The Billionaire’s CamGirl Read online

  Once Kate’s arrival was on my calendar, I’d been suffering through nerves and jitters over what I’d eventually tell her. I have to tell her something. I don’t want to lie to my best friend, and I know she won’t judge me for being a cam-girl, but it still makes my cheeks hot to think of uttering those words: I’m a cam-girl. Memories of my weekend in Paris flood me. Kate dressed up and in total command of her restaurant. Choreographing the waiters’ every move, checking and double checking each platter and dish. She was shining. She’d made it. And those memories make me happy for her, but also make me feel like I’m falling hopelessly behind in the game of life.

  There is another memory, my one-night stand. It’s still hard to believe how serendipitous and well, extremely fucking hot it was. I’d arrived on the Paris scene in typical Weaver fashion: toppling ass over kettle down the stairs to the metro. And there to help me up and witness my mortification was a sexy, clean-cut, I’m-in-another-country-and-everything-looks-better stranger, Chris. Coincidentally, he was a friend of a friend of Kate’s business partner, and we reconnected at the restaurant opening. Lots of champagne, the romantic Paris streets, and a run in with a street thug, led to a night of mind-blowing sex with Chris. When I snuck out the next morning, leaving him a note but no contact info, I knew he would be a very sexy memory for months, maybe years, to come. But staying in touch with him through this year was never a consideration. This cam-girl business excluded relationships. It’s just too much baggage. No guy wants his girlfriend masturbating on screen for random guys. I think about him from time to time, but mostly I try not to. It seems like just one more thing I’m missing out on.

  Kate texts back Can’t wait, and I drag myself out of bed to my bathroom. It’s four o’clock in the morning, but since starting this cam-girl work, I don’t really keep regular hours. Captain wants to be respectful of my schedule, but I’m not going to turn down any work. The more money, the better, so I accommodate his janky schedule. Anyway, in New York City, pre-dawn is the best time to go to the market. No lines or judgey side eyes if my hair is in a messy bun or my sweatpants look like they’ve been slept in. (And they have.)

  I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself the way Kate will see me. Same me, I conclude. There’s no neon red C anywhere on my forehead that will give away my status as cam-girl. Pulling my strawberry blond hair up into a ponytail, I note that I could use a trim, and maybe I should make an appointment to have my eyebrows threaded. Lately, I don’t really interact with many people to warrant keeping up on those things. And Captain’s eyes are generally focused on other places, other intimate places that I do bother to maintain regularly. A girl has to have some standards. When I first started working on the Sugar Girl sight, I was planning on taking up another job during the day, but the money from Captain was too good, and I didn’t want to risk losing my exclusive deal with him if I wasn’t available when he was. So aside from a few shifts here and there to help out my uncle at his bar, I haven’t worked much aside from Sugar Girl. And when you don’t have an office to go into, well, one becomes a little anti-social. Aside from trips to visit my mom, and the meals she reluctantly allows me to treat her to here in the city, I’m kind of a recluse. I splash cold water on my face and decide I’m corner deli ready. That’s a few degrees away from red carpet ready.

  I grab my keys and phone and wallet and head to the door. I make a note on the pad on my fridge to call the salon when they open. As I walk down the hallway, I do my usual marvel of my awesome apartment building. I had amazing luck landing this place. A friend had to break her lease because she’d been hired to open a restaurant in Los Angeles, and I got to take it over. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. It’s an old building but completely renovated. There’s a gym and an indoor pool in the basement, so I don’t even need to leave the building to work out. My apartment has one bedroom, but it’s enormous, with views of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond, and just blocks from the subway. I never imagined four months ago, when I’d checked into that roach motel near the airport, that I would ever live in a building like this, especially in just a matter of months. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. I couldn’t have done it without WildCaptain.

  The elevator doors ding open and a guy my age staggers out. He blatantly looks me up and down, blocking my entrance through the elevator doors.

  “Excuse me, please,” I say, hoping so badly that he’ll just leave and not say anything to me. A cloud of rank, stale air envelopes him, and it takes just a few seconds to know he’s coming home after last call and probably struck out with every woman in the bar.

  “Excuse you for a nightcap?” he slurs

  “Lead the way,” I say, gesturing grandly down the hallway. He looks surprised and starts walking down the hall to his apartment. Chump. I hightail it into the elevator and press the door close button frantically. I’ll bet he forgets all about me by the time he reaches his door. I’m sure the guy is harmless, but who needs the fucking hassle? Drunk frat guys hitting on me are not something I miss in my new, semi-reclusive lifestyle.

  Sometimes I look at men and wonder if they’re WildCaptain. I wouldn’t recognize him, but he’d recognize me. In the early days it felt weird, exposing myself to this anonymous person, who could be literally anyone in the world. But now, after so many hours of sessions, I feel confident that he’s nothing like that guy. Or any other guy I run into on the street. I’ve sort of elevated him to the status of a God, and after our business relationship is over, I wonder if my standards will be unrealistically high for other men. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad outcome.

