Filthy Twisted Devil (House of Cards #5)

Chapter 1 – Eden

EDEN

October

Sighing, I run the math again, even though I know it’s correct. If there’s one thing I’m good with, it’s numbers. I might not be an expert in relationships, fashion, cooking, or remembering any of the Spanish I learned over four years of high school, but I’m damn good with this.

So of course the math is right.

$817.32.

That’s a good chunk of money if you’re about to go on a bookstore shopping spree, but it’s basically nothing if you’re trying to start an event planning business.

I slump back against my desk chair. My finances are a complete disaster, and I haven't even looked at my credit card balances yet. I'd hoped to clear them with my paycheck from an opening I’m planning for the Whitmer Gallery. Except earlier today, I got a call from Sydney, the gallery curator.

“Bad news.” She sighed. “Burst pipe. We're going to have to shut down the gallery for a week for repairs, which means we have to bump back the opening.”

“That’s awful.” I managed to express my sympathy without letting my panic slip through. “How bad is the damage?”

“Luckily, it was in the entrance, so it didn’t damage any of the art. But we’re locked into a show with an artist traveling from Japan at the start of November, which means we’re pushing your opening to December. Will that be a problem?”

Yup. It’s a huge problem. A devastating, gargantuan, dinosaur-killing-asteroid-sized problem. Now I won’t be paid until December, which means no credit card payments, no extra grocery money, no adding to that $817.32 unless I can miraculously find other work on short notice.

“Not a problem,” I chirped. “I’ll check back in once the repairs are finished to see if we need to make any changes.”

Translation: I’m fucked.

Sighing, I drag my laptop from my tiny desk to my twin bed, since it’s a better place to wallow in misery. The lumpy mattress creaks under my weight.

When I first arrived in Toronto in the early spring, I was so grateful to have this room.

Or rather, this overlarge closet that my friend Brinley graciously turned into a bedroom.

She let me stay here for free, in exchange for working some shifts at the Peppermint Press, her café/bookstore.

She didn’t even ask me to work there—I convinced her, because I didn’t move here to be her charity case.

It's October now, and every small irritation is a reminder that the situation was supposed to be temporary. My “desk” is barely wide enough to hold my laptop. My back muscles have started randomly cramping thanks to the cheap mattress. Brinley’s apartment was supposed to be my landing pad while I got my feet under me.

My original plan was to go home if I didn’t successfully launch my business before the end of September.

I’ve overstayed my deadline because I refuse to fail.

There’s got to be something I haven’t thought of, anything I haven’t already tried.

Because I refuse to give my brothers the satisfaction of proving them right.

A rap on the door interrupts my thoughts.

“You may enter,” I joke in my most regal voice.

Brinley peeks through the door, her black-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose. “Hungry?”

I nod. “Perpetually.”

“You want Thai or sushi? I’m ordering takeout, and I can’t make a decision.”

“Isn’t your boyfriend going to feed you?” Brinley’s boyfriend, Beau, is a restaurateur and an amazing chef in his own right.

“He’s working late tonight,” she sighs. “I’m headed over to his place around ten, but my stomach can’t wait that long. So what should we get? My treat, since you’re saving me from indecision between green curry and salmon rolls.”

See? Brinley knows I’m broke, so she buys me dinner, coming up with a cute excuse to protect my dignity. She’s an angel, and I suck for resenting her charity.

“Chicken pad Thai, please,” I say.

“Perfect. Are you working on job applications?”

“Something like that.”

I’ve already searched through all the job openings anywhere in the realm of event planning. I sent personalized cold emails to a few businesses, too. There’s nothing more I can do for my career tonight, but I will be doing something about my financial situation, anyway.

Brinley’s eyes narrow. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just getting a lot of texts from my brothers.” Which is true, even if it’s not the whole story. “Did you know that adult kidnapping rates are up 35 percent over the past five years? I do, because Wade and Jasper both texted me the article.”

“Uh-huh. Did you point out that none of those kidnappings happened to adults in Toronto?”

“Sure did. Jasper replied, and I quote, ‘Causation does not equal correlation.’”

Brinley snorts. “What does that even mean?”

“It means he stayed up too late reading some crazy mystery novel, and what he meant to say was something like ‘but my crazy sister would be the first.’”

