Masks and Mishaps (Streams and Schemes #3)

One

ESSIE

“Y our boyfriend is going to kill me.”

The comment is surprising and yet predictable all at once. This isn’t the first time someone has uttered those words to me—and in this exact order—but I still freeze with my club soda halfway to my mouth. I don’t have a boyfriend.

A coarse exhalation is the only movement I can manage at first. Luckily, faint, discordant pop music streams from the bar’s speakers and drowns out my breath’s audible waver.

I don’t have a boyfriend.

I don’t have a boyfriend, so I have to get my shit together .

My next movement is an inhalation. Cleansing. Easy. Another exhalation. I’m completely fine .

I look down. The fizzing bubbles surrounding the lemon wedge in my cocktail glass glimmer under the dim, saffron lighting, popping, tingling, tickling with acid. The tiny bubbles slip through the gaps in the ice and escape to the surface.

I’m completely fine .

My attention drifts from the glass in my hand to the guy across the worn high-top table. The pinch of Alec’s brow is a gash of fear marring his typically composed good looks. If he hadn’t said your boyfriend , the dilation of his pupils alone would make me assume the four horsemen of the apocalypse were meandering behind me.

But I know what— who , rather—Alec is looking at, and it’s not the four horsemen.

No, it’s something far more chaotic than the apocalypse.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” is my simple response, and the words come out steady—if I do say so myself. I am completely fine. I bring my drink to my mouth and sip, watching him while pursing my lips around the thin black cocktail straws in the most fuckable way I know.

…It’s a waste. Alec’s fear-struck eyes remain fixated over my shoulder, and at least three minutes have passed since he looked at my tits, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow night.

He swallows, making his adam’s apple bob in his thick neck. “Are you sure you don’t? Because there’s this guy in the corner booth—”

“Ignore him,” I interject without turning around. I know exactly who’s in the corner booth.

“But he’s staring at me—”

“You’re hot. Maybe he appreciates it—”

“It’s a murdery stare. Murdery as fuck.”

“Please ignore him. For me?”

“I value my life.”

“He’s not going to hurt you.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m about to say no, but I hesitate.

I don’t have a boyfriend, but I do have a Dalton.

I know that Dalton—again, not my boyfriend—likely hasn’t taken his eyes off Alec since we sat at this table twenty minutes ago.

I mean, I don’t think he’ll kill him. Then again, predicting Dalton Cavendish’s movements is more difficult than predicting the stock market—and sometimes just as expensive.

Like this one time, Dalton’s lifelong best friend, Lander, ate the last of Dalton’s graham crackers while our friends were all watching a game at Dalton’s apartment. Two weeks later, on Lander’s birthday, Dalton drank the last of a three-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey Lander had safeguarded in a locked cabinet. He grinned the entire time, and when he was finished, he waved the empty bottle over his head like he caught the bouquet over a tangle of elbowing bridesmaids and announced, “ That was for my grahams, Lander. ”

Three thousand dollars. Over graham crackers.

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 irritatingly giddy .

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’s your brother?”

“ Step brother,” 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 be that messy.”

“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 picked you .”

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— really promise 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.

With neither of us speaking, the bar feels louder and somehow smaller too. Slowly, Alec turns his hand until his palm faces up and my hand rests naturally against his. I wish I wanted him more. But fucking on-camera isn’t about feelings; it’s a performance—a hustle: something to cross off my camming bucket list and stockpile some extra cash before I graduate from Georgetown and retire in seven months.

I’m completely fine .

He drinks the last of his beer. “Should we go scope out the set? I want to get our beats down.”

By “set,” he means Cora’s condo in the Halcyon, which she’s letting me use because camming is an expulsion-worthy offense at Georgetown. Plus, she now lives with her fiancé, Everett—Dalton’s other lifelong best friend—so the place is free.

I slide off the stool, and Alec helps with a chivalrous hand, which I take—and immediately release when the sound of breaking glass resonates through the bar. I’m not surprised when Dalton steps out of his booth, swearing audibly as he avoids the shards of his broken beer bottle. It’s pulverized . But even amidst Cora waving down one of the bar’s staff, and Valeria trying to move Dalton away from the glass, he’s still staring right at me.

Fuck, that’s a beautiful guy. He’s a truly, undeniably beautiful guy—and not the way a scenic waterfall is beautiful but more like Niagara Falls: huge, overwhelming, but still capable of drawing people in.

That draw has me motioning for Alec to follow.

At the booth, Alec tenses next to me, but he finds his wits somewhere in his six-foot-three body—not enough to come within hitting distance of Dalton, but close enough to meet my friends. Recognition paints his face when I introduce Valeria and Cora, who he knows from being in the business.

“Hey, it’s so great to finally meet in real life,” Alec says, holding out his arms for a hug, but Dalton stops Valeria with a hand on her shoulder.

“Nope,” is all he says, and his voice lands like a record drop as usual. There’s a scratchy quality, a flicker of roughness on the undertones, but it’s loud—and unceasingly confident.

The rare sternness in Dalton’s tone does little to hold back Valeria Fuentes, who has zero patience for overprotective men. She rolls her eyes, weaves under Dalton’s big arm, and hugs Alec. Cora does the same. And—because she’s Cora Flores, and we’re all here to amuse her—she tacks on, “Jesus, you’re bigger in real life,” while squeezing Alec’s muscular arm, which naturally incites a snicker from Dalton.

Smirking, Cora steps back and gestures at Dalton. “And this charging bull wearing an investment banker costume, who just got blood on his Rolex, is Dalton Cavendish.”

“Essie’s brother, right?” Alec supplies, holding out his hand.

