Chapter 2 #2
“Not a pretending person,” he corrects. “Too much artifice in those circles.”
Even his word choice highlights the differences in our educational level, but the irony of his statement isn’t lost on me.
Here I am, an online performer whose entire career is built on selling an illusion, talking to a man who won’t even show his face.
Yet somehow, these sessions have become the most honest part of my week.
“What would you do if we ever met in person?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His breathing changes, his microphone picking up a subtle hitch. “What would you want me to do?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities. My heart thuds hard. “I’m not sure.”
That’s a lie. I want him to see me, not ElliotUnleashed, but Micah. I want to hear if he sounds the same without digital processing, if his hands feel as strong as they appear. I want things that scare me because they’re real, not a performance.
“Your food’s getting cold,” he says softly, letting me retreat from the precipice of honesty.
I take another bite, grateful for the reprieve. “Tell me about the food at the gala. Was it those tiny portions that leave you starving?”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Microscopic servings. I couldn’t even tell what I was eating. I stopped for a burger on the way home.”
And we’re back on safe ground, swapping stories about the comfort of greasy takeout. But as we talk, treacherous thoughts circle in my mind. I’m falling for a voice and a pair of hands. A man who pays to spend time with me yet asks for nothing but conversation in return.
After we finish eating, I move back to my bed, curling onto my side so I can prop my laptop on the pillow beside me and pretend GentlemanX is lying beside me.
The clock on my laptop tells me we’re approaching midnight. Our two-hour session is nearing its end, and a heaviness settles in my chest at the thought of disconnecting. I reach for the ratty teddy bear I’ve had since childhood and tuck him under my chin.
“Getting comfortable?” GentlemanX asks, a contented Alpha rumble coming through from his side.
“Mmhmm.” I nestle deeper into my pillows, arranging them in a nest around me. The blue glow of the screen casts shadows across my comforter, turning the familiar landscape of my bed into an ethereal oasis. “Don’t mind Mr. Snuggles.”
“Mr. Snuggles?”
I hold up the teddy bear, its worn fur catching the light. One eye is missing, and the stitching around its neck has been repaired multiple times. “My oldest friend. He doesn’t judge me for my life choices.”
“Neither do I.”
The sincerity in those three words catches me off guard. I hug the bear closer, using it as a shield for the sudden vulnerability washing over me. The screen shows only GentlemanX’s torso, but I imagine his expression is kind.
“Our time is almost up,” he says with regret.
“I don’t care.” I rub my cheek on the top of Mr. Snuggles’ head. “I want to fall asleep listening to you talk.”
A pause fills the speaker, followed by the subtle sound of fabric shifting as he adjusts his position. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“Tell me a story.”
“A story?” The question hangs between us.
“Please?” The day’s stress catches up to me, leaving my eyelids heavy. “You help me relax.”
Another pause stretches, long enough that I worry he’ll refuse. Then the sound of him clearing his throat comes through my speakers, the small, intimate noise sending a pleasant shiver down my spine.
“What kind of story would you like to hear?”
I pull the comforter up to my chin. “Something with a happy ending. Not enough of those in real life.”
He considers this, and the clink of ice against glass drifts through the speakers as he takes a drink. Then his deep baritone fills my bedroom, flowing like warm honey through the speakers.
“Once there was a watchman who lived in a tower by the sea,” he begins. “Every night, he would climb to the top and light a beacon to guide ships to harbor.”
There’s a texture to the way he speaks, not quite rough, but rich, like expensive whiskey that warms me to the core. His cadence rises and falls like waves, pulling me deeper into both the story and my drowsiness.
“The watchman had never set foot on any of the ships he guided. He’d never traveled beyond the shore, never seen the faces of those he protected night after night. But still, he climbed the tower. Still, he lit the light.”
My eyelids grow heavier as I listen. The laptop screen blurs, and I stop focusing on the image of GentlemanX as I lose myself in the way he pauses between sentences, giving each one space to breathe. The way he emphasizes certain words.
“One night, during a terrible storm, a ship came too close to the rocks. The watchman spotted the small vessel through his telescope, tossed by waves higher than its mast.”
I struggle to stay awake, determined to learn how the story ends.
GentlemanX continues, softer now as if he can tell I’m drifting. “He knew the beacon wouldn’t be enough. For the first time in his life, the watchman left his tower. He ran down to the shore, where he found an old rowboat…”
His words flow through the darkness behind my closed eyelids, painting images more vivid than any screen could display. The pauses between his sentences grow longer, more gentle, like he’s laying each word carefully beside me on the pillow.
“The storm raged, but the watchman rowed. His arms burned, his lungs fought for breath, but he kept his eyes on the struggling ship…”
My breathing slows, matching the rhythm of his storytelling. I catch fragments now, pieces of the tale floating through my consciousness like debris on a receding tide.
“…reached the ship…found a child alone…brought her safely to shore…”
The words blur together, their meaning less important than the comfort they bring. His steady murmur wraps around me like a blanket, a shield against the darkness beyond my windows and the memory of that disturbing package.
“…and so the watchman was no longer alone in his tower. Each night, they would climb the stairs together and light the beacon, guiding other lost souls home.”
As sleep takes hold, a strange sense of safety washes over me, like I’m that child in the story, rescued from a storm by a man whose face I’ve never seen.
A contented sigh escapes me before consciousness slips away. “Thank you…”
Through the haze of near-sleep, his response comes so quietly it might be my imagination. “Sleep well…”
Through the haze, I think he whispers my real name.
Or maybe it’s just my dreams, carrying me away on the tide of his voice, as the connection between us remains open long after I’ve fallen asleep.