Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

KAYCE

Standing before the mirror, I finish deepening my smoky eye before adding my winged liner and a few extra swipes of lengthening mascara. My fingers run over the delicate lace of the black masquerade mask sitting beside my makeup bag while I give my mascara a second to dry and mull over my current life choices.

This is not how I intended to pay for college .

I unzip my oversized Oakridge University hoodie, slip my arms out of it, and let it fall to the floor near the laundry basket. Stepping back in front of the mirror, I slide the mask over my eyes as I stare at my reflection. The lacy, black push-up bra I'm wearing amplifies my already ample cleavage, while the high-waisted matching panties accentuate the waistline of the generous curves filling out my frame.

Having saved them for last, I pull on the uncomfortable thigh-highs and slip on the even more uncomfortable black stilettos.

Thankfully, I won't have to stand in them long.

After ensuring the door to my single is locked and dimming any unnecessary lights, I grab a few of the supplies needed for tonight's date. I arrange each of the toys neatly on the plush, white duvet and position my laptop in its usual spot before climbing onto my twin mattress.

Double-checking my camera placement, giving myself a final once over, and confirming everything is perfect, I take a deep breath. My fingers hover over the mouse as I slowly exhale, hoping the agency scheduled a tolerable client for tonight.

While I am not one to yuck anyone's yum, some of these men I meet online give me the ick. Like, it wouldn't surprise me to see them on the news someday, ick.

I force a smile before clicking the link to start tonight's session. My gaze is immediately drawn to the soft, blueish-gray eyes staring back at me through the screen.

Grave .

I don't need to glance at his perfectly coiffed jet-black hair or the skeleton mask that always covers the lower half of his face to know it's him.

I could find those eyes in a sea of faces .

Grave, the screen-name I know him by, is my most frequent client. And my favorite. I find his face on the other side of the screen most nights I work, and I definitely don't mind. Along with being my best client, he's also the youngest—by several decades—most charming, and I actually enjoy his company.

Probably more than I should.

Without seeing his whole face, I can't know for sure, but from his eyes, voice, and our conversations I assume that we are relatively close in age. Our age is where our similarities end, though. The two of us are so vastly different. Grave is everything I'm not—fit, non-conforming, and confident as hell. I still can't fathom why a guy like him is paying so much for my company night after night. I imagine he must be able to pull any girl he wants.

Yet, he spends his nights with me.

"How was your day, cinnamon?" Grave's rich, deep voice billows through my laptop speakers.

"Good." I feign a smile, trying hard not to let my actual emotions show. I've been an emotional wreck since I left Psych 402 this afternoon, and I've spent the evening trying to figure out how to deal with what happened. If I hadn't needed the money from tonight's session so badly, I probably would've canceled. "And you?"

"Don't lie to me, cinnamon," he scolds as his eyes bore into my soul through the screens separating us. With a tone full of sincere concern, he continues, "That was the fakest smile I have ever seen spread across that gorgeous face of yours. I never want you to lie to me."

With any other client, I wouldn't say a word. But Grave isn't any other client. In the months we have been talking, we've developed a relationship of sorts. I might always be in lingerie when we meet online, but there isn't always sex involved. He probably knows more about me than anyone in my actual life, with how much time we've spent simply bullshitting about random nothingness. Some nights, he really just wants to talk. Other nights, he wants to watch me come until I nearly pass out.

Balance, I guess.

"Tell me what's wrong," he presses.

"I had a pretty shitty day," I lament.

His brows furrow slightly, and the displeasure of my statement is clearly readable in his eyes.

"What happened?"