5. Oakley
Chapter 5
Oakley
T he room feels like it’s closing in on me. I sit cross-legged on my bed, my single dorm room suffocatingly small as I rant about Jeremiah Blackwood to nothing but air.
Seriously. I was not on his mind for two years and then just because he saw me talking to another guy; he wants to go apeshit. He says that he checked in on me, but that has to be a lie. You can’t care about someone and walk away the way he did over my brother accusing him of sleeping with his girlfriend. I slam my fist against the mattress; the sound echoing off the cold walls. “His bunny, my ass.”
Jeremiah’s face flashes in my mind—those piercing green eyes and that infuriating smirk. He can analyze a play in seconds, but when it comes to our friendship, he’s clueless.
I glance at the clock. Time’s slipping away. With a groan, I leap off the bed, urgency hurrying my movements. I don’t really want to do this right now, but my therapist thought it would be a good idea. My coworker, Willa, told me about Starlet Streams, but she uses it more as a side hustle. Then again, she thought going to the party would be a good idea and look how that turned out. My cam show waits for no one, I guess. I shove the desk aside, making space for my backdrop. My fingers work quickly, hanging the black curtain and draping fairy lights across it. Their soft glow casts a whimsical, albeit semi-eerie ambiance in the dimly lit room.
I adjust the lights until they create just the right amount of shadow. My heart pounds with frustration and anticipation, the weight of Jeremiah’s insistence still heavy on my mind.
“Showtime. I guess.” I roll my eyes, because deep down I don’t think this is going to work or make me feel any better.
My fingers trace the lace edges of the masquerade bunny mask, feeling its delicate intricacy against my skin. The mask is more than just a prop; it’s my shield and sword, an invitation to step into another world where I can be anyone but myself. Sliding it on, I feel a rush of empowerment, a tingling sensation that travels down my spine. The weight of anonymity settles over me like a cloak, allowing me to shed my insecurities.
“Here we go,” I whisper, the words barely audible even in the quiet of my room.
I sit in front of the camera, adjusting the angle with care. Everything needs to be perfect—the lighting, the backdrop, the way the shadows play across my face. It’s the little bit of control I can count on. One last check and I take a deep breath, that familiar nervousness and anticipation bubbling up inside me.
“Hey, everyone,” I say, hitting the button to start the live stream on Starlet Streams cam site. The screen lights up instantly, a flurry of messages flooding in from eager viewers, most of which refer to themselves as fanboys. I feel safe here in a way I don’t feel in real life. I can control how much of me they have access to and how much I can keep to myself. Usernames flash in bright, gaudy colors against the dark background. Some of them I recognize and some of them I don’t.
Missed you, BunnyGirl!
Looking gorgeous as always!
How was your day?
The chat box explodes with greetings and compliments, a surge of virtual affection that’s both intoxicating and overwhelming. My heart races as I scan through the messages, trying to keep up with the torrent of attention.
“Hey there, lovelies,” I respond, my voice dripping with playful charm. “You’ve got no idea how much I’ve missed you all.”
Tell us something naughty, VelvetVix
One message reads, accompanied by a barrage of emojis.
“Patience, patience,” I reply, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Good things come to those who wait.”
I lean back slightly, letting the fairy lights cast a soft glow around me, enhancing the atmosphere. As the minutes tick by, I lose myself in the rhythm of the interaction, the ebb and flow of desire and fantasy intertwining seamlessly.
Show us a little more. PLEASE
Another message pops up, and I can almost hear the collective holding of breath on the other side of the screen. He’s a regular chatter in my room, and he knows I don’t take my clothes off, but without fail he asks every time. My therapist says this is a good way to find my voice without feeling unsafe without going back to the night my voice and my choices were taken away from me.
“You know I don’t do that,” I say, winking at the camera. “But thank you for asking nicely this time.”
Lose the mask, sweetie. Let us see that beautiful face.
Another message fires off and I can’t help but smile. They’re relentless and I don’t have to bend to any of their wills. None of them can grab me. None of them can force me to do anything I don’t want to do. None of them can take anything I’m not willing to give them.
With practiced ease, I let the lace strap of my mask slip down just a bit; the fabric caressing my skin as it moves. I’m careful not to show too much of my face, but it gets the reaction I wanted, and that makes me feel like I really am in control. The chat box goes wild, their excitement palpable even through the screen. I revel in the power, the control, the way they hang onto my every move.
“More?” I ask, my tone laced with seductive promise. “Or is this enough for tonight?”
Never enough!
Comes the unanimous response, their desperation almost tangible.
“Greedy boys,” I chide gently, my smile widening. “But I suppose I can indulge you...just a little longer.” My stomach sinks. None of this feels right, but I keep pushing through like my therapist told me to.
Tell us about your day
One user types, their excitement palpable even through the screen.
