What Others Want: A Kenzie Anne Story

Amy finishes her cam show all bright and bubbly, trading flirty comments with fans. The moment the stream dies she goes quiet, peeling off fake lashes, wiping away the glittering mask. The phone rings. It's Jay. Her throat tightens with hope because, shit, she's only known him a couple weeks and already feels sparks every time his name pops up. She answers too fast. He wants her at his place—something he's been teasing about, wants to make it official. He doesn't explain. She imagines the proposal before the line even goes dead, pictures herself curled safe in new love, not disposable pixels on a screen. Hours later, she's standing in his living room, too aware of every light and shadow. Jay tells her she's gorgeous, that she's different from other girls he watches get fucked on-screen. Compliments land like compliments for a second—until they slide sideways. He keeps talking about how hot it'd be to bring one of those girls here, into his bed, into her mouth, all because of the filthy late-night chats she's confessed under his hands. Amy's smile freezes. Her stomach drops. She tries steering it back to them, to something real. Jay talks over the attempt; his palms slide down her waist, words hot and thoughtless, pushing for the blonde she sometimes works with. She smells her own perfume turning sour. He stuffs his phone into her palm like a loaded gun. Call her. Now. Amy stares at the digits until they blur, dials with numb fingers, hears Lindsey's voice pick up. "Hey, wanna come play?" she says, flat as a coin on a table.