20. Honey, Don’t Hurt Me #2
“ Beg? How about you just talk to me? How about you accept for once that someone cares about you? And maybe, just maybe , don’t push me away?”
“Oh, you care about me?” She sputters a laugh. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“Am I?”
“You called me a mistake, didn’t you? So why should I bother letting you in? What can you offer me ?” she asks in a shrill voice. “Not a relationship. Not a future. Not any sort of long-lasting feeling.” She grimaces. “Just your tongue.”
I roll my jaw.
She’s right—it’s undeniable. I’m asking someone who’s exceptionally closed up to do the opposite so that I can break her heart by inevitably disappointing her expectations.
But it fucking hurts anyway.
“Maybe Penny sees more in me than my tongue.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She pushes off the counter, and just when I think she’s done, she reaches for a piece of paper at the corner and slides it toward me. “New instructions, chef. Risotto won’t do.”
Her fingers brush mine as she lets go, and her ponytail swings behind her as she walks out of the kitchen without another word.
I look down at the paper, reading the words scribbled on it.
Charlotte has gained weight. Whether that’s because you didn’t follow my instructions or she didn’t, I don’t know, but these are the amendments to her diet. Make sure they’re respected to the letter. See you at lunch.
No more oil, I read. Only lemon and vinegar allowed. No carbs, no fruit. The only thing that’s left is vegetables and lean meats.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
So that’s what’s going on.
If I know Beatrice like I think I do, Charlotte has been through hell in the last twenty-four hours.
I can almost see it all playing out in my mind.
Beatrice must have weighed her, seen that she’s gained half a pound.
She must have demanded answers—answers that Charlotte couldn’t give her.
The pizza, the corn dog. The salt I put in her food.
All of it must have piled up after years of barely eating.
She saved my ass—my job. But as I stare down at the paper, its stark, cruel instructions burning into my mind, it’s clear that the price she’s paying is far too steep.
This isn’t just a diet. This is a punishment.
You know what’s a bad, bad idea? Logging in to TOP when just this morning, Charlotte accused me of using her on here. Doing it after she’s ignored my texts—probably an even worse idea. On top of that, this is the first time we’ll interact on here since she told me she knows I’m Cole.
But I didn’t get a second alone with her while I cooked dinner, and I’m out of good ideas, so this’ll have to do.
I search her name then wait for her profile to buffer. My stomach is a tangled mess of anxiety, my heart hammering against my ribs. When her homepage finally loads, I loosen a breath.
A red dot blinks in the corner of the screen. She’s live.
I would have much rather had a private call with her, but she wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. This? This is my only shot. And, hey, at least she hasn’t blocked me.
I click to join the live, my mouth dry. The feed appears, and then—there she is.
Charlotte is lounging on her bed, her delicate frame loosely covered by a black silk robe. Her long red hair is cascading over her shoulder in loose waves, and her lips, glossy and full, curl into a playful smirk as she speaks to the chat.
“You bet, Mateo,” she says in a syrupy-sweet voice—probably responding to some goddamn viewer. But then, as soon as the notification flashes on the chat box— Chief.728 joined the live —she falters, just a fraction.
I see the moment when she registers that I’m watching. And then, just as quickly, she masks it.
“I think it’s time we played a game. Don’t you?” She tips her head back and hums, trailing a finger down her sun-kissed collarbone. “How about you tell me every single spot you’d like to dump your load on me, and I’ll drip this on it?”
She holds up a squeeze bottle of clear honey, her manicured nails pressing against the plastic.
Jesus Christ.
The chat explodes with messages, flooding the screen with obscene requests, each more depraved than the last. Then, the unmistakable ka-ching of an old-fashioned cash register overlays the feed. Donations. Big ones.
$50 from afk.tofuck
$150 from balls_deep
$350 from begmeformore
A visceral, ugly jealousy coils in my gut, twisting tighter with every chime.
“Aww, you guys! You’re so sweet,” Charlotte purrs, tilting her head.
She shrugs the robe off, and in a set of white lingerie, she lifts the bottle and squeezes, letting the golden liquid drip onto her tongue.
Some of it she swallows, but the rest trails down her chin, thick and glistening, pooling in the valley between her breasts.
I glance at the chat again.