“Ah, today was quite an adventure,” I say, leaning closer to the camera as if sharing a delicious secret. “I stumbled upon a hidden garden on campus. You wouldn’t believe the beauty—roses as big as my head, and the scent… intoxicating. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.”
Did you fall down any rabbit holes?
Another fanboy asks, his username flashing in bright green.
“Not this time,” I reply with a sly smile. “But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
Any tips for surviving this semester?
A different user chimes in, shifting the conversation.
“Ah, the eternal struggle,” I laugh softly. “Balance is key, my loves. Study hard, but don’t forget to take breaks. And caffeine—lots of it.”
The chat box fills with a mix of laughter, heart emojis, and more questions. I make sure to respond to each one, weaving in bits of humor and advice, keeping the energy lively and engaging.
Can we have a 1-on-1 chat ?
One message stands out, repeated persistently by a user named Knight99. I ignore it, focusing on the collective experience rather than indulging one individual.
What’s your favorite book?
Another user asks, pulling me back into the flow.
“Hard to choose just one,” I say thoughtfully. “But ‘Wuthering Heights’ always has a special place in my heart. The passion, the torment...it’s beautifully dark.”
Just like you
Someone comments, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I tease, but it’s not a genuine warmth spread through me. Despite the mask and the distance, I truly feel fine, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.
Please, just 1-on-1
Knight99 insists, his messages now tinged with desperation. I glance at them briefly before dismissing them once more. It’s crucial to maintain control, not just for my sake, but for the entire audience. They deserve my full attention.
“Alright, loves,” I announce, sensing the hour slipping away. “One last question before we wrap up. Make it good.”
Are you happy
Comes a sudden, simple query. It hangs in the air, heavier than the rest .
“Am I happy?” I repeat, caught off guard. “Happiness is...complicated. But in this moment, with all of you, I find joy. And sometimes, that’s enough.”
As the hour draws to a close, I feel a twinge of reluctance. Despite the thrill, a part of me longs for something real, something beyond the virtual veil that I’ve created. I want to feel this comfortable when I’m walking across campus, while I’m at work in the library, when a random man looks at me. I don’t want to question if he’ll be another man to hurt me. But tonight, this will have to suffice.
“Time’s up, loves,” I say, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Until next time.”
With a final wave, I log out; the screen going dark. The room feels different now—emptier, quieter. I remove the mask, placing it back on the desk with a sense of finality.
“Another night, another show,” I murmur, reaching for my journal. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I begin to write, the words flowing out in a torrent of conflicting emotions. Empowerment, doubt, fear—they all blend together, forming a tangled web that mirrors my state of mind.
Is this really what I want?
I write down, but the answer remains elusive, hidden beneath layers of uncertainty and longing. For now, all I can do is keep searching, hoping to find clarity in the chaos. My mind drifts back to Jeremiah Blackwood. I might have felt in control during my cam show tonight, but the only place I’ve ever felt safe is with him. That’s for another day and another therapy session to figure out, I guess.
The pen scratches against the paper, each stroke a release of pent-up frustration. The black ink bleeds into the fibers, creating words that feel heavy with meaning and doubt.
Why does this feel so wrong?
I write, biting my lip as the question hangs in the air. The room is silent except for the soft hum of the mini-fridge and the distant murmur of campus life filtering through the walls.
Growth is uncomfortable, Oakley . My therapist’s voice rings in my ear, her tone calm and measured. You owe it to yourself to embrace uncertainty. The problem is that I’m uncertain about almost everything at this point and nothing I do seems to swing things back to the way they were before. I always had trouble sleeping, but Jeremiah was there to soothe that ache. Since he’s been gone, nothing has felt right and now, he’s back in my life and I want nothing more for him to leave me alone.
Bitterly, I realize how contradictory that sounds. I’m so twisted up in my head over the night he left me and never looked back even more than the night I was attacked.
This isn’t even about him and yet he invades every aspect of my life just like he has been doing for years. I wish I could erase him from my mind, my life, my everything.
I’m doing this for me, right?
Or am I just chasing validation? I can’t ignore the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m seeking approval from faceless strangers. Each comment, each tip—it fills a void, but it’s temporary. Fleeting.
I toss my journal to the side because I’m not getting anywhere with this whole exercise and pick up my phone. There are seventeen messages from Jeremiah Blackwood, and I hate the fact that his number is still stored in my phone as Pretty Boy instead of just his name.
Pretty Boy
You can’t ignore me forever bunny.
I know every move you make. I know everywhere you go. Everyone you talk to. Every thought you think is mine. You’re back in my crosshairs now, Oakley.
I roll my eyes and refrain from texting him back that if he knew I was chatting with strangers online tonight, he’d already be over here kicking my door in. Well, the old Jeremiah would. I don’t know what this version of him would do, and I choose to keep ignoring him. After two years of silence, I’d say he deserves it.
Pretty Boy
Answer me.
You can’t keep your secrets forever.
Oh, but I can, pretty boy.