Forty-Two
ESSIE
I nvestors and are analysts have always put financial markets into two categories: a bull market or a bear market.
A bull market is one where the value of stocks and securities is rising—or a sound economy. A bear market is the opposite, where stocks and securities decline—a receding economy. Apparently, the names come from animal behavior. A bull attacks upwards by bowing its head and levering its horns. On the flip side, a bear swipes its massive, clawed paws downwards, using height to overpower prey.
It doesn’t take a financial scholar or even a remote understanding of testosterone to recognize why the men who built financial institutions personified power in two enormous, violent animals. Size and viciousness reign in the places where dollars trade hands, and men would envision the game of wealth-making as a bloodbath between bulls and bears.
In the Financial District in New York City, there’s a seven-thousand-pound, sixteen-foot bronze statue of a charging bull. It greets traders and brokers in their stuffy suits every morning, egging them on as they scuff the pavement in expensive shoes, trotting off to desks where they’ll make rich men richer. Some call it art; I call it a circle jerk.
There’s no bronze bear to oppose the bull, however—something about optimism. If there’s no bear, there’s nothing to stop the bull.
But the notion that only a bear could stop a bull is so comically predictable to me.
History has proven time and again that the small things ultimately kill us. The tiniest of organisms can upset an ecosystem, and the most microscopic of toxins have wiped out entire populations.
Bulls and bears are only a threat when they’re around. The small things linger, waiting.
Waiting.
Weston is wearing cologne tonight, which is the sickest thing he could possibly do. His black hair is damp and combed to the side like he showered for me, and I bet he trimmed his pubic hair because he seems like the type who’d be clean and perfect for a woman, like he’d plan everything to a T.
I don’t care about perfection. Yesterday, Dalton and I went to the gym, and halfway through my workout, he pulled me into the locker room and creampied me in one of the shower stalls with my sports bra tugged above my tits and my shorts halfway down my thighs. Messy. Rushed. Unbelievably satisfying.
Weston scans me. “You look pretty,” he comments.
Pretty.
I resist the urge to close the sides of my robe and cover the lingerie set I’m wearing underneath, but he wanted a camgirl, so he’s getting a camgirl—lingerie, mask, and all.
I layer a smile on my face. My skin is crawling, but I can fake it—I don’t give a shit. “This way.”
Weston follows me into Cora’s bedroom.
“Here,” I guide, patting the bed. “Climb on.”
He seats himself with his back against the pillows and his legs extended. He’s wearing a button-down and black pants, treating tonight like a special occasion—a little gift he bought himself.
Repulsive. And still, I hop on.
His lap feels small compared to Dalton’s, but I put my hand on his cheek. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Yes.”
Part of me wants to tell him to turn back now—this motherly instinct that recognizes a young man is about to do something very, very shortsighted. Another part of me, a part that doesn’t feel responsible for teaching heinous men how to predict the consequences of their actions, can’t wait.
“Give me your phone,” I request, holding out my hand.
For the first time tonight, Weston hesitates.
“It’s your phone,” I remind him, raising my hand higher. “You can do whatever you want with it.”
“What is it , exactly?”
“I’m going to film us,” I reply, smiling more broadly. “Do you consent to that? To me filming you screwing me, Weston?”
Weston blinks.
“Isn’t this half of the fantasy? You wanted a camgirl.” I tug on the collar of his shirt. “You know I take pride in my work.”
“Okay,” he agrees—like I knew he would. “You can film me.”
I set his phone against the nightstand lamp until I have the angle right and we’re both in frame. “Hey, you look good on camera,” I lie. “But sit on your hands.”
Riding the high of a compliment, Weston settles on his hands, wiggling them under his butt while I unbutton his shirt, exposing his chest. He watches me, pupils dilated, and he wets his lips.
Keeping my expression even, I push my robe down.
Weston’s eyes travel, taking in my sparsely clothed body. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs, which is the most uninspired dirty talk I’ve ever heard. Some men say I want you so bad . Dalton Cavendish says things like, Every moment I spend not inside your sweet, dripping cunt is a year of agony that makes me want to learn how to bend time. And then, because he’s Dalton Cavendish, he’ll immediately say something like, But that seems like a ton of work, and I’d probably screw the timeline up and bring all the dinosaurs back.
I love him so much.
Dalton would do anything for me—truly anything. But more importantly, Dalton trusts that I can do anything.
Staring at Weston, I reach back and undo my bra—right as the bedroom door flings open.
And standing there in the doorway, looking menacing, is a shirtless, six-foot-five man wearing a Ghostface mask with a tattoo of an X over his heart.