JohnforLove
Bet you suck dick so well, Cherry.
Fucking hell, my head is going to explode.
I tear my gaze away, pressing my lips together as I click on the fourth button— Choose your own . My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I type.
can we talk?
I hit send.
Charlotte barely glances at the screen. “Ohh. You want to come on my stomach, Luke?”
She tips the bottle, letting honey trickle over her navel, then spreads it with two fingers. “Just like this, sexy?”
A red notification pops up.
request denied.
Fuck.
“My ass? All right.” She turns on all fours, arching her back. Honey drips down the curve of her ass before she drags her fingers through it, smearing it down her thighs.
My hands are sweating, my heartbeat an erratic drum. I type again.
just give me one minute of your time. please.
Seconds pass. Then—another red notification.
request denied.
She’s punishing me. I know she is.
I run a hand through my hair. “Fuck!”
Charlotte hums, tilting her head. “My face, huh? Who wants to see my face drenched in cum?”
The chat erupts, and the ka-ching s ring out like a slot machine. My patience snaps as I rush to type another custom request.
i understand you’re angry, okay? I’m sorry. but i’m not going to do what beatri ? —
Damn. Out of characters. I send it anyway, then start typing again.
beatrice asked me to. it’s too fucked up, and i’m quitting. i’m really sorry ab ? —
“Fucking stupid characters!”
Her eyes flick to the screen, mid-drizzle of honey. Her expression falters, the sultry mask she wears cracking.
“Sorry, everyone, but I have to go. Connect at the usual time tonight or tomorrow morning, and we’ll continue our game.”
No anger in the chat. No protests. Just a few understanding comments before the screen buffers, then goes dark.
I run a hand through my hair, my mind racing. Should I call? Should I text again? What should I do?
Then—a chime.
A private call request from Cherry.
Without hesitating, I click to accept, barely reading the disclaimer about the call being free of charge.
The screen lights up, and there she is. Her makeup is smudged, remnants of honey still glistening on her skin. She’s holding a wet towel, moving it over her belly with absent strokes.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
She pouts. “What do you mean you’re quitting?”
“I mean I’m quitting—on Monday. I’ve already told Ian to call me in the morning. I’ll tell him everything Beatrice is doing, and then I’m out.”
Charlotte’s face hardens, the bright glow of the screen catching the tremble in her jaw. She continues to drag the towel over her stomach, the tension in her shoulders tightening like a bowstring. “Ian?”
“My boss. He’ll want to know why I’m flaking out. I’ll have to explain it to Amelie too.”
Her lips press together, a muscle in her cheek twitching. “You can’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes flick up to meet the camera. “Because it’s my life, and I don’t want you to.”
I sink back in my chair, chest heavy. She’s right. It’s not my place to expose her, no matter how much I want to fix this for her. No matter how much it kills me to watch her go through it alone.
“Okay, then...then I’ll tell them about us,” I say, my throat tightening around the words. “That we’re involved, and I can’t continue working for your mom. Either way, I’m not doing this anymore.”
Though I expect her to be relieved, her lips twist. “So you’re abandoning me.”
“What? No, I?—”
“You won’t come over anymore.”
“No, but once I’m not employed by your mom, we can just.
..” My mouth stays open, but the words don’t come.
We can just do what? Date? Be normal? Pretend we aren’t tangled in a mess of complications?
She’s a cam girl. A twenty-three-year-old firecracker who doesn’t belong to anyone. A model who travels the world.
And I’m . . . me.
“What?” she mocks, setting the towel down. “You’ll come to my shows? I’ll watch Willy Wonka with your daughter?”
I swallow hard. The idea isn’t absurd to me. It’s terrifying, sure. Uncertain, improbable, but it’s not bad. If anything, it almost feels like an unattainable dream.
Her expression shifts, something breaking behind her eyes. “You’re leaving me with her.”
My brows knit together. “Charlotte?—”
“You won’t be there to put salt in my lunch, to sneak me extra food, to make my days better, and I’ll just—” Her lips wobble, voice cracking. “I’ll starve. I’ll disappear. I’ll once again be nothing but my body.”
The words cause physical ache, like my ribs are caving in. She’s not just talking about food. She’s talking about me . How I make her feel and have her back.
