Two

CORA

“Fuck it,” I declare, breaking the silence.

Everett looks at me from his corner of the elevator, head tilted lazily, eyes hooded and bloodshot from however much he drank tonight. Twenty minutes have passed.

I scoot forward and prop my phone against the bronze panel underneath the buttons, positioning it to fit my body in the frame.

“What are you doing?”

“Camming.”

His eyebrows launch and stay there, and his hooded eyes have widened considerably. “ Right now ?”

I lean closer to the camera and pucker my lips. I definitely need a touch up. “This guy is one of my whales.”

Everett doesn’t respond at first, but eventually, he clears his throat and says, “I know an inordinate amount about whales—and their conservation—but I have no clue what whales have to do with camming.”

“Camgirl slang,” I answer, speaking while I run the tip of my fingernail along the edge of the freshly applied line of black lipstick. “He’s a big spender, otherwise known as a whale, and I want a new laptop.”

“You’re not seriously going to fuck yourself in front of me,” he states, splintering on the word ‘fuck.’

I shift the phone, attempting to find a more flattering angle. “God, no. Although, it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.” I glance at him.

His throat bobs with a hard swallow, but he doesn’t speak. I’m not surprised; there’s not much he could say beyond acknowledging I’m right. Even though he hasn’t watched my streams, Everett has seen my body.

While many (most) of his qualities are downright abhorrent, his photography skills aren’t. Shooting my naked body rather than his beloved landscapes was an obligation—an attempt at an apology to help his best friend seduce mine. I needed a photographer, Lander needed Valeria, and Valeria needed my blessing.

That night seven months ago—a mere week after our horrendous introduction at Smoke and Shadow—Everett didn’t say a word beyond terse instructions. Put your hand higher. Look to the left. Pull down your strap. I scoured his face for a semblance of a crack, but all I saw was pure, pristine stone.

At the end of the shoot, he left without a word. We’ve never spoken about it.

Tonight, his face bears the same stony quality. He watches me raise my black crop top without a lick of interest on his face.

“This guy likes when I watch,” I explain when I realize Everett still won’t speak about that night.

His eyebrow remains at elevation until his gaze drops to my phone. “And you don’t have to touch yourself. He just pays you to watch him jerk off.”

“Nope,” I warn. “No kink shaming—ever.”

“I’m not kink shaming,” he clarifies. “I just don’t get why he wouldn’t want to see you do… more .”

“Like what?”

“Like…I don’t know. Play with yourself or something.”

“So creative. Is that what you would have me do? You’re a visionary.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “This is what he likes, and I like getting paid. Whether or not you understand it is irrelevant.”

“You’re doing it right in front of me.” He tilts his head and lets out a measured exhale. “Does your whale know you’re not alone?”

The sudden gentleness in his tone tells me the question is genuine—and it’s a good one, I admit.

“I’ll tell him,” I reply, easing some of the razor’s edge from my words. “And if you’re uncomfortable, say it. I’m a professional. I’m not going to force you into anything.”

He looks away. “Do whatever you want. I really don’t care.”

My phone buzzes, alerting me to my customer’s arrival. Showtime.

He goes by the name BigSpender, which is a double entendre. He spends tons of money and he loves to come—a lot.

BigSpender takes his dick out as soon as I start the private stream, and at the ten-minute mark, he’s close. My part is simple. I groan while I watch him, occasionally rubbing myself over my skirt. My groans are loud and indulgent, but most customers love them. To me, they’re clinical. They live in my throat, close to my ears like white noise, and it’s the profound lack of intimacy between BigSpender and me that makes this arrangement work.

Twelve minutes in, he’s whimpering.

“I’m ready for you to come,” I murmur, pressing my palm against my body.

There’s a snicker from the opposite side of the elevator, and I shoot a glare at Everett.

He’s still seated, legs extended, now typing on his phone with his thumbs. He smirks, so I flip him off, holding my hand out of the frame where BigSpender can’t see.

