Page 2 of Masks and Mishaps

I do the whole routine again—the exhalation, the bubbles,I’m completely fine—before rotating on my stool, expecting to see Dalton sitting with my two best friends, Valeria and Cora.

…Well, shit.

I draw in a sharp, involuntary breath. Alec wasn’t exaggerating. Dalton Cavendish’s focused gaze is trained on him, unyielding and concentrated with laser precision. His posture is casual: arms spread over the back of the booth, spanning one end to the other. Dalton isn’t casual though; he would be out of his seat and across the bar in seconds if he felt like it.

But when his eyes meet mine, they soften.

Then my heart does this thing it always has since I met Dalton two years ago. The sensation is a combo of a flutter and a somersault and could easily take gold in a litany of Olympic sports, including (but not limited to) gymnastics, synchronized swimming, and even the marathon because it persists for hours after he’s gone.

Dalton is, without dispute, the most gloriously attractive man I’ve ever seen—and no, my vibrators haven’t been able to take my heart out of medal contention.

Our stares connect for another beat, and gradually, his lingering disdain disappears. A gleam forms on the gentle amber brown of his irises, offset by the whimsical tilt of his eyebrow. Even in a dimly lit corner of a packed bar, even with an expression of destruction now lying dormant in his painstakingly chiseled features, the sight of this guy makes me so irritatinglygiddy.

Turning away from Dalton is difficult but not impossible. After all, I’ve been doing it for two years.

I take a deep breath and say three words that have flipped my world perpendicular to its axis over the past eleven months: “He’s my stepbrother.”

Alec’s expression shifts from terror to outright panic. “That’syour brother?”

“Stepbrother,” I reiterate. “Kind of. My father is marrying his mother in four weeks.”

But Alec stopped listening to me after the word “brother,” I can tell, because he’s back to staring at Dalton with his brow knotted—perhaps permanently. He swallows before muttering, “Maybe we should call this off.”

“No,” I blurt out, failing miserably at keeping the panic out of my voice. I wrap my hand around his thick wrist and squeeze. “We’ve been talking about this for a month.”

His eyes sweep from Dalton to his wrist and back to Dalton. “Please don’t touch me. He’s watching.”

“Alec—”

“Essie,” he hisses, “I’ve been with a lot of girls on camera and I know when shit’s about to get messy. I’m not looking for messes—no matter how good the tips would be.”

“It couldn’t bethatmessy.”

“Easy for you to say. You always have your shit together,” he counters, shaking his head. “Did you know I did a collab with a girl last year, and her stalker found me? I didn’t have money to break a lease.” He breathes out. “Some of us have bills to pay.”

Bills? Cute. Try four separate college tuitions in two high cost of living cities. But if Alec genuinely believes I’m like my camming alter ego—a party girl who spends her daddy’s money—fine by me. I have nothing to prove.

Slowly, I release Alec and straighten my spine. I layer the saddest, most disappointed expression in my arsenal. “You’re not seriously flaking the night before my first collaboration with a guy, are you?” I stick out my lower lip to give a hint of a pout, but not enough to make it clear I’m maneuvering him. “I was so excited for this.”

His eye twitches. The left one.

“I bought this cute dress,” I go on. “Silk. It slides right off me. I mean, it’s annoying because I can’t wear underwear with it, but still. So cute.”

“Essie.” He looks away…and naturally sees the back of the bar. He sobers with a sharp inhalation. “The fuck. Does he work in central intelligence? I feel like he could uncover state secrets with that glare.”

My hand shoots out and rests on the back of Alec’s again. Right now, I have to be more seductive than Dalton is intimidating—a feat. “And I picked you.” I begin tracing my fingertips over the divot from the vein in his hand. “You’re not going to let me down, are you?” I measure my words and use the same admonishing tone that worked wonders on my little brothers for years. “I pickedyou.”

I’m lying. I could take or leave Alec; what I actually picked was his dick. But sure enough, Alec’s expression eases.

Still got it.

The exhalation he releases is as measured as my words, but he’s nodding—a good sign. “Hey, you know I’m a fan. First, I’m honored you let me see your face without a mask; I know nobody else gets to. And second, I’m honored you picked me to be your first on-camera cock out of all the guys who would be game. But I’m not looking for trouble. Can you promise me—reallypromise me—I’m not going to get jumped or something?”

Alec’s eyebrows float while he waits for a response, and I find myself saying, “Dalton won’t hurt you.”

“Dalton,” he repeats, dipping his chin before he takes a sip from his bottle of beer. “Dalton. Dalton. Dalton.” His eyes drift to the side. “I’m memorizing the name so I know what to say to the cops.”

I force a smile.

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