“But you won’t have this on your conscience, right?” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand, even as fresh tears spill over. “So, who cares? Who cares if we never meet again? If you never touch me again?”
Her face crumples, and suddenly, I feel smaller than a coin. Insignificant.
She’s right.
What did I think? That just because I quit, Beatrice would stop? That just because I stepped back, Charlotte would be okay? She won’t. Nothing will change. The only difference is I won’t be there to see it.
“I’m sorry.” I want to reach through the screen, pull her into my arms, and promise her that she’s not alone. That I’ll fix it. That it’ll be better. But all I can do is sit here, helpless. “I won’t quit, okay?” The words rush out, desperate, pleading. “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”
A sob wracks through her, and she buries her face in her hands. She looks so small like this, nearly naked, her body so thin I can see the sharp angles of her hip bone, the faint ridges of her ribs.
I need to know something. I need to ask her the one thing that’s gone through my mind since I heard her being sick, since I read her mom’s list. And I really don’t want to do it now, when she’s already so vulnerable, but I’m afraid it can’t wait.
“Charlotte, this morning, did you . . .”
She sniffles. “Did I what?”
“Did you vomit...” I glance at the screen, afraid she’ll end the call on the spot but dragging the words out anyway. “...on purpose?”
Her shoulders stiffen just a tad before she swipes at her cheek. “It’s not a big deal.”
Fuck, it feels like dying. Like she just ran a knife through my heart, and with every quick intake of breath, it causes more blood to spurt out into my chest cavity.
“You—it’s a huge deal, Charlotte.”
“No, it’s not. I’m not bulimic or anything. It’s just something I do when I’ve eaten a little too much and Beatrice will weigh me. I hadn’t done it in years, but lately, I mean...”
But lately, she’s been eating more. Because of me.
God, this is so fucked up, whichever way you look at it.
“Charlotte, listen to me,” I say, leaning closer to the laptop. “You have to promise me you’ll never do it again.”
“Chef, I?—”
“ Promise . If you want me to stay, if you want me to keep feeding you, then you have to swear it’ll never happen again. No matter what.”
“I promise.” She sniffles, then pulls her hair back over one shoulder. “I want to see you, but I’m not allowed to go out...not since I gained that weight.”
I unclench my jaw. “I left something for you today.”
“You did? Where?”
“Behind the baking equipment—figured Beatrice would never touch that. Can you go get it?”
She quickly jumps up, and I wait for the noise of the door opening as she comes back, holding the jar filled with folded pieces of paper. Her eyes shimmer, and her voice is barely a whisper. “You made me a jar of stars?”
“I did,” I say. “I wanted you to have something, just in case. A reminder that there’s so much more to you than your body. That someone sees it. Sees you. ”
“Aaron, I . . .”
“Whenever you need the reminder, just . . . open the jar, okay?”
Her lips wobble, and after pressing a key on her laptop, she says, “I just allowed you to turn your camera on. Can I see you?”
I search the bottom part of the screen, frowning. I didn’t even know that was an option. “How do I turn it on?”
“Seriously, Grandpa?” A weak, teary smile tugs at her lips. “The camera symbol.”
“Which one?”
“Come on, Aaron. It looks like a camera.”
“Well, I don’t see it.”
“The third one!”
“Oh.” I press the button, and after a few seconds of buffering, my own face appears in the bottom right corner of the screen. “Hey.”
“Hi.” She swallows hard, her lips trembling again. “Do you still want me?”
The absurd question has me frowning. “What makes you think I ever stopped?”
She wipes the tear tracks on her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what, baby?”
“About today. And...every day. I treat you so bad all the time.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insists. “I’m just so...angry. Constantly, from the time I wake up until I go to sleep. I’m so angry, I want to...” She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“Of course you’re angry, Charlotte.” There’s an ache in my chest so deep I almost can’t stand it. “You’re hungry. You’re constantly starving, and not just for food, but for freedom, recognition, love. That’ll make anyone go crazy.”
She heaves out a sob, her shoulders curling inward. She looks so fucking tired. Like she’s been fighting a battle no one sees, and she’s losing.
And I swear, right now, I’ll be her armor. I’ll be her sword, her shield.
I’ll be whatever she needs until she wins the war.