The private session takes a grand total of fifteen minutes, and the moment I end the stream, Everett is ready to chime in with, “There’s no way he buys that shit.”

“There’s nothing to buy,” I reply, scooting back to my corner. “I don’t lie to him—or any of them.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. I literally heard you say, ‘I bet that big dick would feel so good inside me.’”

“It’s not a lie,” I insist. “Have you ever taken a big dick? It tends to feel so good.”

Everett just stares at me—and he keeps staring.

I want to ignore him, but his stare is palpable. I can practically feel it on the surface of my skin like countless summer raindrops. “I made a thousand dollars in the last fifteen minutes. What did you do?” I counter while rubbing my knees and easing the red marks from kneeling.

Everett scoffs again. “Sore? I don’t have any ice, but I assume your heart is cold enough that you could press your knee to your chest, a little to the left, and stop the swelling before it starts.”

“Don’t you have better things to do than harass me?”

“You cammed in front of me.”

“Don’t you,” I repeat, folding my arms and refusing to let him deflect, “have better things to do than harass me?”

To my surprise, Everett rises and places his palms on the railing lining the elevator wall. He leans back, considering me.

Like the night we met, his eyes don’t settle. They peruse my features, collecting details like an arsenal, I’m sure. His gaze lingers on my nose, and it’s not the first time I’ve caught him studying it. Sometimes, I wonder if he likes it. I wouldn’t blame him. After all, my nose is my favorite part of my body—round and petite, a near identical match to my Lola’s nose on my dad’s side. She was the original Cora Flores, but our similarities stopped at our names and noses. She was a sweet Filipina woman who birthed seven kids and raised them by herself while my Lolo was in the Navy—and I, conversely, fuck myself on the internet for a living.

I stand too, refusing to let Everett tower over me, but it doesn’t do much good. Everett’s tall, and I’m far from it. He has nearly a foot on me even when I’m wearing boots.

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t hold my breath. You’re obviously not going to answer me.”

“There’s still time,” Everett replies, low and unemphatic as usual. “Go ahead and hold your breath. I can spend all evening not responding.”

“Fine,” I say, tamping down the annoyance rising in my chest “If you’re not going to admit to harassing me, we’re done. Go back to whatever you were doing—researching the best millets for grinding bones to make your bread or whatever.”

“I’ve been a vegan since I was eleven. I’m not in the market for a bone grinder.” He crosses his arms…his muscular arms. Veiny, actually. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you have to.”

“How did you figure out what he needed?”

I draw my head back. Everett and I rarely speak, and when we do, it’s cold enough to host a Winter Olympics. This is…cordial.

“I could tell,” I answer honestly. “It took a session or two, but it’s easy to figure out what turns people on. Our desires are a manifestation of how we perceive ourselves. Desire feeds us what we need.”

His expression doesn’t move, which is how I know my response hasn’t quite hit on what he’s asking.

I take him in. He’s asking because he wants to know how I clocked BigSpender’s kinks or because he wants to get better at reading reactions. The thought of Everett caring about kinks is ridiculous, so I figure it’s the second: He wants to read people.

“What are you writing?” I ask, taking my turn to cant my head.

“Who says I’m writing anything?” he responds, brow knotted.

It’s tedious explaining how I know the things I do, but I have to do it—otherwise it looks like I’m making assumptions instead of being perceptive. I let out a pointed sigh. “On a night you said was your last hurrah, you were typing like your life depended on it. Lander is out of the country and Dalton is, in all likelihood, hanging out with his mother like he does every Saturday since she filed for divorce from his father, so you weren’t texting them. You were trying to be productive—even while tipsy—which likely means something significant is happening with your campaign this week.”

His jaw squares before he exhales, slumping minutely. “Not bad, princess.”

“Stop calling me princess.”

He smirks. “But you clearly hate it.”

