After Hours (Vancouver Havoc #2)

Chapter 1

brIELLE

There’s an art to people watching.

You can’t be obvious, yet if you don’t look hard enough, you miss all of the best parts.

The crinkles at the corners of a pair of dark, frustrated eyes as they scan a laptop screen, or the smirk on the lips of a man who’s mildly intrigued by the barista who couldn’t be making it any more obvious that she’s not interested.

The businessman will huff as he pulls his phone out to make a gruff call, and the barista will roll her eyes when her flirty customer leans over the counter and makes a show of reading her name tag when she denies telling it to him outright.

I don’t have to watch them to know what happens next, but knowing your hunch was right is the best part.

I’ve never been too nervous or intimidated to stare at someone in public. There’s a line between watching someone like you’re running through a mental list of all the ways you could murder them and simply being curious, but it’s not as fine as you’d think.

If you’re like me and find sitting in a busy café on a Tuesday afternoon to be relaxing, then you don’t have anything to worry about. This is my happy place, I guess. Me, my table for two—or rather one—and the sun beaming on my cheeks from the tall window that looks out to downtown Vancouver.

The hiss of steam and the grind of coffee beans behind the counter, mixed with the sound of low, casual conversation, has become the soundtrack to my life over the last year.

I’ve got no damn clue why, either. Every time I inhale, the coffee smell burns my nostrils, and while my purse never moves from the chair across from mine, not everyone seems to know the universal meaning of that specific gesture.

Turning my head, I peer outside to the street.

It’s just past lunchtime, which means the crosswalks are cluttered, and the pace of passing strangers is fast. With every blink, a new cluster of people rushes by.

From teenagers dressed in their private high school uniforms to the hoity-toity business folk in heels and thick-soled loafers, it’s hard to keep up. It’s overwhelming, actually.

I tuck my fading cherry-red hair behind my ears and drop my eyes to the sketchbook open in front of me. The pages are still blank despite the last two lively hours I’ve been sitting here. I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t managed to design anything new in weeks, let alone hours.

My phone buzzes on the table beside my partially untouched, melted Frappuccino, and I risk a glance at it.

My brother’s name flashes over a photo of us at Summit Field last spring, the home of the Vancouver Havoc MLB team.

I wince when I let it go to voicemail and pick up my discarded hot pink pencil.

Tapping it to the corner of my paper, I read the words Pussy Power that Aubrey had stamped up the side of the wood and gifted to me for my birthday.

Admittedly, I don’t feel all that powerful right now, which is pretty unusual.

Folding one bare leg over the other beneath the table, I lean closer to my sketchbook.

The lines I force myself to draw are simple and take no effort.

The curved shapes of the woman’s thighs and hips come first, and then her calves appear.

My thoughts grow quiet as I work. I fill out her waist and bust before messing around with her arms and fingers.

They’re terrible, but luckily, that doesn’t matter.

Once I’ve got a body made, I stare blankly at it, not able to go any further.

My phone buzzes again, and instead of ignoring it again, I drag my finger across the screen and pick it up.

“What do you want?”

“Who pissed in your chia seed overnight oats?” Wes laughs into my ear.

“Now really isn’t the time to poke at me.”

His laugh dies instantly, replaced with a seriousness that he likes to pretend doesn’t exist beneath all of his loud jokes and laid-back demeanour. “Why?”

I want to tell him the truth but quickly decide against it. Not when he’s the one who fronted the money for me to start my clothing brand, Soft Body, and who I know has been waiting for something to actually become of it.

Admitting that he may have wasted money on a dream that may never come to fruition feels like an incredibly bad idea.

“Just busy. You know how I get when I haven’t had breakfast.”

“So nobody pissed in your overnight oats, then.”

I crack a small smile. “No, and I had those one time. You can let it go.”

“Let what go?”

That’s better. “Why did you actually call?”

“I need you to tell Dad to stop trying to talk to me before I block his number.”

“How long are you going to keep this up, Wes?”

“As long as it takes to get my point across.”

I shut my eyes and abandon my pencil, done with sketching for now. “You know he just . . . worries.”

Right, because that’s a good enough explanation as to why our father hates Wes’ job and doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut about it.

At first, it was fun to join in on the poking that he did when we were teenagers and Wes was still playing high school ball.

That changed for me the moment there started being major league scouts in the stands of his games and college interest from here to Florida.

Now, he’s a top three catcher in the MLB, and our father still turns his nose up at him.

It’s caused permanent damage not only to their relationship, but to the one that we all share. With Wes’ birthday coming up in a couple of months, Mom’s tasked me with convincing him to attend the party she’s hoping to throw, which I can’t see happening. Not as long as Dad will be there.

