Page 3 of Billionaire Romance

2

Weaver

My phone is vibrating under my chin. After my session with Captain, I fell asleep looking through real estate listings in Brooklyn. I’m still thousands of dollars away from buying or leasing a space for my business but looking through available properties is good research and keeps me focused on my future. I look up and toward the window. It’s still dark outside, but I can see dawn out on the horizon.

I rub my eyes and will them to focus on the incoming text message. It’s from Kate, my best friend and old college roommate. Her restaurant in Paris is having some minor renovations done, and she’s coming to New York to visit. She told me she was traveling to see me, but I know the largest wine and food convention is being hosted in the city that weekend, too. I don’t begrudge her that. In fact, her success inspires me. If Kate can fulfill her dreams, so can I.

I’ll see you at the airport in two days, bitch!!!! I emailed you my flight info.

I text back immediately that it’s a plan. I’m so excited to see Kate. These past few months we’ve barely touched base more than a handful of times. Her work schedule is intense, and with a six-hour time difference, it’s nearly impossible to speak on the phone. I feel guilty thinking it, but it is a bit of a relief that we’ve grown distant. The last time I saw Kate at her restaurant opening in Paris, I hadn’t exactly been honest with her about my plans. She knew I’d been struggling, but she didn’t know exactly how badly. When she asked me what I’d been up to, I didn’t want to put a damper on her big night, so I fudged the truth a bit. I didn’t tell her I had no apartment to return to when I got back to New York, and I certainly didn't tell her that I'd maxxed out the last of my credit cards on my plane ticket to Paris. I’d kept the spotlight steadily on her, where it belonged that weekend, and when she asked about work, I told her I was going into business for myself and omitted exactly what type of business I was pursuing.

Once Kate’s arrival was on my calendar, I’d been suffering through nerves and jitters over what I’d eventually tell her. I have to tell her something. I don’t want to lie to my best friend, and I know she won’t judge me for being a cam-girl, but it still makes my cheeks hot to think of uttering those words: I’m a cam-girl. Memories of my weekend in Paris flood me. Kate dressed up and in total command of her restaurant. Choreographing the waiters’ every move, checking and double checking each platter and dish. She was shining. She’d made it. And those memories make me happy for her, but also make me feel like I’m falling hopelessly behind in the game of life.

There is another memory, my one-night stand. It’s still hard to believe how serendipitous and well, extremely fucking hot it was. I’d arrived on the Paris scene in typical Weaver fashion: toppling ass over kettle down the stairs to the metro. And there to help me up and witness my mortification was a sexy, clean-cut, I’m-in-another-country-and-everything-looks-better stranger, Chris. Coincidentally, he was a friend of a friend of Kate’s business partner, and we reconnected at the restaurant opening. Lots of champagne, the romantic Paris streets, and a run in with a street thug, led to a night of mind-blowing sex with Chris. When I snuck out the next morning, leaving him a note but no contact info, I knew he would be a very sexy memory for months, maybe years, to come. But staying in touch with him through this year was never a consideration. This cam-girl business excluded relationships. It’s just too much baggage. No guy wants his girlfriend masturbating on screen for random guys. I think about him from time to time, but mostly I try not to. It seems like just one more thing I’m missing out on.

Kate texts back Can’t wait, and I drag myself out of bed to my bathroom. It’s four o’clock in the morning, but since starting this cam-girl work, I don’t really keep regular hours. Captain wants to be respectful of my schedule, but I’m not going to turn down any work. The more money, the better, so I accommodate his janky schedule. Anyway, in New York City, pre-dawn is the best time to go to the market. No lines or judgey side eyes if my hair is in a messy bun or my sweatpants look like they’ve been slept in. (And they have.)

I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself the way Kate will see me. Same me, I conclude. There’s no neon red C anywhere on my forehead that will give away my status as cam-girl. Pulling my strawberry blond hair up into a ponytail, I note that I could use a trim, and maybe I should make an appointment to have my eyebrows threaded. Lately, I don’t really interact with many people to warrant keeping up on those things. And Captain’s eyes are generally focused on other places, other intimate places that I do bother to maintain regularly. A girl has to have some standards. When I first started working on the Sugar Girl sight, I was planning on taking up another job during the day, but the money from Captain was too good, and I didn’t want to risk losing my exclusive deal with him if I wasn’t available when he was. So aside from a few shifts here and there to help out my uncle at his bar, I haven’t worked much aside from Sugar Girl. And when you don’t have an office to go into, well, one becomes a little anti-social. Aside from trips to visit my mom, and the meals she reluctantly allows me to treat her to here in the city, I’m kind of a recluse. I splash cold water on my face and decide I’m corner deli ready. That’s a few degrees away from red carpet ready.

I grab my keys and phone and wallet and head to the door. I make a note on the pad on my fridge to call the salon when they open. As I walk down the hallway, I do my usual marvel of my awesome apartment building. I had amazing luck landing this place. A friend had to break her lease because she’d been hired to open a restaurant in Los Angeles, and I got to take it over. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. It’s an old building but completely renovated. There’s a gym and an indoor pool in the basement, so I don’t even need to leave the building to work out. My apartment has one bedroom, but it’s enormous, with views of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond, and just blocks from the subway. I never imagined four months ago, when I’d checked into that roach motel near the airport, that I would ever live in a building like this, especially in just a matter of months. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. I couldn’t have done it without WildCaptain.