  The brisk air hits me as I open the lobby door and step onto the street. I shake my head scattering thoughts of Captain away. I shouldn’t get too attached and comfortable. For my sanity and my safety. As much of a gentleman as he’s always been, I have no idea who he is or what he’s capable of. My Sugar Girl contract strictly prohibits me from exchanging real names or identifying information with him. I only know him as WildCaptain, and he knows me by my Sugar Girl name, Echo. It’s for my safety and his privacy, and surely also to protect the company from any liability in case he dismembers me and feeds me to the fish in the Hudson River. Cheery thoughts, I have sometimes. This job is weird.

  I walk the few short blocks to the twenty-four hour gourmet deli where I do almost all of my shopping. The little bell above the door rings to announce my arrival. Velma is behind the counter and puts down her Star magazine as soon as I walk in.

  “Weaver! Thank Gott for the company. It’s been dead,” she greets me.

  I’ll be honest, Velma is one of the reasons I come to this store. It is close to my apartment, but so are many others that don’t have exorbitant prices and favor food products from Bavaria. She’s in her sixties, speaks with a thick German accent, and when I first met her, she introduced herself by saying, “The name is Velma, like the hot little chippie from Scooby Dude.” I still haven’t determined if she’s confused Velma with Daphne, or if “Scooby Dude” is some weird German porn featuring a “hot little chippie” named Velma, but she’s a friendly and familiar face in my otherwise lonely days. Also, German sausage is a hearty meal and easy to prepare. Win/win.

  “Hey Velma,” I say as I grab a basket. “Good morning.”

  “Liebling, the sun’s not even up. Late night at work?” Velma asks.

  “Oh, you know it,” I say, as I start loading rye crisps and imported bratwursts into my basket. Oooh…and those pferrernuesse cookies look good too. Sure, I could get a box of Chips Ahoy at the pharmacy, but would they really make me happy?

  “I just got off a call with colleagues in Dubai,” I lie. “Their broadboard algorithm framework had a fifteen buggy-byte malfunction, and they’re losing their minds.” I decide I should get some typical American food for Kate, so I walk back to the refrigerated section and grab some milk and yoghurt. “But I was able to send them a decahedron code to their interfacement web and…voila! Probl
em fixed.”

  In my desire to keep my webcam business secret, I’ve developed the most wonderful skill of making up tech terms that both dazzle and confuse people over the age of fifty. It really has become a hobby.

  “Well I don’t know how you do it, but you must be doing very well,” Velma says, with a note of pride in her voice.

  I fill my basket with a combination of delicious goodies and staples for Kate’s visit, and I unload them at Velma’s register. “Oh, I don’t know. Why would you say that?” A cambozola cheese catches my eye and I wander over to pick it up. $15 for a small wedge of cheese? Twist my arm, why don’t you.

  “Well, when you first started making these middle of the night shopping trips, you’d only shop from that cooler,” she says, pointing to the stand-alone fridge with discounted foods that are nearing their expiration dates. “And these days, you seem to be living large.”

  I survey the counter in front of me, and I see what she’s describing. She’s right. In the months since I started cam-girling, my life has really changed. Last year, every second of my waking days were devoted to worrying about money. Did I have enough to cover rent? Would my pay check clear in time to cover my electric bill? It was a constant worry, nagging at me and causing my stomach to roil several times a day. And now, look at me, wandering around this overpriced deli and choosing the yummiest, priciest treats without a single hesitation. And I owe it all to one man: WildCaptain.

  I have mixed feelings about that, and they are further complicated by the “relationship,” if that is even the word, that is developing between us. Sure, it was shitty living paycheck to paycheck and getting mistreated waitressing, but I had a band of fellow sad sacks around me to commiserate with and even hang out with after work. They were friends. Now I have a basketful of fancy Bavarian food, a posh apartment, but my entire life seems to be revolving around one person, and I don’t even know his real name.

  On the other hand, just another nine months of brisk business with WildCaptain will put me in a position to seriously put my business plan in action and give my mom the help she deserves. Instead of browsing the real estate listings for research and daydreams, I’ll have enough money to apply for a small business loan and actually lease a space. It’s possible that in just a year, I could be a business owner, a real business owner, and leave my other business behind. After all, that’s the plan. Am I losing sight of it?

  I’m getting a feeling like the floor is falling out from underneath me and the room starts spinning. I hold onto the counter for support and take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm down and not have a full-blown panic attack in front of Velma. As my head clears, I make a decision: I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life and try to untangle my feeling for WildCaptain from my complete financial dependence on him. I’ve gotten myself into a tricky situation.

  “Weaver. Weaver? $68.59, liebling.” Velma’s voice breaks through and I manage to snap myself out of my spiral.

  “Sorry Velma,” I say sheepishly, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “I guess I’m pretty tired. Maybe I’ll go home and go back to sleep.”

  “You should do that,” Velma says as she hands me my change. “It sounds like your meeting was tough. Those pricks from Dubai didn’t know their dechadoodies from their hairframes. Heh. And I bet they think they’re so smart.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. Velma is getting quite a tech education from me. Hopefully she’ll never try to impress anyone with her newly acquired knowledge.

  “You’re so right, Velma,” I say, walking out the door. “Bye for now.”