They’re both too stubborn, and where Wes is concerned, there’s also years of built-up hurt to work through.

“Don’t take his side right now, Elle.”

“I’m not. You know that.”

He blows out a rough breath. “I’m not going to change my mind. When he makes a real effort to change his opinion on what I do, then we can talk. Until then, I’m going to keep him out of my life.”

“Okay, I’ll let Mom know. It’s still a while away. Maybe he’ll realize the errors of his ways by then,” I say, fully aware of how na?ve I sound.

It’s been over ten years of this. There isn’t any magic fix.

“Right. Maybe at the same time he starts listening to his doctor’s warnings and cuts the salt from his diet.”

“Mom’s been working on that.”

“We both know he’s sneaking extra behind her back.”

“Do you have anything else you want to talk about it, or can I hang up now?”

“What are you doing that is more important than talking to your brother?”

“Where do I begin? That’s a very long list,” I mutter, only half-joking.

He chuckles. “Let me guess, you’re at the café again. Considering it’s . . . twelve thirty, you’re probably staring at everyone eating lunch around you and debating whether that’s a normal thing to do.”

“Which it is, by the way. It’s perfectly natural to people-watch.”

“Not the way you do.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re wrong. I’m just curious.”

“Right. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Try not to get arrested for stalking, yeah?”

“We both know that if I chose to stalk someone, I wouldn’t ever be caught.”

“You’re getting scarier by the day.”

I hold my phone between my ear and shoulder while closing my sketchbook. “Hardly. You’re just more sensitive to this sort of thing than you used to be.”

“Whatever, Elle. Call me later.”

“With such warm words, I’ll make sure to do just that, Big Bro.”

His huff couldn’t possibly sound more annoyed. “Goodbye.”

I hang up before he can and stand from the table. With one sweep of my hand, the sketchbook and fancy pencil tumble inside my purse. The cup left on the table is a Frappuccino wasteland. I frown at the melted contents before tossing it into the garbage and shrugging my purse strap up my arm.

The barista waves at me from behind the counter, and I return the gesture.

I’m pretty sure her name is Callie, or something close enough to it.

She’s sweet but a bit much when it comes to pushing you into trying her favourite items on the menu.

I prefer speaking to the owner, Quinn, but she’s always running around the joint like her feet might turn to flames if she takes a break.

Not wanting to linger in the middle of the walkway long enough to get called out for it, I head out. While sketching may not be working for me right now, I know one thing that will.

I adjust the ring light on my desk and check the angle of my camera. Once they’re perfect, I take a final look at myself in the tall mirror leaning against the wall across my bedroom.

The lingerie I swapped my skirt and blouse for when I got home stands out against my pale skin.

I’ve gone weeks without a spray tan, so my hot pink demi bra and matching panties look even brighter as I pop a hip and cock my head.

Truly, nobody who’s going to be watching my video will care much about what I’m wearing for long, but this is my favourite part.

When I get to dress up in fancy lingerie and watch myself transform from the regular Brielle into the woman I become at night when I log in to After Hours, an adult-only content platform.

I tug on a deep red curl and watch it lose some of its shape.

My viewers will never see my hair, but that doesn’t stop me from spending an hour teasing and curling it before every session.

Letting my eyes dip down my body, I tongue my cheek.

The generous chest I was blessed with sits high from the tightness of the bra, exaggerating my natural cleavage.

The nude cups are decorated with stitched pink flowers that climb the first few inches of the shoulder straps before disappearing.

I slip a nail beneath the right strap and exhale, looking lower.

My thighs press together as I stare at my reflection.

It’s no surprise to me that filming myself turns me on.

I’ve known that fact since the first time I turned my camera on and uploaded a short clip on After Hours six months ago.

It was nothing more than a slow video of my stomach and lace-covered boobs, but I knew in that moment that I wanted to feel exhilarated like that again.

That’s when I started promoting my account online behind the username crushedvelvet.

The response was sudden and overwhelming, which encouraged me to start offering live videos and posting daily, even if I don’t have anything recorded to share.

I’m far from a big name in this industry, but I’ve done alright, and I like it this way.

If I were to get any more well-known, I can only imagine it would lead to problems.

Spinning from the mirror, I catch a glimpse of my soft green eyes and grin. I grip the back of my desk chair and twirl it toward me before I take a seat in front of my only blank bedroom wall. The website is already loaded up, so the only thing left for me to do is go live.

It isn’t hesitation that has me browsing the usernames of the members already waiting for me before starting, but excitement. I search for the one that’s been present for almost every single one of my live videos this last month, and when I find it, my pulse quickens. Quiethours.

Without keeping anyone waiting any longer, I position myself in front of the camera and get started.