Chapter 3: Love on Camera

In the end, I had read far too much into it. All the wild scenarios I had spun in my head came to nothing. Colette Warth found the recovery disc, handed it to me, then dropped onto the sofa beside me and made small talk while we waited for the restore to finish. At one point she even handed me a chilled slice of watermelon as a little thank-you. When I took it, I blurted, like an idiot, "I thought bananas were more your thing." Colette, wide-eyed and guileless, said, "Yeah. How did you know I like bananas?" I sat there with a stiff grin, staring at the screen, dying of embarrassment. At last the system finished installing. Colette thanked me over and over. Then she saw me to the door, saying it was late and she didn't want to mess with my work tomorrow. So there I was, the coward who had been half afraid something might happen, left with her perfume still hanging in the air and a heart full of disappointment. The fling I'd imagined for myself ended with a whimper. Maybe she really did call me over just to fix the computer. Maybe she dressed like that because the heat was brutal. The days slid by without a ripple. I still trudged between the office and my apartment like an ant, just grinding away. I wanted so badly for Colette to show up again, to shake up my dull life. But I never ran into her in the hallway, not once. Was she only there to give a loser like me something to dream about? That question weighed on me for days. I saw Colette again a month later. That day I had closed a small deal, and I was in high spirits when my girlfriend, Ashley Shaw, called. "Baby, missing me? I've got good news. I just signed a contract. When the commission hits, I'll buy you an iPhone 5 and ship it to you," I said. I was buzzing, itching to share. I was already thinking of booting up the computer so we could have some fun on cam. For the past six months, that was how we eased the ache of missing each other. We would strip bare in front of our screens, drink in the sight of each other's naked bodies, murmur the sweetest, most saccharine nonsense, and touch ourselves at the other's command. We moaned into our headsets, loud and unabashed. I loved it when Ashley crossed her arms to lift her full breasts high, then extended a forefinger and teased those pink, stiff tips. In no time, those little buds swelled dark and ripe. Even through the screen, I wanted to lean in and bite. Then her breathing turned ragged and she said, "Trevor, I miss you. I want you." I would stroke myself faster and whisper between gasps, "Ashley, I miss you too. I want you. I want to be inside you." She would slip the forefinger of her right hand into her mouth and suck, in and out, while her other hand kept kneading her breast. "Baby, don't torture me," I would shout into the mic. "I can't take it. I can't." That was when Ashley angled the camera down. The finger from her mouth drifted to that soft thatch below. She circled her clit and cried out, "Trevor, harder. Come on, Trevor." Under her teasing directions, I quickened my rhythm. We watched each other, breathless, and climbed together, dizzy with pleasure, until we came together. It took a toll, sure, but it was the easiest, cheapest way for us to get off. Whenever we could, we made love on camera. This time, though, Ashley threw cold water on it. "Trevor Zimmerman, you've been in Yanos this long, and all you've got is money for an iPhone 5? What about the house you promised my mom?" "What?" Talk about a mood killer. My hard-on vanished on the spot. "Ashley, didn't we agree on two years? It's only been half a year. Even if you wanted me to rob a bank, you'd have to give me time to plan it, right?" I was getting annoyed. Prices back home weren't highway robbery like in Yanos, but a starter apartment for after the wedding would still cost about fifty to sixty grand. For someone from a working family, that was no small number. For love, I had come to Yanos by myself. I loved Ashley, and I meant to keep my promise by grinding it out. I was only human. I was not a money printer. "Trevor, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. My mom nags me every day. I'm just worn down." "Forget it. I know you didn't mean it. Tell your mom this. I, Trevor Zimmerman, am a stand-up guy. I keep my word." We wrapped up the call quickly. After that little flare-up, neither of us had the heart to flirt in front of a camera. I felt wretched. I did not want to sit alone in that room. I decided to get out and walk. The moment I stepped into the hall, a piercing shout from across the hall stopped me cold. I heard Colette scream, "Rowan Looske, you bastard! Get out." Then came the noise of things hitting the floor. Clang, thud, crash. The door opposite flew open and a tall man burst out. "You told me to get out. Don't come crawling back," he said. He had not expected anyone in the corridor and paused, startled, then pounded downstairs. "Rowan Looske, get back here!" Colette stumbled after him, hair a mess, cheeks streaked with tears.