Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
By the time we stumble out of the bar hours later, my sides ache from laughing and my head is pleasantly buzzing from the cocktails. The crisp night air hits us as we step onto the sidewalk, and I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around me.
“Well, that was fun,” Sloane says, linking her arm through mine as we walk. “We should do this more often. But now I’m going to go home and find you on Dark Secrets.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “Oh Jesus.”
“Night!” she shouts as she leaves before I can protest any further.
Chapter Sixteen
Chloe
Okay, I’m buzzed. Maybe drunk. Peppermint martinis with Sloane was fun and surprisingly liberating. I can’t believe I actually confessed my secret. I’ve never been so bold before, so open.
And now that I’m safe at home, sitting in front of my computer, I’m not ready for bed quite yet.
“Just to read the comments,” I whisper to myself, the peppermint still lingering on my breath.
I log into my account, the Dark Secrets logo flashing across the screen. My heart races as I see the number of viewers already waiting. They don’t know my real name, my day job, my fears. Here, I’m whoever I want to be.
I adjust my webcam, checking my reflection. My cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, my eyes glassy. I look like a hot mess and in no condition to go live, but that doesn’t mean I can’t—
And then I see the green light pop on next to my most recent commenter—WinterWatcher.
Maybe it’s the alcohol clouding my judgment, or maybe it’s the lingering high from my confession to Sloane, but I find myself reaching for the Direct Message button. I normally avoid DMs completely. I have never had a desire to look at strangers’ dick pics or hairy anus shots (yes, that’s a thing). But I want to see if the new message that popped up is him.
I hover over the message icon, my finger heavy as I click. The chat window opens, and there it is—a message from WinterWatcher.
Hey there. Couldn’t sleep either?
No dick pics. No crude comments. Just . . . nice.
The words stare back at me from the screen, innocent enough but loaded with possibility. I bite my lip, debating whether to respond. This is new territory, dangerous even. But the peppermint martinis have lowered my inhibitions, and curiosity gets the better of me.
Not yet, I type back, my heart skipping.
No video tonight?
Not tonight. I was out and . . . not feeling it tonight.
The three dots appear, indicating he’s typing a response. I hold my breath, unsure of what to expect.
That’s okay. Sometimes it’s nice to just chat. How was your night out?
I pause, surprised by the casual, friendly tone. This isn’t the type of exchange I expected. I assumed I’d get the ick factor or feel too dirty. This almost feels . . . normal. Something about his easy manner makes me want to continue.
It was . . . enlightening, I reply, thinking back to my conversation with Sloane. Had drinks with a friend. Told her about . . . this. Dark Secrets.
Wow, that’s brave. How’d she take it?
I smile, remembering Sloane’s reaction. Better than expected. She called me a “camgirl” and wanted to know all about it.
Haha, sounds like a good friend. It must be nice to have someone to talk to about it.
His response makes me realize how lonely keeping this secret life has been. I’ve never had anyone to discuss it with, to share the excitement and fears.
Yeah, it is, I type, feeling a sudden warmth toward this stranger. What about you? Why are you up so late?
Insomnia, mostly. But talking to you is definitely making it worthwhile.
I feel a flutter in my stomach, a mix of alcohol and unexpected connection. This is treacherous territory, I remind myself. But I can’t seem to stop.
So, WinterWatcher, what’s the story behind your username? I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Ah, that’s a tale for another time. But I will say it involves a snowstorm, standing outside a pretty girl’s window, and well . . . watching.
There’s something both intriguing and slightly unsettling about his response.
Sounds like there’s quite a story there, I type, my fingers hesitating over the keys. Care to elaborate?
Obsession. Hard to shake once it takes hold.
There’s a long pause before another one of his responses comes through. Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Nothing sinister, I promise.
It’s okay, I type. We all have our stories, right? Our fantasies, our desires, and even our obsessions.
I stare at the screen, my heart racing. The alcohol in my system makes everything feel slightly surreal, like I’m watching this conversation unfold from outside my body.
You’re right, WinterWatcher replies. We all have our stories. Our fantasies. Our obsessions. What’s yours?
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How much should I reveal? The anonymity of the platform emboldens me, but a small voice of caution still whispers in the back of my mind.