Page 14 of Masks and Mishaps

God.

Oh my god.

What.

What have I done?

I press the heel of my palm against my lips, trying not to smear my lipstick while I make myself swallow. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, which is saying something because I once went down on a guy who revealed he was a flat Earther mid-blow job.

I take a huge gulp of water, but the taste lingers—this hot yet putrid flavor, sour and also sickeningly sweet with a tinge of gas station. For reasons I can’t explain, all I can think about is how amused Dalton would be to know mixology is the one thing I suck at.

The night we met, he wasn’t surprised to find out I don’t drink. “Oh, no shit,” he’d commented with a wry grin. “That’s all an act.”It wasn’t a question. Somehow, he knew Emerald X—the hot mess, hard-partying camgirl he’d spent months watching (and tipping)—had never had a drink before.

“If you change your mind, I’ll buy you one,”he’d said after he ordered me a club soda and lime. “Or I can make you one too.”

My eyebrow had shot up. “Are you inviting me back to your place?”

“Yes,”he’d answered without hesitation.

“We just met,”I’d reminded him while I seriously contemplated the offer.

And then he said the words that buried themselves in my memory:“Yeah, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in my life, and I would do monstrous things to fuck your sweet little pussy deeply, thoroughly, like it deserves to be fucked.”

The words were delivered frankly, entirely conversationally. He’d been standing half a foot away with his elbow against the bar, fiddling with a coaster.

Tonight, he sent me a message, which I didn’t answer:Will I see you later?I didn’t want to lie.

Now, I force Dalton out of my brain and pour myself a shot. The decision is spur of the moment and so regrettable because straight tequila is the second worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, which is also saying a lot because a guy once paid me a thousand dollars to deep throat a balloon animal.

…I should be more discerning about what I put in my mouth.

“Son of a bitch,” I gasp, and I grab my margarita. Gasoline meets gasoline, and this entire scenario is theleastEssie Romero event ever because I’m currently a hot mess, and while hot, yes, I’m seldom messy.

I’m completely fine.

I am…probablytipsy.ButI’m completely fine—and the best thing I can do is carry on. Alec knows the scene, and I was always supposed to start the stream without him anyway.

I put on my mask—gold tonight with leaf and twig embellishments—and start the stream at my laptop. The room fills fast, and I launch into my usual routine: pretending I’m getting ready to go out.My stories are made up, but they bring in huge tips, and it’s easy to make men turn over their money when I say the right words in the right order.

Tonight, the buzz from the liquor makes it more fun. I’m giggling more than usual—but I’m ready to get fucked.Ten minutes in, finally—finally—the doorbell rings.

Ugh. Alec is the worst; he doesn’t remember the plan.

I told him the door would be unlocked.

Six

DALTON

Essiedoesn’tanswerwhenI ring the bell. I take out my phone to text her, but I get my password wrong.

I try again—wrong again.

Huh. I’m notthatdrunk. I had, like, five drinks—max. Basically an aperitif. One time in business school, I did nine shots and still set the curve on my corporate finance final.

…And yes, I also threw up into a trashcan halfway through and got vomit on my shirt, so I finished the rest of the exam shirtless, but I look fantastic shirtless. It’s probably why my grade was so high.

I try a third time. Denied—and a message pops up:¿Olvidaste el código?

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