The elevator doors ding open and a guy my age staggers out. He blatantly looks me up and down, blocking my entrance through the elevator doors.

“Excuse me, please,” I say, hoping so badly that he’ll just leave and not say anything to me. A cloud of rank, stale air envelopes him, and it takes just a few seconds to know he’s coming home after last call and probably struck out with every woman in the bar.

“Excuse you for a nightcap?” he slurs

“Lead the way,” I say, gesturing grandly down the hallway. He looks surprised and starts walking down the hall to his apartment. Chump. I hightail it into the elevator and press the door close button frantically. I’ll bet he forgets all about me by the time he reaches his door. I’m sure the guy is harmless, but who needs the fucking hassle? Drunk frat guys hitting on me are not something I miss in my new, semi-reclusive lifestyle.

Sometimes I look at men and wonder if they’re WildCaptain. I wouldn’t recognize him, but he’d recognize me. In the early days it felt weird, exposing myself to this anonymous person, who could be literally anyone in the world. But now, after so many hours of sessions, I feel confident that he’s nothing like that guy. Or any other guy I run into on the street. I’ve sort of elevated him to the status of a God, and after our business relationship is over, I wonder if my standards will be unrealistically high for other men. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad outcome.

The brisk air hits me as I open the lobby door and step onto the street. I shake my head scattering thoughts of Captain away. I shouldn’t get too attached and comfortable. For my sanity and my safety. As much of a gentleman as he’s always been, I have no idea who he is or what he’s capable of. My Sugar Girl contract strictly prohibits me from exchanging real names or identifying information with him. I only know him as WildCaptain, and he knows me by my Sugar Girl name, Echo. It’s for my safety and his privacy, and surely also to protect the company from any liability in case he dismembers me and feeds me to the fish in the Hudson River. Cheery thoughts, I have sometimes. This job is weird.

I walk the few short blocks to the twenty-four hour gourmet deli where I do almost all of my shopping. The little bell above the door rings to announce my arrival. Velma is behind the counter and puts down her Star magazine as soon as I walk in.

“Weaver! Thank Gott for the company. It’s been dead,” she greets me.

I’ll be honest, Velma is one of the reasons I come to this store. It is close to my apartment, but so are many others that don’t have exorbitant prices and favor food products from Bavaria. She’s in her sixties, speaks with a thick German accent, and when I first met her, she introduced herself by saying, “The name is Velma, like the hot little chippie from Scooby Dude.” I still haven’t determined if she’s confused Velma with Daphne, or if “Scooby Dude” is some weird German porn featuring a “hot little chippie” named Velma, but she’s a friendly and familiar face in my otherwise lonely days. Also, German sausage is a hearty meal and easy to prepare. Win/win.

“Hey Velma,” I say as I grab a basket. “Good morning.”

“Liebling, the sun’s not even up. Late night at work?” Velma asks.

“Oh, you know it,” I say, as I start loading rye crisps and imported bratwursts into my basket. Oooh…and those pferrernuesse cookies look good too. Sure, I could get a box of Chips Ahoy at the pharmacy, but would they really make me happy?

“I just got off a call with colleagues in Dubai,” I lie. “Their broadboard algorithm framework had a fifteen buggy-byte malfunction, and they’re losing their minds.” I decide I should get some typical American food for Kate, so I walk back to the refrigerated section and grab some milk and yoghurt. “But I was able to send them a decahedron code to their interfacement web and…voila! Problem fixed.”

In my desire to keep my webcam business secret, I’ve developed the most wonderful skill of making up tech terms that both dazzle and confuse people over the age of fifty. It really has become a hobby.

“Well I don’t know how you do it, but you must be doing very well,” Velma says, with a note of pride in her voice.

I fill my basket with a combination of delicious goodies and staples for Kate’s visit, and I unload them at Velma’s register. “Oh, I don’t know. Why would you say that?” A cambozola cheese catches my eye and I wander over to pick it up. $15 for a small wedge of cheese? Twist my arm, why don’t you.

“Well, when you first started making these middle of the night shopping trips, you’d only shop from that cooler,” she says, pointing to the stand-alone fridge with discounted foods that are nearing their expiration dates. “And these days, you seem to be living large.”

I survey the counter in front of me, and I see what she’s describing. She’s right. In the months since I started cam-girling, my life has really changed. Last year, every second of my waking days were devoted to worrying about money. Did I have enough to cover rent? Would my pay check clear in time to cover my electric bill? It was a constant worry, nagging at me and causing my stomach to roil several times a day. And now, look at me, wandering around this overpriced deli and choosing the yummiest, priciest treats without a single hesitation. And I owe it all to one man: WildCaptain.

I have mixed feelings about that, and they are further complicated by the “relationship,” if that is even the word, that is developing between us. Sure, it was shitty living paycheck to paycheck and getting mistreated waitressing, but I had a band of fellow sad sacks around me to commiserate with and even hang out with after work. They were friends. Now I have a basketful of fancy Bavarian food, a posh apartment, but my entire life seems to be revolving around one person, and I don’t even know his real name.

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