhibitions and reveal oneself without fear or reservation.

I watch Vice’s video again. And something stirs in me. I want that. I want to be able to show someone myself without shame or fear of judgement. I want to lean into my desires and just revel in the moment.

But I don’t have a clue, or the guts, to even take that first step.

chapter five

The buzz of the intercom shatters the stillness, and I jab the button harder than necessary. "It's me," I say, my voice steady despite the jittery beat of my heart.

"Come up, fifth floor, apartment A." Alec's voice, detached as always, crackles through the speaker.

I steel myself as I enter the building. Instantly, I feel like a fish out of water. Everything is brand new, every surface polished. Every bit of decor screams money.

This building was only finished three years ago, and I’m just now realizing that it’s probably not a coincidence that it was finished just before Alec started his freshman year, and his father owns most of town. All the rich kids at school live here, if their mommy’s and daddy’s don’t have mansions near school. The elevator ride is a silent ascent, a cocoon that carries me closer to whatever the hell this meeting will unfold.

Floor numbers blink in succession—my pulse keeping time with them until the doors slide open with a soft ding.

I'm in front of his door before I realize it, my hand raised to knock. But before my knuckles touch wood, the door swings inward. Alec stands there, his blond hair like a halo under the hallway light, his body filling the doorway. He's all casual elegance, a stark contrast to the tight coil of nerves I've become.

"Winters." His nod is curt, eyes scanning me top to bottom, as if he’s trying to decipher what brings me here beyond our scheduled clash of the minds.

"Vanderholt." My response is just as clipped, the name tasting like copper on my tongue.

"Get in here," he says, stepping aside, the command wrapped in an invitation. “Give me a few minutes. I’m just wrapping something up.”

I step inside, and I can’t help but shake my head. His living room is larger than most of the apartments I lived in growing up. Everything is sleek modern lines and plush surfaces. I hardly want to breathe in here for fear of mussing up the polished floor… kitchen… tables. The entire place screams money.

I watch Alec disappear into a room just off the living area, leaving the door ajar. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft pad of my socked feet against the marble floors as I wander into his space.

The living room doesn’t look comfortable in the least with it’s modern furniture. The dining room is a glass table with stark black chairs. The kitchen looks like a chef’s wet dream. There’s a door leading back into the apartment, and something in my face feels hot when I see Alec’s king sized bed.

But I clear my throat as I wander toward the side door Alec disappeared into. As I step into the doorway, I realize it’s an office. My gaze sweeps over the room, a space that reeks of sophistication and power. I’d expect nothing less from the heir to Vanderholt Diamonds.

Alec is hunched over his desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed that matches the intensity in his eyes. The glow of the computer screen casts an ethereal light on his features, emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw and the furrow of concentration between his brows.

I linger by the door, taking in the sight of him in his element. I imagine this is the space he’s spent the last three plus years hard at work, giving me a run for my money at school. Three years now, we’ve been rivals. The only one at Westcroft who could take away that top spot from me.

There's something mesmerizing about seeing Alec so absorbed, so different from the aloof facade he usually wears like armor. A flicker of admiration stirs within me, but I shut that down just about as quick as I can.

“Is this the project you were being so cryptic about?” I dare to ask, knowing full well I’m poking the bear.

He makes an affirmative grunt, but continues to hammer away at his computer.

I turn back into the living room and shrug off my jacket, pretending being in Alec Vanderholt’s place doesn't set off a riot in my veins.

Walking into Alec’s apartment is like stepping into a showroom, one I could never afford on a hundred scholarships. Polished surfaces reflect my image back at me, dark hair, brown eyes—a deer caught in architectural lighting.

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