Page 10 of His Every Move

I could be confrontational. My temper sometimes boiled over and got me into trouble. I wasn’t a stranger to a fistfight.

But this guy? He wasn’t worth it.

“Thank you,” I said, taking out my wallet and pulling out a twenty. I lifted my drink, finished it off in two long gulps, and set the copper mug on top of the money. “For showing meyourass and not wasting my time.”

“Sorry, I’m just being honest.”

“No, you’re being a fucking dickhead. And guess what? At the rate things are going, I can retire by the time I’m thirty-three. Which, if you even took a second longer to actually get to know me, you’d know I wouldn’t even want to do. I have goals that go beyond making a shit-ton of money online. So go fuck yourself. Because I’m not doing it for you.”

Kevin’s jaw dropped. Good.

I snaked my way through the dense crowd. Fuck this.

I decided to go home and jerk off for some cash.

At least then I could guarantee myself a happy ending. Because Kevin sure as fuck wasn’t giving it to me.

* * *

I got back to my place feeling like shit. That conversation with Kevin had left a sour taste in my mouth. Confidence was never really an issue for me. I had plenty of it, and when I didn’t, then I’d fake it. Usually, that worked.

But something about this guy’s reaction knocked the wind out of me.

Maybe it was because I’d actually been into him, and I certainly wasn’t expecting the stabbing words or intense judgment. A lot of guys tended to hide their distaste for my career before they ghosted me altogether.

I wasn’t sure which one I preferred.

“Hello?” I called as I opened the front door to my apartment.

I lived in a nice building close to the Financial District. It was rent stabilized, clean, safe, and—most importantly—was a block away from one of my favorite bodegas.

“Anyone home?”

No answer.

Francesca—or Fran the Gran as she liked to be called—didn’t appear to be around, her bedroom door left wide open, the lights off. She was my new roommate and a pretty interesting character. My last roommate had to break his lease and move suddenly after a death in the family. I considered breaking my own lease and just finding a place now that my income had hit a comfortable range, but the landlord begged me to stay for the last few months. He said they’d find someone to replace my old roommate, and Fran appeared a couple of days later.

She was generally pretty quiet and stuck to herself. She enjoyed watchingJeopardy!and often invited me to sit on the couch and watch with her. I told her that I worked from home but didn’t go into too much detail. My bedroom was surprisingly soundproof for a New York apartment, helped by the sound-absorbing panels I’d ordered and attached to the walls. I often played music during my streams to cover any sounds that might make it to the living room.

I kicked off my shoes by the door and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. Fuck it. It was Friday, and I wasn’t about to let my entire night get ruined by a douchebag.

No matter how much his words secretly bothered me.

My bedroom was already set up to be camera ready. My bed was made, color-changing lights giving the black headboard a purple glow. There was a thriving fig tree potted next to the window that looked out onto the traffic-packed street. I closed the sheer white drapes and turned on my ring light. I had a special camera attached to my laptop that helped me stand out from the other streamers using their potato-quality webcams.

I took off my shorts, left my shirt and cap on, and got into bed, sitting back on the plush white pillow. I grabbed my laptop and opened up the website, taking a moment to check through my DMs.

Most of them were really hot. I had a lot of attractive followers; that wasn’t up for debate. Many messaged me with pictures of the messes I made them make or how hard or wet I got them. It was hot. I couldn’t reply to all of them but tried to get most, working myself up in the process.

My dark blue briefs strained to hold down my bulge as I exited out of my messages and activated the live stream.

Followers were notified, and barely seconds later, my viewer number began to inch up. It started at five, grew to twenty, up to fifty, ballooning to two hundred.

“Hey, everyone, welcome in, welcome in.”

I rubbed myself through my briefs, spread my legs wider. Comments started to fill the small box in the corner of the screen. There were some usernames I recognized, others I didn’t.

None of them belonged to Nomad, so that was a plus.

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