“Just criminally good-looking,” Blondie said.

Frankie rolled her eyes.

Portland’s morning rush was in full swing. Flannel coats streamed around us, the weather-beaten faces of laborers mixing with pristine white collars. You could read their lives in their hands. The dockworkers’ were callused, rope-burned, cracked. Golem hands, tough as stone.

We headed to a pub at the end of the wharf, entered through a swing door. No patrons at this hour. Sawdust hung in still nebulas within shafts of sun. We sat on high-backed stools near the kitchen and watched a cook open a crate of fresh-caught fish.

Frankie scrolled her phone while the blond guy spread his hands in welcome.

“We haven’t officially met. I’m Dane.”

“Vada. Which you already knew, apparently.”

“We e-stalked you,” Frankie said.

“Gotta vet the candidates,” Dane said.

Frankie counted off a finger. “Mistake number one: didn’t use a disposable email address, ‘[email protected].’ ”

“That’s ‘memory, the heart’ in Spanish,” Dane said. “I looked it up. Some painting. Total nightmare fuel.”

“So uncultured,” Frankie said. “But at least he’s cute.”

He ignored her slight. “We found your real name. Then all your social media accounts. We know where you work, go to school, who your friends are. Even found your mom and sister.”

Frankie flipped another finger. “Mistake number two: didn’t use a proxy.”

“A proxy hides your tracks online,” Dane said. “Makes you anonymous. People can’t tell where you’re connecting from.”

“I know,” I said. “Shouldn’t you stalkers know my best friend is a coder?”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Your best friend didn’t do a great job teaching you online safety.”

She had, though. I’d grown careless on purpose. I was so sick of being lost I just wanted someone, anyone, to find me.

“Okay,” I said. “What else did you learn about me?”

Two women survive fatal car accident. Man, eighteen, who died in crash was well above legal blood alcohol limit.

Dane shrugged. “The past is the past. All we care about is who you are now.”

“Can you follow instructions?” Frankie set her phone on the bar. “Can you exercise discretion in heated situations? Can you handle new experiences which may disturb and unsettle you?”

“Am I joining a cult or a cam site?”

“The site I linked you to,” Frankie said, “is no longer my employer. They’re my competition.”

“You quit?”

“Broke out. I was their biggest star, and they paid me peanuts. I stopped doing private chats. Wasn’t worth the time. I made more in free chat off tips.”

“We thought we could do better,” Dane said. “So we became entrepreneurs. Rented a studio. Bought top-of-the-line gear. Now we’re signing the talent.”

That’s where I came in. Fresh blood, naive. They’d exploit me the same way this site had exploited them.

But I needed cash and a place to crash, fast.

Dane stroked a thumb across his lower lip. In the dimness his eyes glittered like sun skipping off ocean chop. His face fascinated me, aesthetically. Every angle was oblique, deflective. The shift of the sea was in it. Emotion crested for a second and was gone.

“Sell me on it,” I said.

“Great work environment.” Dane laced his hands behind his head. His jacket rode up, revealing chiseled abs and V lines. “Excellent views.”

I snorted.

“You make your own schedule,” Frankie said. “Work at your own pace. All necessities are provided—room, food, clothes. We take care of you. And our royalty rate is the most generous in the industry. To make this much solo, you’d have to be a celebrity.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Our clients have very particular tastes.”

“What she means,” Dane cut in, “is they’re kinky bastards.”

“And not your garden-variety kink,” Frankie said. “We’re talking extremes. Gray areas. Boundary pushing. There’s an EMT on-site at all times.”

“It’s not for everyone.” Dane scrutinized me dispassionately. “You need to be willing to face your dark side every night, and not fall into it.”

“Intrigued?” Frankie said.

I nodded, slowly.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

“Now,” Dane said, the hint of a curve in his lips, “sell us on you.”

—SUMMER—

—4—

Incoming video call from gag4me.

I clicked ACCEPT and a window opened. On one side was me: tungsten floodlights toning my skin a soft copper, chest tilted toward the webcam. My body all lithe lines in a dark bra and jean shorts. Sultry half pout firmly pasted in place. On the other side, a black rectangle held my reflection. Clients rarely turned on their own cams. It cost more.

gag4me: good evening morgan

“Hey, baby.” I untucked one leg and stretched it across the bedspread, my fingertips skimming the inside of a thigh. Hoodie Allen’s “No Interruption” thumped in the background, a murky hip-hop heartbeat. “Should I call you ‘Gag,’ or would you prefer something else?”

gag4me: can u call me daddy

I dropped my head a little, batting my eyelashes at the cam. “Yes, Daddy. Is this better?”

gag4me: perfect

gag4me: your a bad girl arent u morgan

gag4me: u need to be punished

I gazed directly into the lens. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t know what gets into me.”

gag4me: i know whats getting into u

gag4me: turn around

And so it went.

I turned. The chat transcript scrolled on my phone beside the pillow. I ran a hand over my ass and when he said to spank myself, I did. For ten dollars a minute, I’d do anything on my list of approved sex acts. And some not on the list.

“Daddy, it feels so good when you spank me. Is it supposed to hurt?”

gag4me: oh now u done it

gag4me: u need to learn your lesson

gag4me: take out daddys cock

In the nightstand, within easy reach, was a cache of my most-used toys: dildos in various skin tones, a vibrator, and several men’s ties.

I took out a peach cock and stroked it for the cam. “Like this, Daddy?”

gag4me: yea

gag4me: perfect

gag4me: suck me

This part had taken a while to get right. Sucking a silicone dick did fuck-all for me, aside from knowing someone out there was getting off watching. But when I closed my eyes and remembered things—a guy I’d once met in a bar who’d gone down on me in his backseat, my nails gouging the leather, leaving ten tiny half-moons—I could perform. I imagined that guy standing at the edge of my bed, unzipping. I imagined giving as good as I’d gotten. Kissing his head slowly, circling it with my tongue. Taking him in an inch at a time. Sucking him deep and pulling back, giving him the slightest scrape of my teeth.

gag4me: your a good little slut

gag4me: take your clothes off

I put the toy down, opened my jean shorts. Wriggled out with my legs in the air, ass to the cam. Hooked my thumbs in my thong and tugged.

gag4me: oh u bad girl

gag4me: did u wear that for me?

“Yes, Daddy. I was hoping you’d punish me.”

gag4me: take it off

I was naked so often these days it didn’t feel momentous. Brief chill on my skin, the thrill of that cold finger of air between my legs, then nothing.

“Do you want to fuck me, Daddy?”

gag4me: it wouldnt be right

gag4me: but i want u so bad

gag4me: finger yourself while i jerk off

My eyes glazed over, another memory taking hold. A soft hand between my legs. Night, gauzy sheets, skin whispering against skin. Fingers parting me, one to either side of my clit.

Every day, a million-plus girls the world over fuck themselves live on the Internet for money. What set girls like me—like all of Frankie’s crew—apart is that we took it to the next level. My profile page didn’t just show a tatted-up twentysomething cupping her tits. It showed my signature item: a necktie slung around my throat, pulled tight by my fist.