Chapter One
COVE
My name is Cove,but online I’m CottonCandyKisses. I’ve got pastel-pink hair, a face that sayssweetheart, and a mouth that saystip me or leave. Off-camera, I’m a school nurse. On-camera? I melt brains and bank accounts.
They found out, of course. The school board. Someone stumbled across my BTL page, probably a bored parent and suddenly I was in the principal’s office being asked if it was me on the bed, with the lollipop.
Yes. It was me.
They tried to fire me for indecency. Called it a “morality concern.” But I don’t film on school grounds, I don’t advertise my day job, and what I do outside my contracted hours is exactly that—mine.
Lorna had a team of lawyers down there before I even finished crying in the staff bathroom. Cease and desist letters, labor law printouts, and a full binder of case history on why they couldn’t touch me.
Needless to say, I still have a job. The school board doesn't like it, but they like lawsuits even less.
The teachers' lounge is a whole other story. It's like the cafeteria fromMean Girlsnow, just with more Keurig pods and passive-aggressive smiles. The rumor mill grinds louder than the copy machine. But I love the kids. I’mgoodat what I do. I just… need it to pay more. And it doesn’t.
So I fuck on camera, smile, and cash out.
I didn’t start for fame or followers. I started because I needed money, and I was good at sex. Still am.
I’ve been with Behind the Lens since the start, back when it was a whisper of a website and a group chat full of people with ring lights and rent to pay. Now it’s a full-blown production house with a waiting list and branded merch. And I’m still here. Still one of the top earners. Still sipping sparkling water between orgasms and picture-book read-alouds.
My apartment smells like fake vanilla and ring light heat. I wipe the gloss off my lips with the back of my hand and blow a final kiss to the camera before logging out. The chat fizzles into silence.
“Thanks for the tips, babies,” I whisper, even though they’re gone. Even though I already know what the next session’s going to pay for; bills, groceries, whatever the school won’t cover.
I stretch my arms over my head, standing up from my little set; a corner of my bedroom dressed up in velvet and fairy lights. It’s smoke and mirrors. Sugary armor. Off go the heels, on go the fuzzy socks. I toe the edge of the rug beneath me, right on the tiny burn mark near the corner.
Tap. Tap.
“For luck,” I murmur, because that’s what my mom used to say. She’d light incense every morning before work and tap that same spot on the rug she loved, like it would bless the day. I kept the rug. I kept the habit. She’s gone now, but I still do it. Every shoot, every Monday morning. Still hers, a little.
My phone buzzes. I glance down.
Lorna: Office. ASAP. Got something for you.
My heart skips. Not bad-skip. Opportunity-skip. Lorna doesn’t summon people unless she has a plan. And when Lorna has a plan? You listen.
I pull off the rest of my set clothes carefully, making sure I don’t smudge lipstick on the collar. The outfit’s one of my favorites—my littleOops, I Did it Againinspired look: pleated miniskirt, cropped top, the whole naughty-schoolgirl vibe. I toss it onto the bed and change into black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and boots. Low-key but still decent. I throw my hair into a claw clip, grab my keys, and head for the door.
My Ford Explorer is waiting in its usual lopsided spot outside my apartment building, covered in pollen and road dust. I climb in, crank the radio, and try not to check my notifications again. The drive to Behind the Lens headquarters takes about twenty minutes if traffic’s good and today, traffic’s good. I keep the radio blaring and sip on the LaCroix I forgot I opened earlier, letting my mind drift to Lorna and what this might be about.
The Behind the Lens building looks like someone designed a villain’s hideout and then airbrushed it into a Pinterest fantasy. Matte black siding. A tall stone chimney. Trimmed in rich wood like it’s half barn, half bunker. There's a wide wraparound porch out front, the kind you'd expect to see on a farmhouse, if that farmhouse hosted orgies and signed NDAs.
There’s no sign, just three serif letters—BTL—on a brushed steel plate by the door. You don’t find this place unless you’re meant to.
Inside, the reception area is all smooth lines and moody lighting. Nova’s behind the desk, scrolling on her tablet like she owns the place, which she kind of does—at least in attitude. She flicks her gaze up, gives me the barest nod, and goes back towhatever scandal she’s tracking online. The girl loves to read celebrity gossip rags.
I skip the elevator and head for the stairs. Lorna always says they’re good for the ass, bad for the heels. I say she just likes making people wait.
Her office is halfway down the main hall, tucked behind a door with a frosted glass panel and no name on it. I knock even though the door’s cracked open.
“Get in here, sugar tits,” she calls, voice like a cigarette dipped in honey.
Lorna’s office looks like a witch’s lair if the witch collected vintage porn props and old cameras instead of herbs. Shelves are stacked with mannequin heads, retro VHS tapes, and a copy ofWitchcraft Todaywedged in like a secret. It’s chaos—but it’s her chaos, and somehow, it feels safe.
She sits behind a massive leather chair like she’s the queen of curated madness, tattoos on display, matte lipstick flawless. Across from her desk is a velvet chaise, deep green, decadent as hell. That’s where I sit. Not the couch. Not anymore.
