Page 19 of White Noise

My smile tightens, but I type anyway.

You talk a lot of shit for someone hiding behind a screen.

This time, he takes longer.

Just long enough to make me notice.

You made some pretty fucking noises last night.

My fingers stop.

Another message appears.

That little tentacle toy got more out of you than those pathetic fucks paying to watch ever do.

Cold crawls over my skin, but before I can answer, another line comes through.

Enjoy pretending that bathroom was private. Enjoy pretending I’m stuck behind glass. I won’t be for much fucking longer.

I stare at the screen.

And when I finally get close enough, I’m going to find out what you sound like when pleasure isn’t the thing making you shake.

My stomach drops, and one last message appears.

I want the fear, little echo. Every fucking scream. Every broken breath. I want to see what’s left of that smart mouth when you finally understand exactly what found you.

Everything in me goes still, but I don’t scream or drop the phone. I just sit there staring at the message while something cold settles into my stomach and my brain starts working overtime to make it less fucked up than it is.

He guessed. That has to be it. I showered after a stream. I used a toy. Guessing either of those things doesn’t gives him power. It makes him a creepy fucking asshole with way too much time on his hands.

That, at least, I know how to deal with.

I push away from the island so fast the stool scrapes across the floor and go straight into my phone settings, muttering, “Fuck you,” under my breath while I check everything I can think of. Camera permissions look normal. Usage history looks normal.

No background access. No app running when it shouldn’t have been.

Nothing showing the camera active during the shower.

I go through it again anyway, slower this time, because apparently being scared has turned me into the kind of person who thinks the answer might magically change if I stare at it hard enough.

It doesn’t.

Another message comes through.

You looked right at me you know.

My thumb stops moving.

That one hits differently because I remember it too clearly. The steam on the glass. My phone sitting on the counter. That weird little prickle across the back of my neck that made me look toward it for no reason at all. I remember feeling stupid afterward, telling myself I was still worked up from the stream, then turning away like that settled it.

Now my mouth feels dry.

I hate that almost as much as I hate him making me question something I already decided was nothing.

My jaw tightens as I type.

You’re fucking sick.