  The Manhattan street is quiet with just a few cabs zooming by me on my walk home. The wash of panic I’d felt in the deli has dissipated, and with a clearer head I know I will figure it all out. I decide to stop by my mom’s later in the day and bring her some groceries. I’ll bring her the fancy cambozola cheese; it’ll taste better if we share it. But first things first, my visit with Kate. We are going to make the most of this weekend and nothing is going to get in the way of that. I put my problems on the backburner. Temporarily.

  3

  Weaver

  No matter how hard I try, I am not, nor will I ever be, a napper. Falling asleep at five in the morning is never going to happen. So I start my day.

  My work with WildCaptain leaves me lots of free time, but I’ve never been someone who’s content to be idle. Most television doesn’t interest me, and there’s only so much scrolling you can do through Facebook before you lose your mind. I also have mixed feeling about seeing my old college friends’ social media posts. Do I really need to know that douchbag Brandon is working in St. Croix or Trust fund Tiffany is already assistant manager at the Four Seasons in Chicago? The more I observe my classmates’ successes, the more I question the path I’ve taken. And that feels lousy.

  After I put away my groceries, I get to work cleaning my apartment. I may be squandering my hard-earned dough on fancy gourmet foods, but I’m not about to throw money away on a cleaning service. Anyway, I really enjoy cleaning, and it’s a time when I do my best thinking. I have a small den off of my kitchen that I’m pretty sure was originally a maid’s room. It’s big enough to fit a twin bed and a dresser, but that’s it. I want to make it perfect for Kate’s visit. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the elements I’ll include in my youth hostel, and this is an opportunity to put some of those ideas to the test. I think about all the things that go into creating a warm and inviting space. The scents, the lighting, the soft touches, the amenities. I tumble clean linens for the bed in my dryer with lavender sachets and make the bed with the fresh and fragrant sheets. I plump the pillows and straighten the duvet so it will look welcoming to Kate when she arrives. I imagine she’ll be tired and hungry, so I place a small basket of treats by her bedside: a packet of almonds, a shiny green apple, and of course, a small bag of German beef jerky I picked up on one of my late-night trips. I rinse out a small carafe and place it by her bedside with a clean glass. Nobody wants to have to wander around in a strange place in the middle of the night for a glass of water. I make a mental note to pick up flowers later in the day.

  Preparing the guest room is energizing, so I tackle the kitchen next, wiping down every inch of counter space and secreting away all the junk that has accumulated there. I run the dishwasher for good measure and start a load of laundry. Man, it always feels great to be productive.

  By nine o’clock, when I’m sure that most of my neighbors are on their way to work, I throw my swim bag over my shoulder and head out the door. The swimming pool is one of the best perks of this apartment building, and I rarely miss a day. After a month of doing my cam-girl work, and falling into a pretty sedentary lifestyle, I realized my usual fit body was going a bit, well, not so fit. Once I moved in here, I started swimming again, just like I did in high school, and now it’s a delicious luxury and habit.

  As I walk down the hall, I see my drunk friend from earlier this morning. Oh boy, does he look rough. My heart picks up pace in my chest, really hoping to avoid any kind of confrontation. We arrive at the elevator at the same time, and both awkwardly reach for the call button knocking knuckles.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes and not a hint of recognition. Poor buddy, I almost feel sorry for him.

  The elevator doors part, and he gestures for me to enter first. We ride down in silence, and I say a silent prayer that he won’t puke in the small space. My man is looking green. He gets off at the lobby and says a soft goodbye, and I continue down another floor to the building’s pool.

  Just as I expected, the pool is empty. the water in all four lanes’ is still and look like a sheet of mirrors reflecting the wood beamed ceiling above. I strip off my clothes and fold them neatly, placing them in my bag and hanging it on a hook. I dip a toe in the water and watch the ripples travel out, from my small toe to the middle of the pool. I don’t know why, but whenever I do that, it really s
ends a thrill through me.

  I dive into the pool and swim underwater until I feel like my lungs are ready to burst. Breaking above the water’s surface, I take my first stroke, and feel my legs and arms warming up and energy flowing through my body. Everything around me is silent, even my mind, and I concentrate on every arm rotation, every kick. When I get close to the wall I speed up, gaining momentum so when I touch the slick tiles, I powerfully somersault, pushing my legs against the wall and heading back up the lane to do it all again. A neighbor once suggested I get special earbuds for the pool, so I could listen to music while I swim. But I prefer the silence. tuning into my body and my breathing. Like that, it feels like I could swim forever.

  My mind wanders randomly. Sometimes I think about my business plan. I was swimming laps when I decided that my hostel should have a common room, like a cozy library, to foster friendships between travelers and offer them a space to hang out. Sometimes I think about my mother and I worry. Will I be able to take care of her when she’s older? I don’t want her taking the train into the city when she’s in her seventies. I want her to enjoy her senior years, as stress-free as possible. I can already see how the daily commute into the city and the long hours contribute to her arthritis flares. The sooner I can make money, the better off her health will be. Then there are times I think about Chris from Paris, and I imagine what he’s doing, what it would have been like if I’d left him my phone number that morning instead of sneaking away without even a goodbye. And lots of times I just shut off my brain, tuning into my body and my breathing.