Page 2 of Filthy Twisted Devil

Brinley’s eyes narrow. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just getting a lot of texts from my brothers.” Which is true, even if it’s not the whole story. “Did you know that adult kidnapping rates are up 35 percent over the past five years? I do, because Wade and Jasper both texted me the article.”

“Uh-huh. Did you point out that none of those kidnappings happened to adults in Toronto?”

“Sure did. Jasper replied, and I quote, ‘Causation does not equal correlation.’”

Brinley snorts. “What does that even mean?”

“It means he stayed up too late reading some crazy mystery novel, and what he meant to say was something like ‘but my crazy sister would be the first.’”

Just because I moved away from Locke Ranch in Alberta doesn’t mean the Locke brothers have stopped their overprotective ways. They’ve just had to find more creative ways to keep track of me.

The constant texts about crime statistics to both me and Brinley are just the tip of the iceberg. The first week I was here, Reed sent me a “care package” of pepper spray, a safety whistle, and honest-to-god nunchucks. The next day, a handyman Wade hired showed up to install bars on our windows. Jasper harassed me about sharing my location so incessantly that I compromised by sharing it with Brinley, who’s under strict instructions to only use it in case of emergency.

At least Mom is encouraging. She and I talk every few days, and she seems thrilled by every small detail of my new life in the city. She’s the only one in the family actually happy that I’m here chasing my dreams.

“The boys will have to lighten up eventually,” Brinley says encouragingly. “If for no other reason, because the constant anxiety will make them collapse from exhaustion.”

“The Locke brothers thrive on anxiety. It’s like oxygen to them. They’re just counting down the days until I run out of money and skulk home with my tail between my legs.”

“That’s not going to happen. You’re going to figure this out! You’re an amazing event planner, Eden. You just need a little more time to build your clientele.”

I smile wanly. I know Brinley means every word, but all the pep talks in the world won’t add more dollars to my bank account. It’s time for me to break the glass and pull the emergency lever. Because if event planning has taught me anything, it's that you always need a backup plan for your backup plan.

Fortunately, I’m spared any more encouragement when Brinley's phone rings.

“It's Pippa,” she says, grinning. “She’s helping me put together the new window display for the Peppermint Press. She bought a hot glue gun for it, so she seems pumped.”

“Fun! Tell her hey and I’ll see her at Friendsgiving.”

A free room isn't the only thing Brinley gave me when I moved. She also let me into her circle of friends, including Pippa, a sharp-tongued writer who immediately got my dry humor. I've been invited to their Friendsgiving this Friday, which is great, since my plans would have been eating instant ramen in bed.

Once Brinley leaves, I carefully angle my laptop away from the door. If my roommate gets the sudden urge to pop in with a pad Thai update, she absolutely cannot see what’s on my screen.

Because her brain would probably explode if she saw my tits plastered on the internet.

The reason I’ve survived this long in Toronto has been the cam work I picked up two months ago. The money is good, not great, but enough to keep me afloat. I’ve got five or so regulars who tip me well, and a small audience that watches more often than they tip.

I know I’m lucky to have that much, considering the kind of content I make. I never show my face, and I make sure the lighting is shadowy enough that nobody could recognize my background. If I wanted to get to the next earning level, I’d have to share a lot more than I’m comfortable with.

I learned quickly that just getting naked wasn’t enough to get an audience. CamCuties, the platform I work on, caters to men who want to feel like their dream girls could be their real girlfriends. My viewers ticked up quickly once I started opening my mouth. Mostly, I talk about my day, working retail in an anonymous city. I speak in a slightly huskier voice, doing my best to drop my country accent and mostly succeeding.

I’m making far more with CamCuties than I would any other freelance job I could pick up. Like everything else in my life, though, it’s temporary. I don’t enjoy the work, and I’m terrified that someone will recognize me, no matter how many precautions I take. Worse, thanks to a mix-up with my bank, my last two months of tips are being held in reserve. I get a few hundred dollars from subscription fees, but the real money comes from high-spending tippers. I don’t know how long it’ll take for the money to come in, but I need a serious cash infusion, stat.

It’s time for drastic measures. So far, I’ve stuck to streaming instead of taking advantage of CamCuties’ seller forum. That’s where the real money is.

They’re careful with the coded language. On the surface, I’ll be providing a “high-value exclusive offering,” not just exchanging money for sex. Even though that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.

To keep my dream alive, I’m selling my virginity to a stranger on the internet.

It’ll be safe—at least, as safe as such an insane transaction could be. CamCuties handles buyer vetting, financial verification, and escrow. I get to invite as many as six bidders, weeding out any known creeps. Then all I have to do is set a date and time for the auction, upload a poster image, and watch while the numbers tick up.

There’s even a “chickening out clause,” as I privately call it. If I don’t show up to the meeting and let the client scan my QR code, the funds are released back to the bidder. Easy-peasy. My market research shows that I can expect to clear low six figures. That’s two years of runway for my business, a real launch budget that would let me commit myself full time.

It’s the difference between leaving Toronto on my own terms or my brothers’.

Besides, it’s not like my virginity is that valuable to me. I used to have dreams about one particular man helping me out, so to speak, but those have died. I’m twenty-four now, and old enough to stop saving myself for a man who has no idea I want him, and who isn’t remotely interested in me.