“So, stop saying it,” I snap before pausing and rolling my eyes. “And if you’re going to ask me for psych advice, at least tell me what you’re writing.”

“I need a few lines about my candidacy by tomorrow for a talk my father is doing at Georgetown.”

Interesting. There’s a touch of a sneer when he says the word father —clearly not intentional, but it’s there. His father is the Governor of Virginia—and not a popular one at the moment.

“And I assume the Logan political machine told your father not to mention the most recent state budget, which slashed childcare subsidies in favor of tourism.”

Everett doesn’t acknowledge my comment but holds up his phone instead. “I’m looking for advice. You’ve had practice figuring out what people want, and I need to give people what they want. You could help me write it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t owe you anything.”

He’s standing close to me now. There’s a muted pink flush over his cheeks, but he’s stoic as ever—and I’m certain I’ve never met a man more enigmatic than Everett.

“Fine. You want my advice? Delete it,” I respond without looking at his phone. “Associating yourself with your father isn’t going to have the effect you want.”

“But—”

“Your father is a shitbag,” I inform him.

Everett blinks quickly before his brow knots. “He’s not.”

I tilt my head to the side again. “He’s the worst governor in Virginia’s history, which is saying something because I’m fairly certain one of the earliest governors somehow misplaced the entire colony of Roanoke.”

Everett hesitates, losing his words for once. “Look—”

“People abhor your father,” I go on. “His approval rating is the lowest it’s ever been. If he mentions that budget—if he so much as alludes to it—he’s going to hurt your candidacy.”

“It’s massive publicity.”

“It’s a massive mistake.”

Now, Everett is shaking his head nonstop, and even though we’ve always avoided each other, I know it’s rare for him to be unsteady. “I can’t distance myself from him. Logans have been in politics for four generations. governors, three congressmen, and one senator. My great uncle was shortlisted for a Supreme Court nomination. My godfather is a former Secretary of the Treasury. Most of my family is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.”

“So, you’ve never tried to be successful without your family—without your daddy. Wow, Everett, do you really have so little faith in yourself?”

He’s still shaking his head. “Not an option.”

“It’s always an option,” I reply, shrugging. “I haven’t talked to my parents in three years. I’m plenty successful and couldn’t be happier.”

Everett’s scoff borders on disdain. He bows to eye level. “It’s that easy? Do I just go no-contact, whip out my dick, and show off my stimulus package?”

“A camming insult? How predictable,” I comment, dropping my gaze to Everett’s chest before I press my black nails into his sternum and push. He doesn’t budge. “You’re a coward.”

“You’re taunting me.” His hand rises and wraps around my wrist, swallowing it. “You couldn’t get under my skin if you tried.” He removes my hand from his chest and all but tosses my arm away before he takes a step back, putting more space between us. His shoulders are tight. Coiled.

…Yep. This reaction is so unlike him.

“It’s interesting,” I mention, wiggling my fingertips and shaking off the ghost of his hard chest. “The night we met, you said to me, ‘If you think I’m going to risk a shot at the White House to take naked pictures of a camgirl I met in a bar, you’re out of your fucking mind.’”

At once, Everett’s tight expression flattens. I wonder if his words sound as cruel on his ears as they did on mine.

“If you had told the truth that night,” I go on, “we’d be in a very different place right now.”

“What’s the truth?”

“You’re not afraid of losing the White House,” I venture before taking a step closer, rising on my toes, and whispering in his ear, “ You’re afraid of your father .”

I’m not prepared when Everett lunges forward, so I retreat instinctively, clearing the scant space behind me and flattening myself against the elevator’s wall. His body surrounds mine, arms resting on either side of my head, caging me. He’s unbelievably close, and I can see the hint of five o’ clock shadow on his chin and the immaculate curl of his eyelashes.

A small, surprised laugh slips out. I can’t believe I got a reaction out of him.

Everett, on the other hand, is far from amused.

Our eyes meet in a delicate standoff. He’s looking down at me and I’m looking up at him, and all I can see is his face haloed in the elevator’s overhead lights.

