Page 4 of Taken Off Camera
The moment the stream ends, my happy facade vanishes.
I exhale hard, letting my shoulders slump as I drag my hands down my face, smearing the light sheen of makeup I applied for the camera. The silence in the apartment turns heavy after two hours of performing. I study the envelope under my desk, my stomach turning at what it contains.
No more deflecting. Time to figure out what the hell is going on.
I stand and stretch, rolling tension from my neck as I flip off the ring lights. The apartment transforms instantly, the curated stage of warmth and sensuality becoming just my ordinary living space, a modest one-bedroom in The Solace, barely affordable even with my earnings.
The bright, candy-colored throw pillows and artfully draped fabrics I use as backdrops appear garish now in the dim overhead light. Beyond the filming area, dirty dishes sit in my sink, and a half-empty cup of yesterday’s coffee leaves a ring on my coffee table.
“Separate spaces, separate lives.”
The mantra has been burned into my mind since I started this career.
I open the drawer beneath my desk and pull out a box of latex gloves. It’s not my first disturbing gift, though definitely the grossest. Most creeps can’t get past the third-party shipping service that forwards packages to my real PO Box, and using my own address as the return should have flagged this one.
But a human override beats any filter, which means someone cleared it at the desk.
Snapping the gloves over my hands, I retrieve the plastic bag. The boxers are even worse under normal lighting, the gray cotton worn thin with age, with crusty stains in spurting patterns that cause my throat to constrict. I don’t need a black-light to tell me what those are.
“Jesus,” I whisper, turning the bag to examine every angle without opening it. No note, no identifying marks on the packaging. The plastic bag itself is ordinary, the kind available at any grocery store.
Returning it to the envelope it came in, I take offthe gloves and throw them into the trash bin. Then, I grab my secondary laptop and open a browser. This one routes through multiple VPNs, bouncing my signal across continents before connecting to anything. Old habits from my hacker days that never really ended. They just evolved alongside my more visible career.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of coding and searching calming my nerves. I access the shipping service’s tracking system using credentials I shouldn’t have to find out that the package was dropped off directly at their processing facility in Brickwell, not mailed. Paid for in cash, according to the transaction record.
No cameras in that area of the facility, either. I pointed out the security flaw to them months ago, but they never fixed it.
“Smart. Very smart.” I chew my bottom lip, scrolling through the limited data.
The return address sends a chill through me. It’s my actual box number, not the forwarding one I give my fans. Only a handful of people have that information: the shipping service, my best friend Saint, and a couple of trusted clients who send birthday gifts. Even my bank statements come electronically.
Does this mean the fan is a hacker like me? Or did they spot me in real life and follow me until they figured out where I pick up my mail?
Needing distance from the evidence of someone’s obsession, I push away from the desk. The apartment closes in around me, its walls too thin. I glance at the windows, where the drawn curtains offer inadequate protection.
My pheromone suppressants sit on the bathroom counter, visible through the half-open door. I’ve been religious about using them since presenting as an Omega at thirteen, and I never go out without taking steps to disguise my ElliotUnleashed personality.
Returning to the computer, I open my network security program and run a scan of all my devices. Nothing unusual pings. No keyloggers, no remote access trojans, no spyware. I check the logs for my building’s security system next, an easy hack I performed during my first week living here. No unauthorized entries to my floor. The camera in the hallway shows only the usual neighbors coming and going.
I should call the postal inspector and file a report. But what would I say? Someone sent me dirty underwear? They’d see my job and dismiss it as anoccupational hazard. Or worse, suggest I brought it on myself.
I should tell Saint, at least. He’d drive over right away and probably crash on my couch for a week with his gun at the ready, glaring at every delivery person who entered the building.
My hands hover over my phone. I need to think, not react from fear.
“New address,” I decide, speaking aloud to fill the silence. “New PO Box tomorrow.”
Practical steps, followed by enhanced security on all my accounts. And maybe a call to the private investigator Saint knows who doesn’t ask too many questions.
The soft ping of a notification pulls me from my planning. My screen flashes with a calendar reminder of my private session with GentlemanX in fifteen minutes.
I exhale a calming breath. GentlemanX has been my Tuesday night regular for almost a year now, and I always anticipate our sessions in a way I don’t with my other patrons.
After the violation of the package, the idea of performing for the masses again turns my stomach. But GentlemanX? He’s different.
Safe.
Unlike most private clients who demand explicit content, GentlemanX pays premium rates for simple companionship.
