Cam Girl

“It’s about the private sessions.”

Fuck. Blue. “Yeah?”

“You’ve barely earned a dime for me all month. You don’t work the room anymore. No tips. Just these private shows with a guy who’s paying you on the side. But you’re still living here, using my bandwidth, my equipment, my security. And that makes me feel, well, used.”

“It’s a temporary thing. I have a—motivated client.”

Frankie leaned on the counter, folding her arms. “I’m not a hard-ass. What you do on your own time is fine, as long as you fulfill your contractual responsibilities. But you haven’t been working for me. You’ve been working for yourself.” She raised her palm and a gold ring flashed, a loop of sun. “If you feel the contract is unfair, we can discuss it. Perhaps renegotiate some terms. But I need to know where your head’s at. If you’re thinking of striking out on your own—”

“I’m not.” I avoided looking at Ellis. “I let it become too personal. I’m sorry.”

“Morgan, you know better than that. Clients are clients.”

“I know.” Clearly not.

“This needs to stop. Not just for me. It’s for your own good, darling.”

I rotated a coffee mug on the counter. “So you need me to cam publicly?”

“Yes.”

“What if my client doesn’t allow that?”

“Drop the client.”

“What if I pay you a percentage of what he pays me? Then you’re still getting a big cut. That’s fair, right?”

“It’s not just about money. I’ve shaped our brand around you. On the traffic you drove to the site. You were my number one cammer all summer. Our reputation rests on you, Morgan.” Frankie sighed. “In the last month traffic’s been down thirteen percent. The only change is you.”

“Okay. What’s my deadline to fix it?”

She laid a hand on my arm. “No ultimatums. You’re an adult, and a friend. Just take care of it.”

Somehow that was less comforting than a simple deadline.

“I’ve got to run,” she said. Then her gaze flicked between us rapidly, taking in our messy hair, Elle wearing my shirt.

“What?” I demanded.

Frankie pursed her lips as if holding back a smile.

When she left I faced Ellis. She had that too-i

Great.

Even when I wasn’t sleeping with my best friend, people thought I was sleeping with my best friend.

I lifted my mug. “So, what’s our lead?”

Sergio Iglesias. Twenty-one. Bartender up in Bar Harbor this tourist season. About to head home to Boston.

Alleged ex-boyfriend of Ryan Vandermeer.

“This is pretty much our only hope,” Ellis said, “because now our cover’s blown.”

One of our fake profiles was outed. Word spread about someone poking into Ryan’s past. In an apt Maine idiom: they clammed up.

“Then we’re going to Bar Harbor,” I said.

Ellis and I eyed each other a moment. We both took a deep breath.

But I said it first.

“I’ll drive.”

We headed northeast through trees turning shades of vermilion and cantaloupe, a wildfire frozen in a single still frame, the flames caught midleap against a hard blue sky. I took coast roads, threading along the ragged rocky shore. The last time we were in a car together was the night of the accident.

I hadn’t really driven since then, boats notwithstanding. And it felt so good being back behind the wheel that in less than ten minutes, I was speeding. Just a touch. Everyone speeds, anyway. I was smart about it.

“Detective, I didn’t have a single moving violation in seven years.”

Ellis was edgy. I switched on the radio and she switched it off. We drove up ocean roads splashed with crisp champagne sun, the air cool and tinged with the sweetness of dying leaves, and I started singing Chester French’s “Nerd Girl” to cheer her up. It was pretty much her theme song.

She flipped the radio back on.

“Is that commentary on my voice or song choice?”

Elle turned the volume up.

I laughed. She scowled, but I saw the tug of a smile.

We were cruising up a two-lane highway, approaching a semitrailer in the oncoming lane, when it happened. An SUV darted out to overtake the semi. It barreled straight at us, easily going sixty, the driver instantly panicking and veering left. Elle shrieked something unintelligible. The truck edged to the right to avoid our imminent collision.

In my head, it played out in cinematic slo-mo. The SUV peeled one way and the semi the other and I angled smoothly into the opening zipper of space between them. I hit the horn with my bad hand, too weakly to even trigger it. We slipped between two roaring walls of steel, coming out unscathed and untouched on the clear blacktop beyond.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Elle was saying.

All three of us pulled onto the shoulder, signaling that we were okay—the trucker concerned, the SUV driver rattled. I waved back, totally calm.

Then I looked at Ellis and unbuckled my belt. “We’re okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “Hey, look at me. We’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

She would not stop shaking.

“Are you going to be sick? Do you need to get out?”

“No.” She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. “Oh god. I’m so glad it was you.”

“Glad it was me what?”

Elle pulled back to look at me. “Driving.”

I held her for a long moment. The way she said it made me wonder.

Are you finally starting to remember?

We were quiet the rest of the way to Rockland, where we stopped for lunch on the harbor. But neither of us was super hungry so instead we walked down the long granite breakwater, a stony finger stabbing deep into the blue heart of Penobscot Bay. In the distance the tiny sails could have been stuck on toy boats. I took photos of smashed whelk shells and algae braided like mermaid’s hair while Elle perched on the edge of the breakwater, vaping, staring at the horizon.

“Did you know,” I said, sitting beside her, “that this whole state is a giant Winslow Homer painting?” A wave rolled in and burst on the rocks at our feet, needling us with sharp spray. “It’s still being painted. If you sit here too long, they’ll add you in. Then they’ll have to title you. Blood Elf on the Breakwater.”

Ellis smiled. The steam she exhaled tore into liquid clouds, infusing the air like white ink.

“Still freaked about that car?” I said.

“No.”

“What’s eating you?” I bumped her elbow. “You’ve been different lately. I think you don’t really want to do this.”

Her eyes flashed to me, then away.

“See? As an artist I notice these things. At least, someone called me that once. She probably had no idea what she was talking about.”

Elle blew minty steam at my face. “I told you, it depresses me. And it’s scary, too.”

“What is?”

“The way people treat each other.” She flipped the pen deftly over her knuckles. “The way they treat those who are different.”

“You worried we’ll run into some gay-bashing cabrónes? I’ll handle it. If you haven’t noticed, I’m kinda ripped from rowing. Come at me, fuckboys.”

She laughed. “You’ve been different lately, too. More like your old self.”

“Obnoxiously alpha female?”

“You’ve got your confidence back. It looks good on you, Vada.”

How fucked-up was it that my confidence came from dumping the blame on some poor suicidal gay boy and jerking off for some stranger on the Internet?

By the time we reached Bar Harbor upcoast the sun had slipped below the trees, skeleton fingers of shade dipping into the ocean and pulling the world under. Ellis was calmer. When I floored the gas to pass someone she held her breath but didn’t freak. My right hand lay on the console between us, and after a while hers joined mine, her touch soft as a new brush. We glanced at each other. Sunset flooded the car, raising all the blood and warmth in us to the surface, tinting the chrome to brass and gold. For a second she kept stroking my fingers absently, then blushed. But she didn’t take her hand away.