Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
No.
No, no, no, no, NO.
I have better things to do than post videos vying for Ember’s attention.
Still, I’m all alone here, totally womanless, dying for a good fucking lay. Who could blame me if I want another mild hit of dopamine? I don’t care as much about the random flirtatious comments I get from the women online, but my notifications tell me every time she sees me, and so far this week, she’s seen every one of my videos.
It’s harmless.
I’m not fucking her.
I mean, not that I wouldn’t if I had the—
No. STOP.
My mind circumvents the lame attempt at maturity.
Who is she?
What does she like?
What makes her happy or sad?
Is she outgoing, or does she keep to herself? Does she have any pets?
Is she vanilla?
I groan at the instant hard-on I get imagining her tied up and begging for me, but maybe… maybe those videos are just for clicks. She can’t… really be into that shit she talks about.
Can she?
It doesn’t matter. I grab my inner voice by the throat and toss my lack of focus against the wall.
It needs a stern talking to.
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, MAN.
I throw my phone across the counter and wince when it slides right past the coffee machine and cracks against the wall.
I didn’t mean to throw it that hard. I sheepishly walk over, pick it up, and check. Thank fuck, these things are made from military-grade glass these days. No damage.
I blow out a breath and close my eyes, grounding myself in the scent of strong coffee.
Coffee.
Gym.
Food. Shake.
Work.
In that order, period.
I take my coffee cup and open the mini fridge, pour some creamer into it, and lean against the counter while I sip it, like a mature adult who has his shit together and is going to plan his day.
I put the camera on my phone and hit the filter app thing I found from a Google search when my eyes catch the corner of one of the masks I used to film a video last night. I’m not a one-mask guy like some of the broke losers I see who think shirtless is all it takes to satisfy the discriminating needs of these online women.
Nope.
They want a real man. A man with some bulk on him, some tats, who covers his face for the sake of a little tease, not because he’s got a hairless baby face that belongs behind the screen of a video game monitor, instead of mature, respectful women like my followers.
I grab the first mask that comes to hand and slide it over my head.
One more for the sake of the memories.
I hold up my coffee.
My time here has come to an end, beautiful. I have work to do, and this is all too distracting.
I shake my head in mock sadness, though, honestly, it’s not much for show. For the past few nights, interacting with Ember online, with her sharp wit and tongue, it felt a little less… lonely.
But I have to stop this before I get in real trouble. Before Rafail finds out.
I grab a quick soundtrack. I don’t edit my videos. I like ’em raw and untamed. I post the video and toss my phone down.
I watch it come on the screen.
I sigh.
I already have fifty likes and half as many comments.
I smile to myself over them.
So we’re just ignoring the fact that you woke up looking like a Roman god, huh?
I shake my head bashfully. Well, I wouldn’t go that far.
This is illegal levels of fine. I’m calling the authorities (aka myself).
That coffee is lucky. Wish I was that close to your lips.
Not Ember, so… down girl.
Do you come with a warning label, or do we just combust silently over here?
I scratch my chest with a self-deprecating shrug. Well, thanks.
Still no Ember.
I don’t care about them. It’s cute and even sweet, but I don’t care who these women are. Even if they were half as into me as they play-act behind the safety of a keyboard… they’re not her.
I should be deleting this.
Still… she hasn’t responded in hours.
Wait. Is she alright?
My heart rate spikes.
I quickly tap the messages on the app and open to the last chat we had. Twelve hours ago. There’s nothing to indicate she’s been online since then.
What the fuck?
I go to her page and see she uploaded a video just before messaging me and hasn’t been online since.
Along the bottom of the video, little messages pop up with hearts and arrows and likes while I’m scrolling the latest comments.
Don’t listen to that asshole, Mafia Queen! Delete his ass and block him!
No one should talk to my bestie like that. Let me at him, sister!
Wait, I didn’t—no.
They’re talking about someone else?
I narrow my eyes at the screen. Here I am, wearing a fucking mask in my kitchen while drinking my coffee, and someone’s disrespected my girl?