Page 112 of Stay Scared

I turn the camera until I fill the center of the frame.

Owen watches the monitor.

“Look at me.”

His attention leaves the screen.

Months ago, he chose the lens.

Tonight it moves when I touch it.

I set the tablet beside the tripod, leaving STOP LIVE FEED beneath my hand, and Owen sees exactly where I put it.

I shrug out of my jacket. The torn shoulder catches against the bruise before the fabric slides free, and I hang it over the operator chair.

Owen remains seated, both hands gripping the chair beneath him.

“What are you watching?”

“You.”

“Try harder.”

He keeps his eyes on my face. “You’re deciding how much you’re going to make me want before you let me touch any of it.”

Heat moves through me.

I glance at the monitor. My image stands beneath unforgiving white light with Owen behind me, every muscle pulled tight around the chair.

“Maybe I’m not letting you touch anything.”

His hand closes harder around the seat’s edge. “Then I’ll sit here and hate every second.”

“What a terrible burden.”

“It is.”

I pull my shirt from the waistband of my jeans and raise it over my head. My injured shoulder catches, forcing me to slow before the fabric clears. I drop it beside the jacket.

Black bra, jeans smeared with dust, bruises beginning to darken beneath the white fixtures.

Owen keeps his eyes on my face; he has seen more than this through windows, that knowledge used to belong only to him.

I slide one bra strap from my shoulder; his fingers tighten around the chair.

“Still looking at my face?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to?”

“I want to look everywhere.”

I step closer. “Now I believe you.”

Owen rises on his own but stops before he reaches me. Less than an arm’s length remains between us, and he holds himself so still the restraint feels physical.

I hook my fingers into the front of his shirt. “You spent months deciding where I fit inside a frame. Now I decide where you stand.”