9. Oakley

Chapter 9

Oakley

M y room is a sanctuary of dim, comforting light. The hallway outside is quiet, as everyone is at the game tonight. This campus breathes sports and right now football is center stage. At least I know Jeremiah is there and I don't have to glance over my shoulder, wondering when he's going to come in and ruin my day.

A soft breeze flutters the sheer curtains, casting playful shadows on the walls. My heart beats in sync with the ticking clock as I prepare for tonight's cam session. The bunny mask rests in my hands, its smooth surface cool against my skin. Like a shield, a barrier between me and the world that allows me to become someone else—someone free.

I slip it on, feeling the familiar weight settle over my face, and take a deep breath. Tonight's outfit is a blend of innocence and allure: a pastel pink dress that barely reaches my thighs, paired with white knee-high socks. Cute, yet tantalizing. Perfect. I feel sexy. I feel powerful.

And the best part is that Jeremiah would drool over my outfit .

"Now or never," I murmur to myself, adjusting the camera. "Let's give them a show."

The screen lights up with notifications as I go live. Familiar names pop up in the chat, mingling with new ones. I smile, letting the thrill of anonymity wash over me. Here, I am in control.

Hey, Bunny! Looking cute tonight

One user types.

"Thank you, darling," I reply, hoping my voice sounds sweet and inviting. The banter begins, light and playful, just as I like it.

Hey Vix, what's your favorite guilty pleasure movie?

Another viewer asks, his username appearing brightly in the chat box.

"Definitely Twilight," I reply, grinning. "I feel like that shouldn't surprise anyone. It's all of ours and you all know it." I leave out the part about how Jeremiah used to make a big deal about how he didn't want to be roped into watching a chick movie, but would hum the songs in my ear while we cuddled.

Vix, what do you love most about college life?

Someone inquires, and judging by all the emojis, I think he's eager for my response.

"Probably the campus," I muse, my mind wandering back to the gothic architecture that envelops St. Charles. "It's beautiful, especially at sunset, when the light hits the buildings just right. It feels like stepping into a different world."

Tell us a secret

A daring fan prompts, and I can't help but chuckle at the request. I pause for a moment, considering my options before deciding to play along.

"Alright, here's a little secret," I say, leaning closer to the camera, my voice hushed and conspiratorial. "I've had a crush on my brother's best friend since I was a teenager. He's always been forbidden to me. But let's keep that between us, shall we?"

If you could have dinner with anyone dead or alive, who would it be?

Another chatter asks, clearly intrigued by my responses thus far.

"Easy," I reply, grinning mischievously. "Harry Styles. He's my number one childhood crush."

The chat box comes alive with a flurry of activity, usernames and messages flashing across the screen in rapid succession talking about their favorite movies and their dream dinner dates. It's like watching a field of fireflies light up the night, each one vying for my attention. I can't help but feel a thrill at their eagerness—it's intoxicating.

Pretty bunny girl, what's your favorite ice cream flavor?

One particularly enthusiastic fan asks, his username standing out among the rest because it's bunnygirllover09. I can't help but snicker at that choice .

"Ah," I say, feigning deep thought as I narrow my eyes playfully. "That would be a tie between dark chocolate raspberry truffle and salted caramel bourbon." I lick my lips, imagining the taste, and laugh softly. "Clearly, I have a sweet tooth."

A new message pops up, this time from a different fan, ClarkKent1968.

If you were a superhero, what would your superpower be?

"Interesting question!" I exclaim, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "I think I'd want the power to manipulate time. Just imagine all the books I could read, the places I could visit, and the moments I could savor without ever running out of time." I pause for effect, then add with a smirk, "Not to mention, I could make some people's lives very...interesting."

My words seem to ignite something within the chat, the fans responding with laughter and playful teasing amongst themselves.

As the questions continue to roll in, I find myself becoming more and more immersed in the world I've created, this digital stage where I am both the star and the puppet master. It's a heady combination of power and vulnerability that leaves me feeling alive, electric even.

A new message catches my eye.

What's the most daring thing you've ever done?

An impish grin spreads across my face as a memory resurfaces. "Well," I begin, leaning in conspiratorially toward the camera, "it involves a senior prank and a stolen motorcycle."

The chat erupts into a frenzy of speculation and excitement; the fans clamoring for more details, but like any good performer, I know when to leave them wanting more.

A question catches my eye, and a mischievousness zips through me. I'm genuinely having fun tonight because they're keeping it fun instead of asking me what color underwear I have on.

If you could travel to any era in history, where would you go?

I lean back in my chair, twirling a strand of golden hair around my finger as I ponder the possibilities. "Hmm, I think I'd have to say...the Roaring Twenties. A time of jazz, flappers, and breaking free from societal constraints. Plus, who wouldn't want to dance the Charleston in a fabulous beaded dress?"

I savor the thrill of controlling the narrative. In this digital realm, I am no longer Oakley Ashford, the soft-spoken girl with a haunted past. I am a seductive enchantress, wielding her power with grace and wit, leaving all who cross her path helpless to resist her charms.

Is this my villain origin story?

One fan writes, his username pulsing at the edge of the screen.

What's your idea of the perfect date in the Roaring Twenties?