Just because I moved away from Locke Ranch in Alberta doesn’t mean the Locke brothers have stopped their overprotective ways. They’ve just had to find more creative ways to keep track of me.

The constant texts about crime statistics to both me and Brinley are just the tip of the iceberg.

The first week I was here, Reed sent me a “care package” of pepper spray, a safety whistle, and honest-to-god nunchucks.

The next day, a handyman Wade hired showed up to install bars on our windows.

Jasper harassed me about sharing my location so incessantly that I compromised by sharing it with Brinley, who’s under strict instructions to only use it in case of emergency.

At least Mom is encouraging. She and I talk every few days, and she seems thrilled by every small detail of my new life in the city. She’s the only one in the family actually happy that I’m here chasing my dreams.

“The boys will have to lighten up eventually,” Brinley says encouragingly. “If for no other reason, because the constant anxiety will make them collapse from exhaustion.”

“The Locke brothers thrive on anxiety. It’s like oxygen to them. They’re just counting down the days until I run out of money and skulk home with my tail between my legs.”

“That’s not going to happen. You’re going to figure this out! You’re an amazing event planner, Eden. You just need a little more time to build your clientele.”

I smile wanly. I know Brinley means every word, but all the pep talks in the world won’t add more dollars to my bank account.

It’s time for me to break the glass and pull the emergency lever.

Because if event planning has taught me anything, it's that you always need a backup plan for your backup plan.

Fortunately, I’m spared any more encouragement when Brinley's phone rings.

“It's Pippa,” she says, grinning. “She’s helping me put together the new window display for the Peppermint Press. She bought a hot glue gun for it, so she seems pumped.”

“Fun! Tell her hey and I’ll see her at Friendsgiving.”

A free room isn't the only thing Brinley gave me when I moved.

She also let me into her circle of friends, including Pippa, a sharp-tongued writer who immediately got my dry humor.

I've been invited to their Friendsgiving this Friday, which is great, since my plans would have been eating instant ramen in bed.

Once Brinley leaves, I carefully angle my laptop away from the door. If my roommate gets the sudden urge to pop in with a pad Thai update, she absolutely cannot see what’s on my screen.

Because her brain would probably explode if she saw my tits plastered on the internet.

The reason I’ve survived this long in Toronto has been the cam work I picked up two months ago. The money is good, not great, but enough to keep me afloat. I’ve got five or so regulars who tip me well, and a small audience that watches more often than they tip.

I know I’m lucky to have that much, considering the kind of content I make. I never show my face, and I make sure the lighting is shadowy enough that nobody could recognize my background. If I wanted to get to the next earning level, I’d have to share a lot more than I’m comfortable with.

I learned quickly that just getting naked wasn’t enough to get an audience.

CamCuties, the platform I work on, caters to men who want to feel like their dream girls could be their real girlfriends.

My viewers ticked up quickly once I started opening my mouth.

Mostly, I talk about my day, working retail in an anonymous city.

I speak in a slightly huskier voice, doing my best to drop my country accent and mostly succeeding.

I’m making far more with CamCuties than I would any other freelance job I could pick up.

Like everything else in my life, though, it’s temporary.

I don’t enjoy the work, and I’m terrified that someone will recognize me, no matter how many precautions I take.

Worse, thanks to a mix-up with my bank, my last two months of tips are being held in reserve.

I get a few hundred dollars from subscription fees, but the real money comes from high-spending tippers.

I don’t know how long it’ll take for the money to come in, but I need a serious cash infusion, stat.

It’s time for drastic measures. So far, I’ve stuck to streaming instead of taking advantage of CamCuties’ seller forum. That’s where the real money is.

They’re careful with the coded language. On the surface, I’ll be providing a “high-value exclusive offering,” not just exchanging money for sex. Even though that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.

To keep my dream alive, I’m selling my virginity to a stranger on the internet.

It’ll be safe—at least, as safe as such an insane transaction could be.

CamCuties handles buyer vetting, financial verification, and escrow.

I get to invite as many as six bidders, weeding out any known creeps.

Then all I have to do is set a date and time for the auction, upload a poster image, and watch while the numbers tick up.