Not that I have any of them here now. My dad’s overseas on his honeymoon. His new wife, a girl I barely know. My two best friends were invited but I haven’t seen them, which means they didn’t show because if they were here, they’d be the centre of attention.
I no longer want to be at this party, but that’s the problem with being the host. Here I am, five hours in and sick to death of it, but I can’t just leave.
“Trent,” a drunken female voice calls out to me. I turn, seeing a hand waving from the mass of teens dancing and grab hold, hauling her out of the fray.
“Hey, Tina.” The glassy-eyed girl sways gently back and forth, and I doubt it’s anything to do with the music thumping from the sound system. “You having a good time?”
“I will once you show me your room.”
The drunken giggle that accompanies the overly ambitious, excessively hopeful statement would put me off even if I were that way inclined. But, when I see the interested glance from a boy who’s far too sober to be trusted, I take her under my arm, pulling her close. “How about we show you to a nice seat outside?”
Where the chilly night air will revive her. Especially if I make her next drink sans alcohol. I pluck the half-finished one from her numb hands.
“Sounds good. Then you can cuddle to keep me warm.”
Her arms are around me and I laugh, stroking her back and waiting to see if she’ll detach herself or if I’ll need to pry her fingers off me.
As real girls go, she’s delightful. Short, dark hair, cut in a style like a pixie. Enormous eyes, even without the panda circles from an earlier crying jag, and her lips pucker up like a tempting bow as she catches me midway through my examination.
“I’m already taken,” I lie to her, the easiest way to offset anyone’s interest. “But you’re so pretty I’d love to grab a photo.”
“Ugh. Not like this,” she says, pushing away from me and stumbling along the hall.
I tense for a second, staring after her, then see her grab the elbow of another girl who happily takes her under her wing.
She’s fine.
Everyone’s fine.
No one’s being shot. No one’s being drugged. No one’s having their intimate videos uploaded to the masses.
All those good times are in my past and fingers crossed, they stay there.
With no other grand ideas occurring to me, I head to my father’s security suite to hide from everyone for a while. I can watch from afar without the awkwardness of interacting when I’m not in the mood.
I’ve just sat down when my phone buzzes and I slide it out, staring at the message with a burgeoning smile.
A cam girl has followed through on one of my requests. The freeze-frame cover shows her in the company of two very well-endowed friends.
Turning my back on the security camera feeds, I put my feet up on the desk and lean back in my dad’s studded leather chair while I swipe through to the footage.
Carlotta—gonna take a wild punt that isn’t her real name—beams at me from her account photo. The uploaded video sits waiting for my review. Half the money has already been paid with the other half due once I approve the final file.
I loosen the belt on my jeans, wriggling my arse in the overstuffed chair, getting comfy. The noise from the rest of the house and outside is muted here, the thick walls screening all but the most determined sounds.
My thumb hovers above the play symbol, moving it back and forth, getting a tinier bit closer with each sweep, the curve of my phone smooth, silky, warm to the point of sensual against my skin.
The fit of my jeans is suddenly too tight, providing increasing friction with even the slightest motion. There’s a low throb in the curve of my spine.
I gave crystal clear instructions, but I’ve been let down before. The men and women enacting my scripted directions with such wooden performances, it steals away any enjoyment from the central act itself. Or they set the camera, then forget the good angles, obscuring everything of interest, used to having an operator controlling the view.
The anticipation. That’s where it’s good. In this part, before I watch the actual recording, the script I sent them could still be completed with pitch perfect skill, catering to all my needs.
A tiny slice of perfection.
But if my imagination were enough, I wouldn’t have to pay copious amounts to have sex workers in foreign countries act according to my specifications.
I click play.