"Hmm, the perfect date," I murmur, tapping my chin and letting my eyes flutter closed for a moment as I envision the scene. "It would begin at a hidden speakeasy tucked away behind a secret door, where we would sip illicit cocktails and listen to the sultry sounds of a live band." My voice grows husky as I continue, my words painting a vivid picture for my captivated audience. "As the night wore on, we'd find ourselves on a deserted rooftop garden, lit only by the glow of a thousand candles, where we'd share our deepest secrets and desires beneath the watchful gaze of the moon."

The guys must like that one because their comments are racing by in a blur of longing and envy. I can feel their desire to be part of my world, to experience the intoxicating blend of passion and danger that permeates every moment of my life.

Then, a new message catches my eye.

Do you always wear that same perfume?

My fingers hesitate over the keyboard. The question feels off. Intimate. I glance at the username—a string of random letters and numbers, unfamiliar yet unsettlingly so. Before I can spin out of control, the viewer adds.

Most women have a signature scent. What is yours? I'd love to send you some.

Relief floods me and I reply in what I hope is a breezy manner, "I switch it up." I try to keep the shakiness out of my voice. I need to maintain control and not let a small misunderstanding send me over the edge into a spiral.

Is your bedroom always tidy?

Another message from the same user. My pulse quickens. How do they know that? My chat is going fast, but this person's messages are the only ones I'm hyper-focusing on.

Ever thought about streaming without the mask? Your face is stunning. Why hide it from me?

The words feel like a punch to the gut. I've blocked this person before. I'm almost certain that this is the guy who was pushy during my last show, asking for a private chat room.

"Who are you, 3u//y1ovr?" I ask, keeping my tone casual despite the unease gnawing at me. The chat continues to scroll, other users oblivious to my rising discomfort.

Just an admirer. Do you feel close to me? Like you know me well?

The response sends a chill down my spine.

"That's enough," I say aloud, moving the cursor to block the user. But in that moment, an ear-splitting bang reverberates through the room. A crash shatters the silence. My heart jumps into my throat as the door flies open.

"Jeremiah?" I barely whisper his name. My eyes widen as he storms in, and I'm gripping my laptop like it's a weapon. His face is twisted with rage—raw, unfiltered anger.

"A cam girl? Are you fucking serious right now?" Jeremiah's voice booms, filling every corner of the room. He snatches the laptop and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the wall, fragments flying everywhere. The sound of it breaking echoes in my ears, mixing with the pounding of my heart.

"Jeremiah Blackwood, what the hell?" My voice shakes, but there's steel beneath the shock. "What are you doing?"

"Stripping for strangers on the internet? Really, Oakley?" His eyes burn with accusation. He advances toward me, and I instinctively step back, my bunny mask feeling suddenly ridiculous and useless .

"That's not—" I start, but he's already towering over me. A giant hulking mass that is eclipsing me. His presence is suffocating, his rage palpable.

"Don't lie to me!" he shouts. His hands grip my shoulders, shaking me slightly. "I saw the photos being passed around the locker room. I know what you've been doing."

"You're being a judgmental prick right now. It's not what you think it is. It's not sexual."

"Then explain why you're prancing around in that bunny mask?" He gestures wildly at the mask that is still covering my eyes and nose. "You don't think every guy in that chat isn't thinking about you naked and the things—" Jeremiah goes silent like his brain is short circuiting. "I will kill every fucking one of them."

My breath hitches in my chest when he gently slips the mask off of my face and tosses it on the floor on top of my shattered laptop. Before I can speak, Jeremiah is cupping my face in his large palm.

"Let go of me!" I snap, trying to wrench free from his grasp. But his hold tightens. His green eyes, usually so thoughtful, are now wild with something dark and possessive.

"How long?" His voice drops, becoming dangerously quiet. "Do you touch yourself for those bastards? Answer me!" He's well past the border of psychotic behavior at this point, and yet I'm not scared of him.

"None of your business," I spit back, defiant despite the fear coursing through me. "You had no right to break in here and destroy my stuff! I'm not doing what you think I'm doing. Even if I was…" I poke his massive chest with my index finger, "…I don't have to answer to you. I don't care what you think of me anymore." That last part is a boldface lie .

"Your stuff?" He laughs bitterly, conveniently latching onto only one thing I said. "Is that all you care about? Your damn laptop?"

"Better than accusing people of things they're not doing," I retort. My gaze locks with his, electricity arcing between us. His grip loosens just a fraction, enough for me to step back but not escape the intensity of his presence.

"You don't get it, do you?" he murmurs, almost to himself. "I don't want anyone else looking at…" Jeremiah stops, gesturing his hands up and down my body. His jaw flexes as he takes in my short dress and white knee-high socks. I can see the possessive heat rising in his face.

"I don't really care what you want," I counter, my voice rising. "You think smashing my computer and barging in here is protecting me? You're out of your mind, Jeremiah. Get out of my room."

He takes a step closer, closing the distance. His breath is hot on my face when he confesses, "I'm not going anywhere until you do give a fuck what I think. I'm not trying to hurt you, bunny." It's only on the last word that his tone softens and he sounds like the Jeremiah that I used to know.

He's invading my space with his towering frame. His green eyes blaze with anger and hurt. "Not that I owe you an explanation, but I went through some stuff and I'm trying to work through it. Just because you aren't hurting me doesn't mean no one has."

"Who? I want a name," he growls, his breath hot against my face. "I'm not playing twenty questions, bunny. Who was it?" He doesn't bother asking me what the person did and by the look in his eyes, I don't think it would matter if I said the guy breathed in my direction. He's off the rails.