Dalton studies Alec while he folds his arms over his wide chest, flexing ridged muscles I didn’t even know existed in the human body. His button-down shirt—with the sleeves rolled to accentuate his forearms—stretches over the vast planes of his pectorals. And just when I assume he can’t get any hotter, Dalton looks right at me and gives me the cockiest wink I’ve ever seen.

The sound I release when I inhale is mortifying but entirely involuntary. I can’t help it—I really can’t help it. I would call Dalton Cavendish a snack, but there’s so much of him. He’s enough snacks to feed a stadium during the Super Bowl, and he so clearly knows it.

Dalton turns his attention back to Alec and tilts his head. “I’m her stepbrother. Who the fuck are you?”

Chills roll down my spine. This is the part where I have to admit I’m going to fuck a guy—something I haven’t done in the two years Dalton and I have known each other. This is also the part where I have to admit the guy I’m going to fuck won’t be him .

Dalton’s brow furrows more deeply with each passing second, and my oversight feels monstrous. I didn’t expect him to be here tonight.

“This is a date, right?” he presses, taking a small step toward me. His expression hardens even more. “Three weeks ago, when we all went apple picking, you said you weren’t dating anyone, Ess. Do you remember? We were sitting on those grimy hay bales, watching that guy in the track pants pretend he wasn’t cold because his girlfriend wanted to take more pictures, which I respect because I would stand in a blizzard for my girl, track pants be damned. But also, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing track pants. Joggers, sure. But track pants? Are we playing in an NBA game in nineteen ninety-six?”

“Dalton,” I begin, taking a tentative step closer, but I know he’s far from done. Dalton remembers everything—seriously. “Can we—”

“And you didn’t want to laugh even though he was shivering like he was hanging on the door in Titanic,” he continues. “And it’s incredible how you’re too damn nice to laugh when people are miserable. I’m nice too, Ess, but that shit was so funny . And we were sitting there, and you said you weren’t dating anyone.”

“Hey,” Valeria murmurs, putting her hand on Dalton’s arm. “You’re rambling.”

He flattens his hand on top of hers before he says, “So, what—” Inhale . “—the fuck—” He glances at each of us. “—is going on here?”

Whatever—I’m done. “We have to go,” I announce before facing Cora and giving her a pointed look. “Can I have your…”

Keys. Cora and I are basically telepathic, so she digs into her purse and passes them to me as subtly as possible—but Dalton still sees. His eyes narrow.

Cora waves at Alec. “You’re going to be extremely respectful of my place, aren’t you?” She has a ton of piercings, including one on her eyebrow. When she raises it, the gold catches the light. Paired with her all-black wardrobe and lipstick, she’s clearly not to be ignored—and Alec knows “place” means me. He nods.

“Because I live next door to her place,” Valeria cuts in, taking a step forward and tossing her waist-length, wavy black hair. “The walls are thin. Sometimes, I practice Muay Thai in my living room. I’ve been told everything is audible next door—and I mean everything: the sound of my elbow jamming into a punching bag, the swish of my foot flying through the air. Everything.”

“What the hell,” Alec mutters, shooting me a look.

I sigh. “I know what you’re thinking, and no—I don’t have a single friend who isn’t constantly teetering on the brink of first-degree murder.”

“Are you including me?” Dalton questions. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. Calling me homicidal is unfair.”

“Bro, you’ve got, like—” Alec bobs his chin at Dalton’s hand, and I finally notice he’s bleeding.

Unfazed, Dalton stares right at Alec when he raises his hand to his lips, extends his tongue, and languidly licks the blood from his palm. “I wasn’t talking to you, bro .”

“Alright—I’m out,” Alec declares, taking an emphatic step back. “I’m sorry, but this is red flag after red flag.”

“Stop,” I protest, grabbing Alec’s bicep. “Ignore them.”

He’s a flight risk, I know, so I move between him and Dalton and take up his field of vision to the best of my ability even though I’m nearly a foot and a half shorter than these guys. “It’s going to be fun,” I remind him, nodding—nodding vigorously like I did when I tried to convince the twins that broccoli was a delicacy. “And lucrative .”

“Lucrative,” Alec repeats, nodding with me. “Lucrative.”

“Lucrative,” I emphasize, understating it. I did two analyses in the last six months, and couples’ streams are doing almost twice as much as solo stuff. Lucrative? It’ll be a windfall.

Sighing, Alec glances at Valeria first and then Cora. “Aurora, Lilith—I’ll be more than respectful,” he states, using their camming aliases rather than their real names.

Satisfied, Cora wiggles her fingers in a wave. “Have fun, BottleDick,” she replies, using Alec’s alias as well.

At that, Dalton frowns. “I thought his name was Alec.”

“Let’s go,” I urge, nudging Alec in the direction of the bar’s exit.

“And why did he use your aliases?” Dalton demands, looking between Valeria and Cora. “How does he even know them?”

“We’ve got to close out our tabs,” Alec comments, showing a weak sense of self-preservation for a guy whose red-flag-radar is honestly pretty good.

“I already paid them both,” Dalton replies, barely acknowledging it while he focuses on me. “Essie, where are you two going?”

I’m completely fine.

“Night,” is my response before I grab Alec’s hand and pull him away.

Together, we emerge into the brisk October evening, and the bite of the autumn air relieves me. I take in a lungful and hold it, keeping my chest full until I release slowly through my nostrils.

This is actually fine.

Relieved, I face Alec, who seems just as grateful to be out of the bar.

Our relief lasts all of five seconds.

Before either of us can say a word, Dalton emerges from the bar, tugging on his expensive wool coat. His hair catches the light breeze, and shadows touch the chiseled lines of his cheekbones. He’s so distractingly handsome—regal even in these moments when chaos steadily bubbles around him like lava.

He’s absolutely going to follow us.