Chapter 1 #2
But a human override beats any filter, which means someone cleared it at the desk.
Snapping the gloves over my hands, I retrieve the plastic bag. The boxers are even worse under normal lighting, the gray cotton worn thin with age, with crusty stains in spurting patterns that cause my throat to constrict. I don’t need a black-light to tell me what those are.
“Jesus,” I whisper, turning the bag to examine every angle without opening it. No note, no identifying marks on the packaging. The plastic bag itself is ordinary, the kind available at any grocery store.
Returning it to the envelope it came in, I take off the gloves and throw them into the trash bin.
Then, I grab my secondary laptop and open a browser.
This one routes through multiple VPNs, bouncing my signal across continents before connecting to anything.
Old habits from my hacker days that never really ended.
They just evolved alongside my more visible career.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of coding and searching calming my nerves.
I access the shipping service’s tracking system using credentials I shouldn’t have to find out that the package was dropped off directly at their processing facility in Brickwell, not mailed.
Paid for in cash, according to the transaction record.
No cameras in that area of the facility, either. I pointed out the security flaw to them months ago, but they never fixed it.
“Smart. Very smart.” I chew my bottom lip, scrolling through the limited data.
The return address sends a chill through me.
It’s my actual box number, not the forwarding one I give my fans.
Only a handful of people have that information: the shipping service, my best friend Saint, and a couple of trusted clients who send birthday gifts.
Even my bank statements come electronically.
Does this mean the fan is a hacker like me? Or did they spot me in real life and follow me until they figured out where I pick up my mail?
Needing distance from the evidence of someone’s obsession, I push away from the desk. The apartment closes in around me, its walls too thin. I glance at the windows, where the drawn curtains offer inadequate protection.
My pheromone suppressants sit on the bathroom counter, visible through the half-open door. I’ve been religious about using them since presenting as an Omega at thirteen, and I never go out without taking steps to disguise my ElliotUnleashed personality.
Returning to the computer, I open my network security program and run a scan of all my devices.
Nothing unusual pings. No keyloggers, no remote access trojans, no spyware.
I check the logs for my building’s security system next, an easy hack I performed during my first week living here.
No unauthorized entries to my floor. The camera in the hallway shows only the usual neighbors coming and going.
I should call the postal inspector and file a report. But what would I say? Someone sent me dirty underwear? They’d see my job and dismiss it as an occupational hazard. Or worse, suggest I brought it on myself.
I should tell Saint, at least. He’d drive over right away and probably crash on my couch for a week with his gun at the ready, glaring at every delivery person who entered the building.
My hands hover over my phone. I need to think, not react from fear.
“New address,” I decide, speaking aloud to fill the silence. “New PO Box tomorrow.”
Practical steps, followed by enhanced security on all my accounts. And maybe a call to the private investigator Saint knows who doesn’t ask too many questions.
The soft ping of a notification pulls me from my planning. My screen flashes with a calendar reminder of my private session with GentlemanX in fifteen minutes.
I exhale a calming breath. GentlemanX has been my Tuesday night regular for almost a year now, and I always anticipate our sessions in a way I don’t with my other patrons.
After the violation of the package, the idea of performing for the masses again turns my stomach. But GentlemanX? He’s different.
Safe.
Unlike most private clients who demand explicit content, GentlemanX pays premium rates for simple companionship.
Sometimes, we talk while I wear oversized sweaters instead of lingerie. Sometimes he asks me to read aloud from whatever book I’ve checked out from the library. He never shows his face, just the shoulders down, but I don’t care about his appearance when he has such an amazing voice.
I seal the offensive package in a larger bag and shove it into the back of my closet to be tomorrow’s problem.
I strip off the purple lace that’s grown uncomfortable during my investigation and pull on soft lounge pants and a worn university sweatshirt, which GentlemanX once told me was his favorite outfit on me.
I refresh my face with a damp cloth, removing the heavy eyeliner and gloss from the public stream. GentlemanX prefers me natural, or at least the illusion of natural. The professional lights stay off, too, after he once commented about disliking the artificial glow they cast.
Instead, I switch on the small lamp beside my bed, creating a gentle pool of warm light that softens the edges of the room.
The computer chimes again. Five minutes until the session starts.
I arrange myself on the bed, propping pillows behind my back and setting my laptop at a comfortable distance. The creepy boxers and their sender fade into the background of my mind as I prepare for this strange, intimate connection that I like to pretend is more than a transaction.
When the private session request comes in, I click to accept, noting with satisfaction that GentlemanX has already deposited the full two-hour fee, plus a thirty percent tip, into my account.
The screen flickers to life, revealing GentlemanX’s familiar frame.
No face, only a crisp button-down shirt covering broad shoulders and strong hands resting on what must be a desk.
The sight of him sends a ripple of calm through my body, washing away the lingering anxiety from the package incident.
I tuck my feet under me on the bed, adjusting the laptop screen to capture my face in the soft glow of my bedside lamp.
His deep baritone fills my room. “Hello, Elliot. You look tired tonight. Bad day?”
Despite everything, the tension melts from my body. GentlemanX notices things about me that my other viewers miss, even when I’m trying to hide them.
“You have no idea.” I settle deeper into my pillows. “But it’s better now.”
For the next two hours, I have GentlemanX, and I feel safe.