Chapter 4: Girlfriend
The week that followed was a blur of damp sheets, peach-scented air freshener, and aching muscles. Candi’s apartment became a second, messier skin. She called at all hours. “Daddy, I’m bored.” “Baby, my ass is cold, come warm it up.” “I just got this new edible lube, get over here.”
Todd’s world, once defined by code and quiet, was now measured in the depth of her gasps and the red handprints fading on her skin. He learned her rhythms. The frantic, clawing need that took her as soon as he walked in, and the drowsy, chatty affection that followed, where she would trace the veins on his monstrous cock with a possessive finger and call it “their money maker.”
He was changing. The slouch in his shoulders was less pronounced. He caught his own reflection in her dark TV screen during one of their sessions: a scrawny phantom moving with a forceful, piston-like purpose he never knew he possessed. It was alien and intoxicating.
On Thursday, his phone buzzed during a stand-up meeting. A text: Outside ur office. Surprise!
A cold spike of panic shot through him. The office was a realm of muted greys and polite fiction. Candi was a neon scream. He excused himself, heart thudding, and hurried to the reception area.
She was there, leaning against the reception desk in a leopard-print tube top and impossibly tight white jeans. Her bleached hair was a chaotic halo under the sterile fluorescents. The two junior developers from the club—Mark and Ben—were flanking her, their smirks wide and incredulous.
“No way,” Mark was saying, shaking his head. “You’re kidding us.”
“Do I look like I’m kiddin’?” Candi drawled, popping her gum. She saw Todd and her whole face ignited. “Baby!”
She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He stumbled back, his hands automatically finding the generous curve of her ass in the tight denim. The feeling was instinctual now.
“Hey,” he mumbled into her hair, smelling her coconut shampoo and cigarettes.
Mark and Ben just stared, their grins frozen. The receptionist pretended to type very loudly.
“I’m takin’ you to lunch,” Candi announced, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. She pulled back and slapped his ass playfully. “You work too hard.”
As they walked toward the elevators, Todd heard Ben mutter, “What the actual fuck.” He didn’t look back. His palm rested on the small of Candi’s back, feeling the warmth through the fabric. A strange, defiant pride swelled in his chest.
They went to a retro diner a block away. She slid into the booth, her jeans squeaking against the vinyl, and immediately stole a pickle from his plate before he’d even sat down.
“So,” she said, crunching. “Got some news.”
“Okay.” He adjusted his glasses.
“I got fired.”
He froze, a French fry halfway to his mouth. “What? When? Why?”
She shrugged, a magnificent roll of her shoulders. “Yesterday. Manager called me in. Real prick about it.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Turns out the security camera in the back hallway works. Got a real clear shot of me riding you against the lockers last Saturday after close. HD and everything.”
Todd’s face went hot. The memory was a frenzied blur against cold metal. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t ‘oh god’ me, it was awesome,” she said, laughing. She kicked him under the table. “Worth it. Anyway, fuck that place. The tips were gettin’ weak.”
He processed this. The loss of her income should have been a concern, but all he could picture was the grainy black-and-white image on a manager’s monitor, the undeniable proof of him, of them. It felt less like a crime and more like a trophy.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
A slow, wide smile spread across her face. She reached across the table, took his hand, and placed it on her knee under the table. “I been thinkin’. We’re a good team, right? You got the product.” She squeezed his fingers. “I got the... hustle. The know-how.”
He didn’t like the glint in her eye. It was the same glint she had when talking about trying anal without lube. “What kind of hustle?”
“Online,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Custom content. Private shows. We set up a page. You don’t gotta show your face. Just the goods. And me, of course. I do all the talking, the marketing. We split it.” Her foot travelled up his calf. “We could make a killing. Seriously. Think about it.”
He did think about it. He thought about his name, his IP address, his quiet life dissolving into a digital storm of lewd comments and payment notifications. He thought about the wilted flowers on her counter, and the way she’d said “my man” in her trash-filled living room.
“I… I need to think,” he said, which was his default for anything scary.
She nodded, unfazed. She always seemed most sure of him when he was most uncertain. “Sure, baby. You think.” She sipped her soda. “But just imagine it. You, me, no asshole bosses. Just us and a webcam. We could even get one of those tip-activated vibrators. It’d be fun.”
He finished his burger in silence, her plan hanging between them like the diner’s greasy haze. When they left, she pressed him against the brick wall of the alley beside the restaurant, her hand sliding down the front of his khakis, breathing hot in his ear. “Missed you all morning,” she murmured, her teeth grazing his earlobe. “My shy, fuckin’ genius.”
Later, back at his desk, the code on his monitor seemed to swim. The familiar anxiety was there, humming in his veins. But beneath it was something else, a current pulled by the memory of her sure hands and the terrifying, glittering possibility she had laid out like a winning hand. He could still smell her on his fingers.