The first thought to cross my mind is that Everett smells expensive even with stale traces of cigarette smoke lingering on his clothes. It’s as if an innate wealthiness radiates from him—like power and elegance wrapped up with his masculine, piney scent.

With his hands on the elevator wall over my shoulders, the hem of his shirt has risen enough for me to see the base of his abs. There’s a slight happy trail leading to the deep V of his hips. I’ve never seen this much of him before, but now I realize: Everett’s body is obscene .

The air is starting to feel hot, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. He tilts his head, and my heart kicks up speed. For a second there, I thought he was going to kiss me.

The idea is absurd.

But then he straightens his head again and licks his lips—barely, but I see it—and another surge of anticipation rises in me.

Oh, absolutely not. Fuck this.

“Move,” I instruct.

“Bite me.”

“Move,” I repeat. “If you don’t get out of my face right now, I swear to god—”

He presses his fingertip against my lower lip, and I’m horrified when my gut instinct—the one I manage to wrangle like a cattle rancher—is to lick the pad of his finger.

Everett leans in, expression unyielding. “I,” he begins, speaking slowly, “am so tired of this shit.”

Immediately, the desire to lick any part of this guy evaporates.

“Get. Fucked,” I reply, tossing my head and detaching his finger from my lips.

Everett doesn’t move though. He stays exactly where he is, looming over me.

And god, he’s unfairly attractive.

A couple months ago, I realized the magic starts in his eyes. They’re evergreen—genuine evergreen. He doesn’t deserve them. Those eyes should belong to someone who goes to hospitals and stares deeply into surgery patients’ eyes to give them something to live for.

Those evergreen eyes are inset, sheltered beneath the balcony of his brow, giving him an air of mystery. Most of the angles on his face err on the side of prominent: sharp and not soft, pretty like the crackling lightning over a volcano. His cheekbones are perilous, capable of a landslide, like a sudden cliff with a plunging drop to his clean-shaven jaw, the epitome of polish.

But right now, he’s anything but polished.

“Move,” I order a third time.

“Why should I?” he counters. “You demanded I prove I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

“You’re in my fucking space.”

“Well, you’re in my fucking brain,” he counters, spilling out the words more than speaking them. We both freeze.

I part my lips, tempted to clarify, but the moment couldn’t be more fragile. And anyway, I’m not totally sober and neither is he. I’m sure that’s it. He can’t mean what he said.

But Everett releases a low exhale. “You’re my goddamn nightmare,” he mutters before he bends down, lips approaching mine like he wants to—

“What the hell,” I demand, shoving him backwards.

This time, he budges—he budges a hell of a lot. Holding both hands up in surrender, he retreats to the other side of the elevator, watching me.

“Were you about to kiss me?” I question, hand clasped flat against my chest. “Are you out of your mind?”

Everett lowers his hands. “No, you were about to kiss me.”

“I would never .”

“Ever,” he insists.

“I would rather die.”

“It would probably kill me.”

“Oh, you’re an asshole,” I snap, narrowing my eyes.

He takes a step toward me. “Kissing you sounds miserable.”

“It’s phenomenal,” I reply, stepping even closer to him and meeting his glare.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar,” he spits.

“I never lie.”

“I bet kissing you is average.”

“It’s earth shattering .”

“Yeah? Prove it .”

“Go fuck your own face, Everett,” I order before I put my hands on his cheeks and enunciate every syllable in the words, “I have nothing to prove to you.”

Our faces are mere inches apart, and Everett’s eyes travel circuits over my features. His jaw is tight—frustrated.

I snicker. “Besides, if I did kiss you, we both know you wouldn’t be able to handle—”

Right then, he smashes his mouth onto mine in the most graceless way possible. It’s borderline painful and entirely unexpected, but it’s there. It’s happening.

But nothing is as graceless as me springing off the ground to wrap my legs around him.