Chapter 40
Roni
After my night filled with horrors, I need to shake up my routine for the day.
I've been wanting to make some new looks for my livestreams. Something to make my followers' notifications light up like Christmas.
It's not that I don't have enough clothes. My walk-in closet is a rainbow explosion of fabrics Phoenix has bankrolled without question. But I'd like to find something the fans won’t expect. Something to put their jaws on the floor, and then maybe his hands on my hips. I’m not sure if I’ll find what I have in mind, but I have Vic drive me to my favorite boutique, where the mannequins wear less than most swimsuit models.
I don't pay much attention to the items while they're still on the rack.
If a color catches my eye and the cut promises to hug every curve or show just enough skin to tease, I throw it in the basket and take it back to the fitting room with its flattering lights and floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
But in the midst of juggling far too much, my phone buzzes with a message from my bestie.
Chloe: Really sorry I couldn’t meet up with you today, babes.
Chloe: But I beg you, if you see that dress in my size while you’re there, please steal…
Chloe: I mean grab…
Chloe: You know what I mean.
Roni: Bitch please. My services are available to those who actually show up without prior notice on a random Tuesday.
Chloe: Guess it’s a good thing it’s Thursday.
I drop my phone back in my purse. But the second I step inside the fitting room with my first handful of garments there’s another message vibrating.
Like everyone these days, I’m too addicted to my devices to leave them be for whole five minutes.
So I fish it back out, expecting to find even more razzing from Chloe.
But no. A notification flashes before my eyes, and it's from the MostlyFools app.
The message reveals a new tip has arrived from @SIMPleSimon.
This time, a staggering one thousand dollars.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, my jaw dropping in disbelief. With my heart racing, I open the app to send him a quick message.
@Unhinged: Simon, I was just thinking about you. Must be why my panties are all wet.
The notion of a man sending me a thousand dollars without expecting something provocative in return seems unimaginable. Yet, it’s crazier to receive it out of the blue when I’m not even online.
I wouldn’t typically dangle the carrot when I’m out of character. It’s hard enough to stay sane while doing it live. But for the kind of money he’s flaunting, I feel like I’d be an idiot not to compromise.
My fingers dance across the screen as I type a follow-up.
@Unhinged: I see someone’s feeling naughty again.
His response comes in a flash.
@SIMPleSimon: I like chatting with you. I want to do that more. Tell me about you.
Normally I’d make some shit up and not care if I get found out.
They’re really just in it for my assets.
But my gut tells me if I give him a small crack to see through, he’s more likely to stay.
And something about the way Phoenix looked at me when I mentioned my new fan felt judgy.
Like he’d been stewing about what I do on his way home and tried to stuff it back in its box before he fucked me.
It’s the urge to prove I get to make my own decisions that has me hitting ‘send’ on my reply.
@Unhinged: I'm about to turn 27. I'm a stay-at-home wife who loves to help men get off while my husband is away. Not much to tell, really.
My breathing accelerates, each inhale shallow and rapid. The fluorescent fitting room lights suddenly feel too bright against my skin. My thumb hovers over the screen, nail polish glinting as I wait, the blue glow illuminating my face in the mirror opposite.
@SIMPleSimon: I'm sure there's more to you than that, Gorgeous.
@Unhinged: Hey there, mister. This is a two-way message. I think it's your turn. Tell me something about you.
I tap my foot against the plush carpet, clothes hanging forgotten on hooks beside me. The spinning arrows appear, disappear, then reappear as he types. My stomach tightens with each passing second.
@SIMPleSimon: Meh, I'm boring. I have a fairly successful coffee empire. Basically, I work, I sleep, I work some more.
Memories of meeting Phoenix flood my heart and head. Snapshot of Mercy showing up late. Then, the thought of horse trailers nearly causes me to be sick, and I suddenly want to disappear.
My phone vibrates in my hand, jolting me back.
@SIMPleSimon: I shared a little about me. What about you? Tell me about yourself. And not some bullshit bio line.
I don’t want to be rude. Not now. I need to breathe and rein the fear in. To ignore the past and play the part.
Come on, Roni. Retail therapy is supposed to be soothing.
@Unhinged: I'd love to, but I'm actually out shopping right now. In fact, I'm in a fitting room.
I pull up the little white skirt I brought in with me, its fabric smooth and crisp under my fingers.
I twist my hips to the mirror, positioning myself to strike a playful pose.
The reflection captures the skirt's delicate lace hem which flutters around my thighs.
I snap a quick photo, capturing the moment of playful vanity.
Then, with a mischievous thought, I lift my leg onto the bench, angling my phone just right.
The image shows a perfect view down the inside of my thigh, leading up the skirt to my flawlessly shaven skin.
After several shots, I choose the most enticing one and send it to Simon.
@Unhinged: But I'd be happy to chat when I'm done.
A brittle cold hits me, and I’m plunged into shadow.
The walls of the dressing room suddenly become those of a barn stall, and my breath sticks in my throat.
Glimpses of men in masks—of him clawing at my chest—crash into me.
My fingers instinctively reach for the gag which once kept my protests inside.
It’s the realization it’s not there that pulls me back to the present.
To the clothing store. Where I’m perfectly fine.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Vic calls to me, and I see I’ve been in here for about ever.
How long did I skip out? I hate when that happens. When I’m thrust back into the terrors of my past. But I refuse to let it own me. I can’t. I won’t. Three deep breaths and a couple smacks to my face and I reset my energy to the now. The here.
I peel off the skirt, tossing it aside to try on a pair of shorts.
These are tantalizingly short. Denim hugs my hips snugly, with frayed edges revealing more than they conceal.
As I turn to glimpse my reflection, I notice my whole backside peeking out.
This will never work unless... maybe I should ask the fans?
Before I can ponder further or make any decisions, the phone buzzes again with another message.
@SIMPleSimon: How about you let me see just a little more?
And there it is. The Ask. Relief floods through me. A thousand-dollar tip wasn't just for conversation after all.
@Unhinged: I dunno. This is all a little beyond my comfort, tbh.
I know I shouldn’t. It’s reckless. At the same time, milking him for more, to be the one taking from someone who is clearly a powerful man, thrills me in ways I can’t put to words.
@SIMPleSimon: Oof. Now I feel like a dick. Of course you shouldn’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.
Fuck.
His response is so… perfect.
And I feel the ‘fuck it’ take over.
My reflection stares back at me, lips curving into a knowing smile.
First, I make sure there are no logos or other details to give away my location.
I don’t care who this charmer is. I’m far too anal about keeping my whereabout private.
I still haven’t invited Chloe over to the house because then someone could hurt her to get to me.
I know, my head’s fucked. But it is what it is.
Next, I angle myself toward the mirror, the fluorescent light catching the gloss on my lips.
With practiced precision, I arch my back, twist my torso just so, and slowly drag my shirt upward with my fingertips.
The cotton slides against my skin, revealing the curve where breast meets the tenderness above my ribs.
I hold my breath. Three quick snaps with my free hand, checking each one to ensure the shadows fall exactly where they should. Suggestive. Teasing. And hit send.
@Unhinged: You know you'll wait for this.